Next week, under 'Seller and Buyer', Appeared in the _DAILY GAZETTE_: 'A racehorse for sale, and a flyer; Has never been started as yet; A trial will show what his pace is; The buyer can get him in light, And win all the handicap races. Apply here before Wednesday night.'
He sold for a hundred and thirty, Because of a gallop he had One morning with Bluefish and Bertie, And donkey-licked both of 'em bad. And when the old horse had departed, The life on the station grew tame; The race-track was dull and deserted, The boys had gone back on the game.
The winter rolled by, and the station Was green with the garland of spring A spirit of glad exultation Awoke in each animate thing. And all the old love, the old longing, Broke out in the breasts of the boys, The visions of racing came thronging With all its delirious joys.
The rushing of floods in their courses, The rattle of rain on the roofs Recalled the fierce rush of the horses, The thunder of galloping hoofs. And soon one broke out: 'I can suffer No longer the life of a slug, The man that don't race is a duffer, Let's have one more run for the mug.
'Why, _EVERYTHING_ races, no matter Whatever its method may be: The waterfowl hold a regatta; The 'possums run heats up a tree; The emus are constantly sprinting A handicap out on the plain; It seems like all nature was hinting, 'Tis time to be at it again.
'The cockatoo parrots are talking Of races to far away lands; The native companions are walking A go-as-you-please on the sands; The little foals gallop for pastime; The wallabies race down the gap; Let's try it once more for the last time, Bring out the old jacket and cap.
'And now for a horse; we might try one Of those that are bred on the place, But I think it better to buy one, A horse that has proved he can race. Let us send down to Sydney to Skinner, A thorough good judge who can ride, And ask him to buy us a spinner To clean out the whole countryside.'
They wrote him a letter as follows: 'We want you to buy us a horse; He must have the speed to catch swallows, And stamina with it of course. The price ain't a thing that'll grieve us, It's getting a bad 'un annoys The undersigned blokes, and believe us, We're yours to a cinder, 'the boys'.'