Twixt The Wings Of The Yard

Hear the loud swell of it, mighty pell mell of it,
Thousands of voices all blent into one:
See hell for leather now trooping together, now
Down the long slope of the range at a run,
Dust in the wake of em: see the wild break of em,
Spear-horned and curly, red, spotted and starred:
See the lads bringing em, blocking em, ringing em.
Fetching em up to the wings of the yard.

Mark that red leader now: what a fine bleeder now,
Twelve hundred at least if he weighs half a pound,
None go ahead of him. Mark the proud tread of him,
See how he bellows and paws at the ground.
Watch the mad rush of em, raging and crush of em.
See when they struck how the corner post jarred.
What a mad chasing and wheeling and racing and
Turbulent talk twixt the wings of the yard.

Harry and Teddy, there! let them go steady there!
Some of you youngsters will surely get pinned.
What am I saying? Ive had my last day in
The saddle: I might as well talk to the wind.
Why should I grieve at all? soon I must leave it all
Leave it for ever; and yet it seems hard
That I should be lingering here stead of fingering
Handle of whip twixt the wings of the yard.

Hear the loud crack of the whips on the back of the
Obstinate weaners who will not go in
Sharp fusilade of it till, half afraid of it,
Echo herself shuts her ears at the din.
Theyll say when its over now that Im in clover now
Happy old pensioner, yet it seems hard,
Een on the brink of the grave, when I think of the
Times out of mind that I rode to that yard.

Hark to the row at the rails, theres a cow at the
Charge: how she laughs all their lashes to scorn.
Mark how she ran agin little Tom Flannagan.
Lucky for him that it wasnt her horn:
Hed make no joke of it had he a poke of it.
There she comes back! but hes put on his guard,
Greenhide descending now, sharp reports blending now,
Flogging her back up the wings of the yard.

The breeze brings their bellowing, softning it, mellowing,
Till it sounds like a spent giant in pain
Steals up the valley on, sounding a rally on
Sonorous hills that return it again.
Useless my whining now, useless repining now,
Twont make me any less battered and scarred;
Though Ive grown grey at it oh, for a day at it,
Oh, for an hour twixt the wings of the yard.

Oh, how I yearn for those times, how I burn for those
Days when my weapons, the whip and the spur,
The double reigned bridle, were not hanging idle,
But Im old, and as useless as Stupmy that cur;
No good for heeling now, he has a feeling now
Not unlike mine that its woefully hard
We should be lying here, groaning and sighing here
Watching the cattle come up to the yard.

Life has no salt in it. See how I halt in it
I, who once rode with the first of the flight
Watching and waiting now, feebly debating now
Whether the close will bring darkness or light;
Half my time pondering, back through life wandering,
Groaning to see how life has been marred
Seeing the blots in it, all the bad spots in it,
Mustering, bringing past sins to the yard.
.    .    .    .    .
Shall I be able to show a clean waybill to
God, when he rounds up and drafts off his own
When, at the mustering, millions of clustering
Souls come to judgement before the white throne?
Is the Lords hand on me? Have I his brand on me?
When I go up will the passage be barred?
Am I a chosen one? must the gates close on me?
Shall I be left twixt the wings of the yard?

Barcroft Boake

Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake was an Australian poet, born in Sydney, New South Wales. He worked as a surveyor and drover in the Australian outback, which influenced his poetry. Boake was known for his bush ballads that depicted the harsh and rugged life in the Australian wilderness. Tragically, his life ended prematurely when he took his own life at the age of 26. Despite his short career, Boake left a lasting impact on Australian literature.

Barcroft Boake

A Song

Barcroft Boake, Simple Poetry

An Easter Rhyme

Barcroft Boake, Simple Poetry

Jims Whip

Barcroft Boake, Simple Poetry

A Memory

Barcroft Boake, Simple Poetry

English

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Jacks Last Muster

Diamantina River, Western Queensland


The first flush of grey light, the herald of daylight,
Is dimly outlining the musterers camp,
Where over the sleeping, the stealthily creeping
Breath of the morning lies chilly and damp,

As, blankets forsaking, twixt sleeping and waking,
The black-boys turn out to the managers call;
Whose order, of course, is, Be after the horses,
And take all sorts of care you unhobble them all.

Then, each with a bridle (provokingly idle)
They saunter away his commands to fulfil,
Where, cheerily chiming, the musical rhyming
From equine bell-ringers comes over the hill.

But now the dull dawning gives place to the morning,
The sun, springing up in a glorious flood
Of golden-shot fire, mounts higher and hi...

Barcroft Boake

The Roll Of The Kettledrum; or, The Lay Of The Last Charger

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
-    Byron.


One line of swart profiles and bearded lips dressing,
One ridge of bright helmets, one crest of fair plumes,
One streak of blue sword-blades all bared for the fleshing,
One row of red nostrils that scent battle-fumes.

Forward! the trumpets were sounding the charge,
The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran,
That music, like wild-fire spreading at large,
Maddend the war-horse as well as the man.

Forward! still forward! we thunderd along,
Steadily yet, for our strength we were nursing;
Tall Ewart, our sergeant, was humming a song,
Lance-corporal Black Will was blaspheming and cursing.

Adam Lindsay Gordon

The Needless Alarm. A Tale.

There is a field, through which I often pass,
Thick overspread with moss and silky grass,
Adjoining close to Kilwicks echoing wood,
Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,
Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire,
That he may follow them through brake and brier,
Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine,
Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceald,
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;
Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,
But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;
And where the land slopes to its watery bourn
Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn;
Bricks line the sides, but shiverd long ago,
And horrid brambles intertwine below;
A hollow scoopd, I judge, in ancient time,
For baking earth, or bur...

William Cowper

The Dying Whip

It came from gettin' 'eated, that was 'ow the thing begun,
And 'ackin' back to kennels from a ninety-minute run;
'I guess I've copped brownchitis,' says I to brother Jack,
An' then afore I knowed it I was down upon my back.

At night there came a sweatin' as left me deadly weak,
And my throat was sort of tickly an' it 'urt me for to speak;
An' then there came an 'ackin' cough as wouldn't leave alone,
An' then afore I knowed it I was only skin and bone

I never was a 'eavy weight. I scaled at seven four,
An' rode at eight, or maybe at just a trifle more;
And now I'll stake my davy I wouldn't scale at five,
And I'd 'old my own at catch-weights with the skinniest jock alive.

And the doctor says the reason why I sit an' cough an wheeze
Is all along o' varmint, li...

Arthur Conan Doyle

Walking To The Mail

    John.        Im glad I walkd.        How fresh the meadows look
Above the river, and, but a month ago,
The whole hill-side was redder than a fox.
Is yon plantation where this byway joins
The turnpike?
    James.    Yes.
    John.        And when does this come by?
    James.    The mail? At one oclock.
    John.        What is it now?
    James.    A quarter to.
    John.        Whose house is that I see?
No, not the County Members with the vane:
Up higher with the yew-tree by it, and half
A score of gables.
    James.    That?        Sir Edward Heads:
But hes abroad: the place is to be sold.
    John.        Oh, his. He was not broken.
    James.    No, sir, he,
Vexd with a morbid devil in his blood
That veild the world with jaundic...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Ex Fumo Dare Lucem - Twixt The Cup And The Lip

Prologue

Calm and clear! the bright day is declining,
The crystal expanse of the bay,
Like a shield of pure metal, lies shining
Twixt headlands of purple and grey,
While the little waves leap in the sunset,
And strike with a miniature shock,
In sportive and infantine onset,
The base of the iron-stone rock.

Calm and clear! the sea-breezes are laden
With a fragrance, a freshness, a power,
With a song like the song of a maiden,
With a scent like the scent of a flower;
And a whisper, half-weird, half-prophetic,
Comes home with the sigh of the surf;
But I pause, for your fancies poetic
Never rise from the level of Turf.

Fellow-bungler of mine, fellow-sinner,
In public performances past,
In trials whence touts take their wi...

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Twixt The Wings Of The Yard

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Twixt The Wings Of The Yard