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Project Gutenberg Australia HomeReturn to Index of Poems
‘Tis nine hours before the dawn, and at 9 to-morrow morn
Geraldine to Eric Roper will be wed;
There the banquet hall, they say, will be white with wreaths of may,
And green rose-leaves on the pathway will be shed.
He has wealth at his command, many miles of grazing land,
And his pedigree runs back four hundred years;
Tho’ his head is bald to-day, and his beard is streaked with grey,
She will wed him, tho’ she weds in bitter tears.
As your chances are but small, leave your charger in the stall;
There are others just as good as Geraldine;
And ‘tis certain she’ll be sold for the squatter’s land and gold
Ere you reach the dales and dells of Werribine.
“Tho’ the journey’s rough and long, and the flood is running strong,
Down the rivers swollen with late heavy rains,
To the homestead I will ride ere she can be Roper’s bride,
And will bear her swift away across the plains.”
Oswald Rutland’s spurs were bright as the twinkling stars of night,
And his waiting steed on every hoof was shod;
Tall and glossy there he stood, and his heart and legs were good
For the eighty miles across the flooded sod.
Quick he sprang upon his back, saddle firm and bridle slack,
At a gallop from the stockyard did he start,
‘Cross the daring dingo’s spoor, over miles of marsh and moor,
With a strong determination in his heart.
Swift the roaring waters fly ‘neath the frowning midnight sky,
And the snorting, plunging steed is swept along
At a wild, terrific pace—yet he lands again to race
Thro’ the ever-dripping forest stout and strong.
‘Gainst the wind and pelting rain, over mountain, hill and plain,
Speeds the reckless Rutland, fired with love and hate.
‘Till the dawning sees him stand, with his lover hand in hand,
Whilst his gallant steed lies at the garden gate.
“I have ridden eighty miles to enjoy thy sweetest smiles,
And I’m ready, love, to ride full eighty more;
For I would not see that churl come to claim my bonny girl
For all treasures that lay hidden on our shore.
‘Tho’ I’m but a stockman bold, with no land and little gold.
There are chances in the life before me yet;
If your little heart is true as your eyes are bright and blue,
Quick prepare to ride across the moorlands wet.
I am ready now to go tho’ the rivers swiftly flow,
I shall shrink not from the dangers by your side;
And the dells and merry rills, that e’er gambol round our hills,
I will gladly leave to be a stockman’s bride.”
“Happy is the swain who’s bless’d with a love like yours confessed,”
Said young Rutland as he kissed her roseate cheek;
To depart without delay, would I had my gallant bay,
Now he suffers from that swim o’er Splitters’ Creek.”
“There are steeds in Werribine in the stall,” said Geraldine,
“Ready saddled for Rick Roper and for me;
In one hour I’d been his bride. Hark! they’re stirring now inside—
Haste ye, Oswald, or I may not ride with thee.”
Soon behind the gable wall, in her bridal robes and all,
She was mounted on a sturdy chestnut mare;
Roper then surprised to hear tramp of horses sounding clear
Hastened forth to find the bird beyond his care.
There was saddling up in haste, not a moment did they waste,
And a troup at sunrise galloped madly forth;
But they searched all the day in vain for the hoof tracks on the plain,
Where the flood concealed the turning point to north.
“We are safe from human foes, soon will end all other woes—
See, the sun is shining brightly over head;
In the village we shall rest where our union will be blest—
Then will Eric Roper’s final hope be dead.”
When they came to “Splitter’s Creek,” tearing rapids blanched her cheek,
And she looked upon her robes with rueful eye;
“Follow me,” young Rutland cried, “Oft before have I defied
Wider rivers running with a deeper dye.”
Forward plunged the timid steeds ‘mid the driftwood, foam, and reeds,
Till they reached the centre current’s madding whirl;
Then was heard a piercing scream ‘bove the thunder of the stream,
And young Rutland swims to save the drowning girl.
In the halls of Werribine they are mourning Geraldine,
For the charger was discovered on the peat,
Ere the creek had ceased to flow, stranded lifeless far below,
With the saddle, sach, and bridle all complete.
But the sunbeams dance and play on a cottage far away,
Where the pine trees stand in all their strength and pride;
And the people round the place come to see the peerless face
Of its mistress, whom they call the stockman’s bride.
Edward S. Sorenson
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