William Henry Ogilvie Poems

He was the Red Creek overseer, a trusted man and true,
Whose shoulder never left the wheel when there was work to do;
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Hurrah for the storm-clouds sweeping!

Hurrah for the driving rain!
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All day we had driven the starving sheep to the scrub where the axes ply,
And the weakest had lagged upon weary feet and dropped from the ranks to die;
And the crows Hew up from the rotting heaps and the ewes too weak to stand,
And the fences Haunted red skins like flags, and the dour drought held the land.
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As I wandered home
By Hedworth Combe
I heard a lone horse whinney,
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‘ He's away ! '- With a quickened wild beat of the heart
Every horseman responds, riding hard for a start,
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The real ones, the right ones, the straight ones and the true,
The pukka, peerless sportsmen-their numbers are but few;
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If I were old, a broken man and blind,
and one should lead me to Mid-Eildon's crest,
and leave me there a little time to rest
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Harry Morant was a friend I had
In the years long passed away,
A chivalrous, wild and reckless lad,
A knight born out of his day.
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This is our heritage; the far-flung grass,
The golden stubble and the dark-red moor;
Men pass and perish as the swift years pass,
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On a little old bush racecourse at the back of No Man’s Land,
Where the mulgas mark the furlongs and a dead log marks the stand,
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