The first flush of grey light, the herald of daylight, 
Is dimly outlining the musterer's 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 manager's 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 higher, 
Till the crests of the sandhills are stained with his 
 blood. 



Now the hobble-chains' jingling, with the thud of hoofs 
 mingling, 
Though distant, sound near - the cool air is so still - 
As, urged by their whooping, the horses come trooping 
In front of the boys round the point of the hill. 



What searching and rushing for bridles and brushing 
Of saddle marks, tight'ning of breastplate and girth; 
And what a strange jumble of laughter and grumble - 
Some comrade's misfortune the subject of mirth. 



I recollect well how that morning Jack Bell 
Had an argument over the age of a mare, 
That C O B gray one, the dam of that bay one 
Which Brown the storekeeper calls the young Lady 
 Clare. 



How Tomboy and Vanity caused much profanity, 
Scamping away with their tales in the air, 
Till after a chase, at a deuce of a pace, 
They ran back in the mob and we collared them 
 there. 



Then the laugh and the banter, as gaily we canter, 
With a pause for the nags at a miniature lake, 
Where the ?yellowtop? catches the sunlight in patches, 
And lies like a mirror of gold in our wake. 



Oh! the rush and the rattle of fast-fleeing cattle, 
Whose hoofs beat a mad rataplan on the earth; 
Their hot headed flight in! Who would not delight in 
The gallop that seems to hold all that life is worth. 



And over the rolling plains, slowly patrolling 
To the sound of the cattle's monotonous tramp, 
Till we hear the sharp pealing of stockwhips, 
 revealing 
The fact that our comrades have put on the camp. 



From the spot where they're drafting the wind rises, 
 wafting 
The dust, till it hides man and beast from our gaze, 
Till, suddenly lifting and easterly drifting, 
We catch a short glimpse of the scene through the 
 haze. 



What a blending and blurring of swiftly recurring 
Colour and movement, that pass on their way 
An intricate weaving of sights and sounds, leaving 
An eager desire to take part in the fray: 



A dusty procession, in circling succession, 
Of bullocks that bellow in impotent rage; 
A bright panorama, a soul stirring drama, 
The sky for its background, the earth for its stage. 



How well I remember that twelfth of November, 
When Jack and his little mare, Vanity, fell; 
On the Diamantina there never was seen a 
Pair who could cut out a beast half so well. 



And yet in one second Death's finger had beckoned, 
And horse and bold rider had answered the call 
Brooking no hesitation, without preparation, 
That sooner or later must come to us all. 



Thrice a big curly horned Cobb bullock had scorned 
To meekly acknowledge the ruling of fate; 
Thrice Jack with a clout of his whip cut him out, 
But each time the beast galloped back to his mate. 



Once more, he came blund'ring along, with Jack 
 thund'ring 
Beside him, his spurs in poor Vanity's flanks, 
As, from some cause or other forsaking its mother, 
A little white calf trotted out from the ranks. 



'Twas useless, I knew it, yet I turned to pursue it; 
At the same time, I gave a loud warning to Jack: 
It was all unavailing, I saw him come sailing 
Along as the weaner ran into his track. 



Little Vanity tried to turn off on one side, 
Then altered her mind and attempted to leap; 
The pace was too fast, that jump was her last, 
For she and her rider fell all in a heap. 



I was quickly down kneeling beside him, and feeling 
With tremulous hand for the throb of his heart. 
"The mare - is she dead?" were the first words he 
 said, 
As he suddenly opened his eyes with a start. 



He spoke to the creature, his hand could just reach 
 her, 
Gently caressing her lean Arab head; 
She acknowledged his praising with eyes quickly 
 glazing, 
A whinny, a struggle, and there she lay 
 dead. 



I sat there and nursed his head, for we durs