The Lights Of Cobb and Co.

A tale of Australia’s pioneer stage line that rivaled the American

“Wells Fargo” coach service.

Told by one of Australia’s best poets, Henry Lawson.

The Lights Of Cobb and Co.

Fire lighted, on the table a meal for sleepy men,
A lantern in the stable, a jingle now and then;
The mail coach looming darkly by light of moon and star,
The growl of sleepy voices—a candle in the bar.
A stumble in the passage of folk with wits abroad;
A swear-word from a bedroom—the shout of ‘All aboard!’
‘Tchk-tchk! Git-up!’ ‘Hold fast, there!’ and down the range we go;
Five hundred miles of scattered camps will watch for Cobb and Co.

Old coaching towns already ‘decaying for their sins,’
Uncounted ‘Half -Way Houses,’ and scores of ‘Ten Mile Inns;’
The riders from the stations by lonely granite peaks;
The black-boy for the shepherds on sheep and cattle creeks;
The roaring camps of Gulgong, and many a ‘Digger’s Rest;’
The diggers on the Lachlan; the huts of Farthest West;
Some twenty thousand exiles who sailed for weal or woe;
The bravest hearts of twenty lands will wait for Cobb and Co.

The morning star has vanished, the frost and fog are gone,
In one of those grand mornings which but on mountains dawn;
A flask of friendly whisky—each other’s hopes we share—
And throw our top-coats open to drink the mountain air.
The roads are rare to travel, and life seems all complete;
The grind of wheels on gravel, the trot of horses’ feet,
The trot, trot, trot and canter, as down the spur we go—
The green sweeps to horizons blue that call for Cobb and Co.

We take a bright girl actress through western dust and damps,
To bear the home-world message, and sing for sinful camps,
To wake the hearts and break them, wild hearts that hope and ache—
(Ah! when she thinks of those days her own must nearly break!)
Five miles this side the gold-field, a loud, triumphant shout:
Five hundred cheering diggers have snatched the horses out:
With ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in chorus through roaring camps they go—
That cheer for her, and cheer for Home, and cheer for Cobb and Co.

Three lamps above the ridges and gorges dark and deep,
A flash on sandstone cuttings where sheer the sidings sweep,
A flash on shrouded waggons, on water ghastly white;
Weird bush and scattered remnants of rushes in the night
Across the swollen river a flash beyond the ford:
‘Ride hard to warn the driver! He’s drunk or mad, good Lord!’
But on the bank to westward a broad, triumphant glow—
A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co.!

Swift scramble up the siding where teams climb inch by inch;
Pause, bird-like, on the summit—then breakneck down the pinch
Past haunted half-way houses—where convicts made the bricks—
Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five and six—
By clear, ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks run high,
Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against the sky;
Through stringy-bark and blue-gum, and box and pine we go;
New camps are stretching ’cross the plains the routes of Cobb and Co.

. . . . .

Throw down the reins, old driver—there’s no one left to shout;
The ruined inn’s survivor must take the horses out.
A poor old coach hereafter!—we’re lost to all such things—
No bursts of songs or laughter shall shake your leathern springs
When creeping in unnoticed by railway sidings drear,
Or left in yards for lumber, decaying with the year—
Oh, who’ll think how in those days when distant fields were broad
You raced across the Lachlan side with twenty-five on board.

Not all the ships that sail away since Roaring Days are done—
Not all the boats that steam from port, nor all the trains that run,
Shall take such hopes and loyal hearts—for men shall never know
Such days as when the Royal Mail was run by Cobb and Co.
The ‘greyhounds’ race across the sea, the ‘special’ cleaves the haze,
But these seem dull and slow to me compared with Roaring Days!
The eyes that watched are dim with age, and souls are weak and slow,
The hearts are dust or hardened now that broke for Cobb and Co.

Written by Henry Lawson

Scots of the Riverina.

One of Henry Lawson’s many poems that have been
set to music.

Scots of the Riverina.

The boy ran away to the city
From his home at Christmas time…
They were Scots of the Riverina,
And to run from home was a crime.

The old man burned his letter,
The first and the last he burned
And he scratched his name from the bible
When the old woman’s back was turned.

A year went past, and another,
And the fruit went down the line.
They heard the boy had enlisted
But the old man made no sign.

His name must never be mentioned
On the farm by Gundagai….
They were Scots of the Riverina
With ever the kirk hard by.

The boy came home on his ‘final’
And the townships bonfire burned.
His mother’s arms were about him
But the old man’s back was turned.

The daughters begged for pardon
Till the old man raised his hand….
A Scot of the Riverina
Who was hard to understand.

The boy was killed in Flanders
Where the bravest heroes die.
There were tears at the Grahame homestead
And grief in Gundagai.

But the old man ploughed at daybreak
And the old man ploughed till the mirk
There were furrows of pain in the orchard
While his housefolk went to the kirk.

The hurricane lamp in the rafters
Dimly and dimly burned
And the old man died at the table
When the old woman’s back was turned.

Face down on his bare arms folded
He sank with his wild grey hair
Outspread o’er the open bible
And a name re-written there.

Written by Henry Lawson.

The Fire at Ross’s Farm

Henry Lawson was a contemporary of Banjo Paterson, there are those
who prefer his writing to Paterson's, while I admire both greatly I do
have a preference for Banjo's works

The Fire at Ross’s Farm

The squatter saw his pastures wide

Decrease, as one by one

The farmers moving to the west

Selected on his run;

Selectors took the water up

And all the black soil round;

The best grass-land the squatter had

Was spoilt by Ross’s ground.

Now many schemes to shift old Ross

Had racked the squatters brains,

But Sandy had the stubborn blood

Of Scotland in his veins;

He held the land and fenced it in,

He cleared and ploughed the soil,

And year by year a richer crop

Repaid him for his toil.

Between the homes for many years

The devil left his tracks;

The squatter pounded Ross’s stock,

And Sandy pounded Black’s.

A well upon the lower run

Was filled with earth and logs,

And Black laid baits around the farm

To poison Ross’s dogs.

It was, indeed a deadly feud

Of class and creed and race,

But, yet, there was a Romeo

And a Juliet in the case;

And more than once across the flats,

Beneath the Southern Cross,

Young Robert Black was seen to ride

With pretty Jenny Ross.

One Christmas time, when months of drought

Had parched the western creeks,

The bushfires started in the north

And traveled south for weeks.

At night along the river side

The scene was grand and strange…

The hill-fires looked like lighted streets

Of cities in the range.

The cattle tracks between the trees

Were like long dusky aisles,

And on a sudden breeze the fire

Would sweep along for miles;

Like sounds of distant musketry

It crackled through the brakes,

And o’er the flat of silver grass

It hissed like angry snakes.

It leapt across the flowing streams

And raced the pasture broad;

It climbed the trees, and lit the boughs,

And through the scrub it roared.

The bees fell stifled in the smoke

Or perished in their hives,

And with the stock the kangaroos

Went flying for their lives.

The sun had set on Christmas eve,

When, through the scrublands wide

Young Robert Black came riding home

As only natives ride

He galloped to the homestead door

And gave the first alarm;

”The fire is past the granite spur,

And close to Ross’s farm.”

“Now, father, send the men at once,

They won’t be wanted here;

Poor Ross’s wheat is all he has

To pull him through the year.”

“Then let it burn” the squatter said;

“I’d like to see it done….

I’d bless the fire if it would clear

Selectors from the run.”

“Go if you will” the squatter said,

“You will not take the men….

Go out and join your precious friends,

And don’t come back again.”

“I won’t come back,” young Robert cried,

And reckless in his ire’

He sharply turned the horses head

And galloped towards the fire.

And there for three long weary hours

Half-blinded with smoke and heat,

Old Ross and Robert fought the flames

That neared the ripened wheat.

The farmers hand was nerved by fears

Of danger and of loss;

And Robert fought the stubborn foe

For the love of Jenny Ross.

But serpent like the curves and lines

Slipped past them and between,

Until they reached the boundary where

The old coach road had been.

“The track is now our only hope,

There we must stand,” cried Ross,

“for naught on earth can stop the fire

If once it gets across.”

Then came a cruel gust of wind,

And with a fiendish rush,

The flames leapt o’er the narrow path

And lit the fence of brush.

“The crop must burn,” the farmer cried

“We cannot save it now,”

And down upon the blackened ground

He dashed the ragged bough.

But wildly, in a rush of hope,

His heart began to beat,

For o’er the crackling fire he heard

The sound of horses feet.

“Here’s help at last,” young Robert cried,

And even as he spoke

The squatter with a dozen men

Came racing through the smoke.

Down on the ground the stockmen jumped

And bared each brawny arm;

They tore green branches from the trees

And fought for Ross’s farm;

And when before the gallant band

The beaten flames gave way,

Two grimy hands in friendship joined…

And it was Christmas Day.

Written by Henry Lawson

Ballad of the Drover

This poem is one written by Henry Lawson, Henry was a

contemporary of Banjo Paterson’s and like Banjo a prolific

writer, he was author to much of the classic Australian

poetry and prose of the early 1900s.

Ballad of the Drover

Across the stony ridges,

Across the rolling plain,

Young Harry Dale, the drover,

Comes riding home again,

And well his stock horse bears him,

And light of heart is he,

And stoutly his old pack horse

Is trotting by his knee.

Up Queensland way with cattle

He’s traveled regions vast

And many months have vanished

Since home folks saw him last.

He hums a song of someone

He hopes to marry soon;

And hobble-chains and camp-ware

Are jingling to a tune.

Beyond the hazy dado

Against the lower skies

And yon blue line of ranges

The station homestead lies.

And thitherward the drover

Jogs through the lazy noon,

While hobble-chains and camp-ware

Are jingling to a tune.

An hour has filled the heavens

With storm clouds inky black;

At times the lightning trickles

Around the drovers track;

But Harry pushes onward,

His horses’ strength he tries,

In hope to reach the river

before the flood shall rise.

The thunder pealing o’er him,

Goes rumbling down the plain;

And sweet on thirsty pastures

Beats fast the splashing rain;

Then every creek and gully

Sends forth it’s tribute flood…

The river runs a banker,

All stained with yellow mud.

Now Harry speaks to Rover,

The best dog on the plains,

And to his hardy horses,

And strokes their shaggy manes;

“We’ve breasted bigger rivers

When floods were at their height,

Nor shall this gutter stop us

From getting home tonight!”

The thunder growls a warning,

The blue, forked lightning’s gleam;

The drover turns his horses

To swim the fatal stream.

But, oh the flood runs stronger

Than e’er it ran before;

The saddle horse is failing,

And only halfway o’er!

When flashes next the lightning

The floods grey breast is blank;

A cattle dog and packhorse

Are struggling up the bank.

But in the lonely homestead

The girl shall wait in vain…

He’ll never pass the stations

In charge of stock again.

The faithful dog a moment

Lies panting on the bank,

Then plunges through the current

To where his master sank,

And round and round in circles

He fights with failing strength,

Till, gripped by wilder waters,

He fails and sinks at length.

Across the flooded lowlands

And slopes of sodden loam

The packhorse struggles bravely

To take dumb tidings home;

And mud-stained, wet and weary,

He goes by rock and tree,

With clanging chains and tinware

All sounding eerily.

Written by Henry Lawson