There was movement at the station, for the word had
        passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a
         thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near
          and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush
           horses are
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon
        won the cup,
 The old man with his hair as white as snow;
 But few could ride beside him when his blood was
       fairly up--
  He would go wherever horse and man could go.
  And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a
          hand,
  No better horsemen ever held the reins;
  For never horse could throw him while the
         saddle-girths would stand
  He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy
       beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred
       at least-
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized,
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that
          won't say die-
There was courage in the quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and
          fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his
       power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop
        away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited, sad and wistful - only Clancy stood
        his friend-
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at
        the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred."

He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint
         stones every stride'
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make
         their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first
        commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."

So he went; they found the horses by the big mimosa
             clump-
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them
               from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel 
      them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the
        wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he 
      made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the
       dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a 
       sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges 
        deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they 
         fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held
         their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid 
         the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."

When they reached the mountain's summit, even
         Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden
         ground was full 
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have
           his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent
         down its bed
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint-stones flying, but the pony kept his
         feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his
       seat-
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the 
     rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and
          sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed
           the farther hill,
And the watchers on the mountain, standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely; he was right
           among them still,
 As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
 Then they lost him for a moment, where two
            mountain gullies met
 In the ranges - but a final glimpse reveals
 On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses
              racing yet,
 With the man from Snowy River at their heels.


And he ran them single-handed till their sides were
      white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted, cowed and beaten; then he turned
      their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely
      raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage
      fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges
           raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white
           stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reed-beds 
          sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The Man from Snowy River is a household word
             today,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

                     A. B. "Banjo" Paterson

THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER                                                                        An image from this poem is featured on the Australian ten dollar note:                 The image featured on this web page is by Australian landscape artist, Robert Lovett, who is known for is paintings of Outback Australia with cattle, horses and stockmen. One of Lovett's paintings has been chosen by the Australian Royal Mint as a design for a special edition Australian Five Dollar coin. The coin features the man from snowy river galloping down a sheer rock face with a snow-capped mountain in the distance.            Below is a picture titled "Snowy River" by  Australian photographer, George Walker. A large print hangs in Parliament House, ACT.

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