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CRAWFORD'S RUN
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From the mining camps around Nariel, or some faint dot upon the map, Hear the driver swear at the leading pair with his bid to make the gap. Bush children shout out “Here he comes”, they'll make it there or bust, To sweep on down to Corryong Town in a cloud of swirling dust. A change to good fresh horses, all aboard to hang on tight, While the driver hopes the leaders find the Koetong change tonight. They ford the deep Beetoomba, Pine Mountain rears it crown, 'Tis many a creek and many a prayer 'till they reach old Belvoir Town. Through wattle and bough where messmates tower, down gully and swamp depend, On a faster pace or a slackened trace when rounding the Shelley bend. Loud crack of whip when the poler slips, a curse on the horses names, Through the bogs so deep at the Pheasant Creek, flash of light from the leaders hames. When the creek banks slip on the darkest night, grey fog blanks out the stars, Nary a glimpse of the leading pair, just a slap of the swingle bars. All travellers pray while the driver swears, concern in the reckless pace, Bobbing, dancing lights through the rock and scrub, thrust and lurch of the thoroughbrace. Faint glow may show selectors' huts, with a drover's fire or two, Few station dogs bit at the heels of a flustered wallaroo. Just one more creek, one more flat, before the Cascade Range, Apply the brakes for the long run down to the yard at the Koetong change. Surge and plunge of eager horses, hang on, we're Westward bound, Heap your trust on Crawfords leaders to make Tallangatta town. To ford the Mitta River, faint light from morning glow, Loud shouts from camps and humpies “It's Crawfords, there she goes.” Glimpse of winding river as they trace across the flats, Attempt the Kiewa crossing, that tops the britchen straps. Polers getting weary but still they're Westward bound, Loud crack of whip to herald, they've reached old Belvoir town.
- Bill Whitham © 2001
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This webpage © 2002 Simply Australia