I thought the days of highwaymen were over long years past,
the "Moonlights" and the "Kelly's" long since dead.
The cry, "Stand and deliver", that made the heart beat fast.
fierce eyes, above a pistol, that filled the soul with dread.
I thought the days of highwaymen were now just hist'rys tales
emblazoned, as we often hear them told,
I'd dreamed of how things were, while I walked the wild bush trails
reliving, in my daydreams, scenes of villains strong and bold.
Then, camping by a disused mine in Australia's rugged heart,
the starlight and the moon my only friends,
I felt anothers presence and, dear God, it made me start
the pounding in my belly made me fear my life would end.
A voice said, "Stand your ground young friend, what brings you to this place?
Where are you from ? and, if you please, your name.
Then, if your story tickles me, why you may stay with grace".
the air about him stirred as if he'd often played this game.
I Found my voice from somewhere and answered, best I could
with little but a stutter here and there.
It must have satisfied him for before me soon he stood
then, as he moved about, I could but hold my breath and stare.
At first this man, this mountain, simply held me with his eyes
but then I saw the pistol in his hand.
It wavered for a moment then he dropped it to his side
and smiled a smile as broad as this fair land.
My strength returned, but slowly, I asked him if he'd sit,
to stay a while and share with me some tea.
he moved his bulk to fireside and gave a hearty spit
then said, "I s'pose your wondering just who your guest might be."
"My story goes a good way back, I've rode this land for years,
partaking of the wealthy passers by.
Relieving them of gold or other things that might be spare
and riding off with 'thank you !' and a winkin' of me eye.
Across the way's some acres that I squatted on years back,
soon as I got my leave in Sydney town.
about a hundred acres and a cosy little shack,
not much but then it's mine, boy, and all men must have their ground."
The stranger then related, in a language hardly used,
bold tales as if they'd happened yesterday.
Tales of conquests and of losses both to shock and to amuse
we even sang, in harmony, "The Shores of Bot'ny Bay".
He spoke of horse and carriages, of sailing ship and steam,
of how "Ben Hall" had, one time, been his host.
It hit me like a bolt then, this was not some crazy dream,
I'd been sitting here, politely, sharing supper with a ghost.
Like that, his visit over, he looked toward the East
and sadness cast a shadow in his eyes.
He said no more, I noticed that his mouth, in smile, was creased,
a wink and then he walked off as the sun began to rise.
So there I sat, enchanted, as the birds made morning sounds
and tried to take in all I'd seen that night.
Was I mad or had he been there sitting with me on the ground ?
and, if he had, what made me stay and not run off in fright.
I gathered my possessions, a kookaburra laughed,
I saw his point as on the road I pushed.
Then came to the conclusion that the Highwayman's bold heart
had simply stayed, like many others, in our wild and lovely bush.