The Man From Snowy River [a poem]

One of my favourite movies is The Man From Snowy River. The movie is from 1982, so it is pretty ‘old’. :P Because of having brothers who like cowboys, horses and doing dangerous things like riding down a steep mountain on a horse after a mob of Brumbies, the movie became a hit the first time it was watched. Ok, I admit it: I like that stuff too. Especially imagining how it would feel riding down a mountain on the back of a galloping horse… As a friend would say, “That would be intense.”

Maybe you’ve seen the film? [And the sequel to it, Return to Snowy River or The Man From Snowy River 2?] Well, if you have or haven’t, the movie was based entirely off of a poem by Andrew Barton ‘Banjo’ Patterson. He was an “Australian bush poet, journalist and author. He wrote many ballads and poems about Australian life, focusing particularly on the rural and outback areas, including the district around Binalong, New South Wales where he spent much of his childhood. Paterson’s more notable poems include “Waltzing Matilda“, “The Man from Snowy River” and “Clancy of the Overflow“.” [from his Wikipedia page.] I had heard the Waltzing Matilda folk song from a book we had of old country folk songs years ago, but I hadn’t known it was written by the same authour as The Man From Snowy River. I found that out when I found out that the movie was based on a poem. Isn’t it kinda interesting how things turn out? :)

I figured from the movie that the Snowy River was an actual river in Australia so I decided to look it up. Turns out that “The Snowy River is a major river in south-eastern Australia. It originates on the slopes of Mount Kosciuszko, Australia’s highest mainland peak, draining the eastern slopes of the Snowy Mountains in New South Wales, before flowing through the Snowy River National Park in Victoria and emptying into Bass Strait. Up until the mid–20th century, the river was notable for its high volume of fresh water, wide reach and large rapids.” From the Wiki page, again. From the photos, it looks like a pretty, woodsy place. In the movie, I don’t know if the river they cross in The Chase scene is meant to be the Snowy River, but I imagine it is.

I think “Jim’s Ride” scene is my favourite one… especially the awesome part of him riding down the mountain. And the part where they go on the snow… And the man who played Jim Craig, who is known as “the man” and “the man from Snowy River” in the poem, actually did the stunt of going down the mountain himself.

I think my favourite part of the poem is the same part in the movie, and they actually got it pretty accurate to the poem. He didn’t give a cheer in the movie, but he swung his whip, and raced down the mountain while the others sat atop their horses, watching:

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 a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

Maybe since you’ve seen the movie, you’ll enjoy reading the poem. :) I know I did. Then again, I love poetry… :) It is a pretty long poem, but hey, it’s telling the saga of a wonderful horse chase, and a man who proved himself to those who looked down on him. That’s the Man from Snowy River.

The Man from Snowy River
by Banjo Paterson
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 horseman 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 his 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 a 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 further 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 reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride…

The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day, and the stockmen tell the story of his ride… I had to echo those last, prestigious lines…