No soft-skinned Durham steers are they, <br />No Devons plump and red, <br />But brindled, black and iron-grey <br />That mark the mountain-bred; <br />For mountain-bred and mountain-broke, <br />With sullen eyes agleam, <br />No stranger's hand could put a yoke <br />On old Black Harry's team. <br /> <br /> <br />Pull out, pull out, at break of morn <br />The creeks are running white, <br />And Tiger, Spot and Snailey-horn <br />Must bend their bows by night; <br />And axles, wheels, and flooring boards <br />Are swept with flying spray <br />As shoulder-deep, through mountain fords <br />The leaders feel their way. <br /> <br /> <br />He needs no sign of cross or kirn <br />To guide him as he goes, <br />For every twist and every turn <br />That old black leader knows. <br />Up mountains steep they heave and strain <br />Where never wheel has rolled, <br />And what the toiling leaders gain <br />The body-bullocks hold. <br /> <br /> <br />Where eagle-hawks their eyries make, <br />On sidlings steep and blind, <br />He rigs the good old-fashioned brake--- <br />A tree tied on behind. <br />Up mountains, straining to the full, <br />Each poler plays his part--- <br />The sullen, stubborn, bullock-pull <br />That breaks a horse's heart. <br /> <br /> <br />Beyond the farthest bridle track <br />His wheels have blazed the way; <br />The forest giants, burnt and black, <br />Are ear-marked by his dray. <br />Through belts of scrub, where messmates grow <br />His juggernaut has rolled, <br />For stumps and saplings have to go <br />When Harry's team takes hold. <br /> <br /> <br />On easy grade and rubber tyre <br />The tourist car goes through, <br />They halt a moment to admire <br />The far-flung mountain view. <br />The tourist folk would be amazed <br />If they could get to know <br />They take the track Black Harry blazed <br />A Hundred Years Ago.<br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/black-harry-s-team/
