»Kelpie«
A tear rolled down Jack Gleeson’s cheek
For the son he’d never see,
For the dogs he’d never work again,
And what he knew they could be.
He’d ridden all the eastern states,
And bred a strain of dogs, in time;
Now he was about to die,
A stockman cut down in his prime.
He left his wife an unborn child
And his dogs already famed,
His black and tan sheep dog bitch
After which a breed was named.
It all started on the Warrock run
Where Jack saw dogs that could work sheep,
Collies brought from Scotland
And a pup he wished to keep.
George Robertson wouldn’t sell her,
Not to Jack or anyone.
»When you’ve got dogs like this,« he said,
»They pass them father on to son.«
But he gave one to a nephew
Who didn’t follow in that course,
He knew Jack Gleeson pretty well
And had a liking for his horse.
He said he’d swap the dog
For Gleeson’s stockhorse tall and stout,
By the old Glenelg at midnight
To save his uncle finding out.
And so down by the river
On an eerie moonlit night,
Where the Red Gums touch the water
And the yellow-belly bite,
Jack Gleeson sat there waiting
With the stockhorse on a lead,
Listening to the rippling waters
And the roos and emus feed.
Then a rustling from the bushes
Sent a shiver down his spine,
He looked up to see a horseman pause,
Then wave a knowing sign.
So Jack rode on towards the ford,
Where Warrock met Dunrobin run,
They exchanged the pup and stockhorse
And the midnight deal was done.
Both horseman rode off quietly
Through the fast descending fog,
Until Jack stopped above the river
To take a good look at his dog.
The sky was clear as crystal
And cold air made him shiver
As the full moon cast his shadow
Down across the fogbound river.
His thoughts turned back to Ireland,
Of haunted fords and streams,
By the spectre they called Kelpie
And how it filled his early dreams.
He could hear a horse at canter
As he fixed a thoughtful gaze
On the tops of lifeless Red Gums
Jutting out above the haze.
He glanced down at the pup
Who picked her ears up at his sight,
Then smiled, called her »Kelpie«,
And rode off into the night.
Perhaps he knew Jack Gleeson’s Kelpie
Would be known throughout the land,
Her descendants strong-willed working dogs
Just as the stockman planned.
Jack headed north with Kelpie
And broke her in along the way,
A station north of Cootamundra
Was where he’d find the work to stay.
As he crossed the Murrumbidgee
He met Coonambil Station’s boss.
It was here Jack mated Kelpie
With a Collie dog called Moss.
From Forbes to Yarrawonga,
Kelpie’s pups would show their guile,
In the woolshed, on the paddocks
With mobs of thousands, or at trial.
They became, simply, Kelpies,
Sought for their desire to work,
For their pride, for their intelligence,
With so little that they shirk.
Now if you’re heading into Casterton
And the sky is crystal clear,
Make a stop down by the river
And if you’re quiet you will hear
A whistle through the Red Gums,
A mob of sheep take flight,
Then horses’ hooves and barking
Will echo through the night.
But there ist no horseman out there,
No real dogs or running sheep,
Just Jack Gleeson working Kelpie,
A spectre Casterton will keep.