Come back! Don't hope it -- the slinking hound, He sloped across to the Queensland side, And sold the Swagman for fifty pound, And stole the money, and more beside. And took to drink, and by some good chance Was killed -- thrown out of a stolen trap. And that was the end of this small romance, The end of the story of Conroy's Gap.
The boys had come back from the races All silent and down on their luck; They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places, But never a winner they struck. They lost their good money on Slogan, And fell, most uncommonly flat, When Partner, the pride of the Bogan, Was beaten by Aristocrat.
And one said, 'I move that instanter We sell out our horses and quit, The brutes ought to win in a canter, Such trials they do when they're fit. The last one they ran was a snorter -- A gallop to gladden one's heart -- Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter, And finished as straight as a dart.
'And then when I think that they're ready To win me a nice little swag, They are licked like the veriest neddy -- They're licked from the fall of the flag. The mare held her own to the stable, She died out to nothing at that, And Partner he never seemed able To pace it with Aristocrat.
'And times have been bad, and the seasons Don't promise to be of the best; In short, boys, there's plenty of reasons For giving the racing a rest. The mare can be kept on the station -- Her breeding is good as can be -- But Partner, his next destination Is rather a trouble to me.
'We can't sell him here, for they know him As well as the clerk of the course; He's raced and won races till, blow him, He's done as a handicap horse. A jady, uncertain performer, They weight him right out of the hunt, And clap it on warmer and warmer Whenever he gets near the front.
'It's no use to paint him or dot him Or put any 'fake' on his brand, For bushmen are smart, and they'd spot him In any sale-yard in the land. The folk about here could all tell him, Could swear to each separate hair; Let us send him to Sydney and sell him, There's plenty of Jugginses there.
'We'll call him a maiden, and treat 'em To trials will open their eyes, We'll run their best horses and beat 'em, And then won't they think him a prize. I pity the fellow that buys him, He'll find in a very short space, No matter how highly he tries him, The beggar won't _RACE_ in a race.'