O, this is more than fiction! It's the truth That somehow never happened. Pay your bob, And walk straight in, abandoning To-day. (To-day's a place outside the picture-house; Forget it, and the film will do the rest.)
There's nothing fine in being as large as life: The splendour starts when things begin to move And gestures grow enormous. That's the way To dramatise your dreams and play the part As you'd have done if luck had starred your face.
I'm 'Rupert from the Mountains'! (Pass the stout)... Yes, I'm the Broncho Boy we watched to-night, That robbed a ranch and galloped down the creek. (Moonlight and shattering hoofs.... O moonlight of the West! Wind in the gum-trees, and my swerving mare Beating her flickering shadow on the post.) Ah, I was wild in those fierce days! You saw me Fix that saloon? They stared into my face And slowly put their hands up, while I stood With dancing eyes,--romantic to the world!
Things happened afterwards ... You know the story... The sheriff's daughter, bandaging my head; Love at first sight; the escape; and making good (To music by Mascagni). And at last---- Peace; and the gradual beauty of my smile.
But that's all finished now. One has to take Life as it comes. I've nothing to regret. For men like me, the only thing that counts Is the adventure. Lord, what times I've had!
God and King Charles! And then my mistress's arms.... (To-morrow evening I'm a Cavalier.)
Well, what's the news to-night about the Strike?
Some Brave, awake in you to-night, Knocked at your heart: an eagle's flight Stirred in the feather on your head. Your wide-set Indian eyes, alight Above high cheek-bones smeared with red, Unveiled cragg'd centuries, and led You, the snared wraith of bygone things-- Wild ancestries of trackless Kings-- Out of the past.... So men have felt Strange anger move them as they knelt Praying to gods serenely starred In heavens where tomahawks are barred.
I heard a clash, and a cry, And a horseman fleeing the wood. The moon hid in a cloud. Deep in shadow I stood. '_Ugly work!_' thought I, Holding my breath. '_Men must be cruel and proud,_ '_Jousting for death._'
With gusty glimmering shone The moon; and the wind blew colder. A man went over the hill, Bent to his horse's shoulder. '_Time for me to be gone_'... Darkly I fled. Owls in the wood were shrill, And the moon sank red.