Edward Harrington(28 September 1896 - 28 May 1966 / Shepparton / Central Victoria / Australia)
The Bush Rangers
- by Edward Harrington49
Four horseman rode out from the heart of the range, Four horseman with aspects forbidding and strange. They were booted and spurred, they were armed to the teeth, And they frowned as they looked at the valley beneath, As forward they rode through the rocks and the fern - Ned Kelly, Dan Kelly, Steve Hart and Joe Byrne.
Ned Kelly drew rein and he shaded his eyes - 'The town's at our mercy! See yonder it lies! To hell with the troopers!' - he shook his clenched fist - 'We will shoot them like dogs if they dare to resist!' And all of them nodded, grim-visaged and stern - Ned Kelly, Dan Kelly, Steve Hart and Joe Byrne.
Through the gullies and creeks they rode silently down; They stuck-up the station and raided the town; They opened the safe and they looted the bank; They laughed and were merry, they ate and they drank. Then off to the ranges they went with their gold - Oh! never were bandits more reckless and bold.
But time brings its punishment, time travels fast - And the outlaws were trapped in Glenrowan at last, Where three of them died in the smoke and the flame, And Ned Kelly came back - to the last he was game. But the Law shot him down (he was fated to hang), And that was the end of the bushranging gang.
Whatever their faults and whatever their crimes, Their deeds lend romance to those faraway times. They have gone from the gullies they haunted of old, And nobody knows where they buried their gold. To the ranges they loved they will never return - Ned Kelly, Dan Kelly, Steve Hart and Joe Byrne.
But at times when I pass through that sleepy old town Where the far-distant peaks of Strathbogie look down I think of the days when those grim ranges rang To the galloping hooves of the bushranging gang. Though the years bring oblivion, time brings a change, The ghosts of the Kellys still ride from the range.
- by Edward Harrington39
Lone Pine! Lone Pine! Our hearts are numbly aching For those who come no more, Our boys who sleep the sleep that knows no waking, Besides the Dardan's shore. Through all the years, with glory sad and sombre, Their names will deathless shine; No bugle call can wake them from their slumber: Lone Pine! Lone Pine! They did not quail, they did not pause or ponder, They counted not the odds; The order came, the foe were waiting yonder, The rest was with the gods. Forth from their trenches at the signal leaping, They charged the Turkish line, And death charged too, a royal harvest reaping, Lone Pine! Lone Pine! Nought could withstand that onrush, backward driven, The foemen broke and fled.
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