How well I remember that twelfth of November
When Jack and his little mare, Vanity, fell!
On the Diamantina there never was seen a
Pair who could cut out a beast half as well.
And yet in one second Death’s finger had beckoned,
And horse and bold rider had answered the call
Brooking no hesitation, without preparation,
That sooner or later must come to us all.
Thrice a big curly-horned Cobb bullock had scorned
To meekly acknowledge the ruling of Fate;
Thrice Jack with a clout of his whip cut him out,
But each time the beast galloped back to his mate.
Once more he came blund’ring along, with Jack thund'ring
Beside him, his spurs in poor Vanity's flanks,
When, from some cause or other forsaking its mother,
A little white calf trotted out from the ranks
’Twas useless, I knew it; yet I turned to pursue it:
At the same time I gave a loud warning to Jack:
It was all unavailing: I saw him come sailing
Along as the weaner ran into his track.
Little Vanity tried to turn off on one side,
Then altered her mind and attempted to leap . . .
The pace was too fast: that jump was her last;
For she and her rider fell all in a heap.
