But now, in the shadows’ deepening
When the last sun-spark has ceased to burn,
Afar she catches the sullen ring
Of horse-hoofs swinging around the turn;
Then painfully down the narrow trail
Comes Alec McCrae with the Greytown mail.
‘The fever-and-ague, my girl,’ he said—
‘’Twas all I got on that northern trip:
When it left me then I was well-nigh dead—
Has got me fast in its iron grip;
And I’d rather rot in the nearest gaol
Than ride to-night with the Greytown mail.
‘At Golden Gully they heard to-day—
‘Twas a common topic about the town—
That the Mulligan Gang were around this way.
They wouldn’t despatch the gold-dust down;
And Brown, the manager, said he thought
’Twere wise to wait for a strong escort.
‘I rode the leaders; the other nags
I left with the coach at the ‘Travellers’ Rest.’
Kitty, my lass, you must take the bags—
Postboy, I reckon’s about the best;
‘Tis dark, I know, but he’ll never fail
To take you down with the Greytown mail.’
