The White Horse Blow
by Alfred E Wallace ‘The Axeman”
Two miners in their camp with a dog – Photo SLWA
Lo, hear the hobbles jingle
And the old Mokes bells a dingle
And from the far-off Dolly Pot, the echo seems to ring
O’er the ranger and the ridges
Through the mulgas and the gidgeas.
Where McGann was ‘Costeen Champion’, and Pearsey Floater King,
Kirklands too, and Watty Davies, but my memory’s weak on names.
But I can’t forget Maloney and poor old Billy James.
And my old ‘Tomato King’, I had in jingles long ago,
Was working on a leader just beneath the White Horse Blow
There’s a cherished memory keeping
For some mates of ours now sleeping
They have dug their final costeen on the battlefields of France
Their loaming days are ended
So with pride and sorrow blended
We think about those mates of ours who took the final chance.
They’ve laid aside their dolly pot, the hammer, and the drills
And left their shafts and potholes, out along the diorite hills
And we’d give a lot to see them, as we saw them years ago
Where they knapped the golden floaters around the White Horse Blow
Dear old Murchison forever
Miles and years they cannot sever
Our old bush ties of mateship to the soldier boys you grew.
And the old pioneers that found you
Where golden reefs they bound you
They’ve raised the finest soldiers the Nation ever knew.
From the dawn around to Sandstone, across by old Gum Creek,
From Nannine to the Horseshoe, up around the good old Peak,
All had heroes to be proud of but the pride of all I know
Were the boys from Meekatharra, and around the White Horse Blow.
Moya Sharp
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