THE
GEEBUNG POLO CLUB
by A.B.
"Banjo" Paterson (1864 - 1941)
It was somewhere up the
country in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an
institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
They were long and wiry
natives of the rugged mountainside,
And the horse was never
saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride;
But their style of playing
polo was irregular and rash -
They had mighty little
science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on mountain
ponies that were muscular and strong,
Though their coats were
quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long.
And they used to train those
ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub:
They were demons, were the
members of the Geebung Polo Club.
It was somewhere down the
country, in a city's smoke and steam,
That a polo club existed,
called the Cuff and Collar Team.
As a social institution
'twas a marvellous success,
For the members were
distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little ponies
that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners
only rode 'em once a week.
So they started up the
country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the
Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets
with them - just to give their boots a rub
Ere they started operations
on the Geebung Polo Club.
Now my readers can imagine
how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Geebung boys got
going it was time to clear the road;
And the game was so terrific
that ere half the time was gone
A spectator's leg was broken
- just from merely looking on.
For they waddied one another
till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the score was kept so
even that they neither got ahead.
And the Cuff and Collar
captain, when he tumbled off to die,
Was the last surviving
player - so the game was called a tie.
Then the captain of the
Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were
mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose
him - all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his pony
for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an
effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck at goal - and
missed it - then he tumbled off and died.
By the old Campaspe River,
where the breezes shake the grass,
There's a row of little
gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a crude
inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Cuff and Collar
players and the Geebung boys lie here."
And on misty moonlit
evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
You can see their shadows
flitting down that phantom polo ground;
You can hear the loud
collisions as the flying players meet,
And the rattle of the
mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet,
Till the terrified spectator
rides like blazes to the pub -
He's been haunted by the
spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.