Anthology of texts
TITLE: Unit 07 Anthology
Introduction 3
The highwayman 4
Part one 4
Part two 5
The Devon Times - Redcoats slay highwayman 9
Friday, April 30, 1784 9
Medical certificate 12
The man from Snowy River 13
Rewriting Paterson 18
The person from Snowy River 18
Banjo’s done his dash 20
Sir Patrick Spens 21
Frankie and Johnny 24
All that matters 27
After twenty years 29
Private eye 32
The best thing 35
The strong one 37
The monkey’s paw 38
The shell 48
Evonne Cawley 55
Aborigines in sport 56
Major titles of Evonne Goolagong-Cawley 58
Evonne… Her life after tennis 60
I can jump puddles 65
My first love 67
Mumshirl gets an MBE 70
King bantam 72
People look at me and say ‘Wow, a policeman in a wheelchair!’ 79
My god it’s a woman 82
Two Christmas stories 83
Santa left in a lurch 83
An unforgettable Christmas with the ‘biggest pudding of all time’ 83
Melba 85
Aunts up the Cross 88
An American at Uluru 92
On a roll, in this new role 94
Together in death: Sarajevo’s martyred lovers 97
Made and me 99
Positive thinking simply a state of mind 101
The holey dollar 104
Shop tactics 105
Life lessons 107
Introduction
This anthology has been specially compiled for you as a student of the CGVE course Reading for Pleasure. It contains a variety of reading material, old and new. There are poems, news items, letters, essays, articles, stories.
Some of them are frivolous, others sad. Some are deliciously nonsensical while others are deeply meaningful. You’ll recognise some of them others will be new. You might love some and hate others.
Whatever they are, we hope you will enjoy reading them, not just while you do your course, but also when you go on to other things.
The highwayman
Part one
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doeskin:
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred:
He whistled a tune to the window; and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler, listened; his face was white and peaked,
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay;
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter:
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
‘One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight:
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way.’
He rose upright in the stirrups, he scarce could reach her hand;
But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight)
Then he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
Part two
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead;
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at the side!
There was death at every window;
And Hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest:
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
‘Now keep good watch!’ and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years;
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her Love’s refrain.
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear-
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still!
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.
He turned; he spurred him westward; he did not know who stood
Bowed with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and slowly blanched to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her Love in the moonlight; and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
* * * * *
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred:
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
From Alfred Noyes, Collected poems of Alfred Noyes,
William Blackwood and Sons Ltd, 1909, 1913.
The Devon Times - Redcoats slay highwayman
Friday, April 30, 1784
Noon drama after night’s disaster
Devon
Military Headquarters:
A cheer was heard in the Operations Room of Military HQ yesterday evening when news reached that the notorious highwayman John Dalton had been gunned down. For two years the highwayman had terrorised the countryside, eluding every effort of law officers to capture him. Last October the wife of the Lord mayor of London was robbed at gunpoint on the highway. In the Lower House, the Leader of the Opposition tabled a motion of no confidence in Colonel Johnson, who is in charge of law and order in South England. The motion, in part, read, ‘It appears that the combined skills of 1,400 military officers is less than the skill of one bandit.’
Stung by such criticism, Colonel Johnson set up a special task force, named ‘Operation Moonlight’ to capture highwayman John Dalton.
And, by sheer coincidence, last night was full moon when Dalton was almost ambushed.
The secret of Operation Moonlight’s success was the inside information provided by an informer about the highwayman’s movements. The informer, whose identity is a closely guarded secret, is said to be acquainted with the highwayman’s lover, Elizabeth Thorburn, daughter of the owner of Moorhouse Inn.
On Tuesday night the weather was fitful, and strong winds drove dark clouds across the sky. In the patchy moonlight highwayman John Dalton was seen riding over the highway to the Moorhouse Inn. The informer observed that Dalton, with the proceeds of his robberies, was expensively dressed. He wore the latest style of cocked hat, a lace-necked shirt, an expensive red velvet coat, riding breeches of rare doeskin, and soft leather boots that reached up to his thigh. Most striking of all were his jewel inlaid pistol butts and sword grip. Even in the moonlight the jewels twinkled like stars.
Elizabeth Thorburn was at an upper window, and the informer heard the highwayman tell her that he was after a load of gold bullion, and that he would be back for her before dawn. But just in case he was delayed, he would come the next night by moonlight.
Fortune favoured the informer for the highwayman did not return that night, and the informer was able to get a message across to Colonel Johnson early on Wednesday morning. Thirty hand-picked militia reached the inn before Wednesday night.
Colonel Johnson had ordered that since Elizabeth Thorburn was the highwayman’s accomplice, she should be punished by being made to observe his death. The soldiers therefore tied her up to her bedpost, gagged her and positioned her so that she could look out of the window at the road leading to the inn.
As an additional safety measure, a musket was placed against Elizabeth Thorburn’s body, pointing to her breast.
The highwayman was to be shot by a volley of muskets as soon as he came close.
But even the best laid plans can go astray. The soldiers were all watching the road intently when they heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs. They cocked their muskets, waiting for the highwayman to come over the crest of the hill, when suddenly a loud gunshot sounded behind them. At once the horse’s hoof beats receded at a gallop.
Questioned later, the soldiers said, ‘Elizabeth Thorburn had managed to wriggle out of the ropes that bound her. She pulled the trigger of the musket against her breast, killing herself instantly.’
Once again the highwayman had escaped!
The whole inn was in an uproar. When the landlord found his daughter dead, he suffered a heart attack, and several inn staff immediately rode off to find a doctor. The news of Elizabeth Thorburn’s suicide, and the circumstances surrounding it, spread like wildfire from village to village.
Around midmorning yesterday, Thursday, the dispirited troopers, dressed in their red coats, were marching back to garrison headquarters. Suddenly, at noon, they saw a figure furiously riding towards them. They could scarcely believe their eyes! It was the highwayman charging, with his sword upraised, shrieking curses. He had no chance against 30 muskets. The gunshots riddled him, and he fell on the highway, dying in a pool of his own blood.
An autopsy is to be conducted on the highwayman John Dalton’s body, and his remains are expected to be buried in the public cemetery next week.
Elizabeth Thorburn will be buried in the village churchyard tomorrow.
Medical certificate
The man from Snowy River
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses- he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up-
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand-
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast;
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony-three parts thoroughbred at least-
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry-just the sort that won’t say die-
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, ‘That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop-lad, you’d better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.’
So he waited, sad and wistful-only Clancy stood his friend-
‘I think we ought to let him come,’ he said:
‘I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
‘He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough;
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.’
So he went; they found the horses by the big mimosa clump,
They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,