“Now, it’s listen, Father Riley, to the words I’ve got to say,
    For it’s close upon my death I am tonight.
With the troopers hard behind me I’ve been hiding all the day
    In the gullies keeping close and out of sight.
But they’re watching all the ranges till there’s not a bird could fly,
    And I’m fairly worn to pieces with the strife,
So I’m taking no more trouble, but I’m going home to die,
    ’Tis the only way 1 see to save my life.

“Yes, I’m making home to mother’s, and I’ll die o’ Tuesday next
    An’ buried on the Thursday—and, of course,
I’m prepared to do my penance; but with one thing I’m perplexed
    And it’s—Father, it’s this jewel of a horse!
He was never bought nor paid for, and there’s not a man can swear
    To his owner or his breeder, but I know
That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare,
    And his dam was close related to The Roe.

“And there’s nothing in the district that can race him for a step—
    He could canter while they’re going at their top:
He’s the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep;
    A five-foot fence—he’d clear it in a hop!
So I’ll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again,
    ’Tis yourself that knows a good un; and, of course,
You can say he’s got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy’s plain
    If you’re ever asked the breeding of the horse!

“But it’s getting on to daylight, and it’s time to say good-bye,
    For the stars above the East are growing pale.
And I’m making home to mother—and it’s hard for me to die!
    But it’s harder still, is keeping out of gaol!
You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip,
    Where the wattle-bloom is waving overhead.
Sure he’ll jump them fences easy—you must never raise the whip
    Or he’ll rush ’em!—now, good-bye!” and he had fled!

So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights,
    In the graveyard at the back of Kiley’s Hill;
There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights
    Till the very boldest fighters had their fill.
There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub,
    And the riders flogged each other all the while—
And the lashins of the liquor! And the lavins of the grub!
    Oh, poor Andy went to rest in proper style.

Then the races came to Kiley’s—with a steeple chase and all,
    For the folk were mostly Irish round about,
And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall;
    They were training morning in and morning out.
But they never started training till the sun was on the course,
    For a superstitious story kept ’em back.
That the ghost of Andy Regan on a slashing chestnut horse
    Had been training by the starlight on the track.

And they read the nominations for the races with surprise
    And amusement at the Father’s little joke,
For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize,
    And they found that it was Father Riley’s moke!
He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to stay!
    But his owner’s views of training were immense,
For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day,
    And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence.

And the priest would join the laughter; “Oh,” said he, “I put him in,
    For there’s five-and-twenty sovereigns to be won;
And the poor would find it useful if the chestnut chanced to win,
    As he’ll maybe do when all is said and done!”
He had called him Faugh-a-ballagh (which is French for ‘Clear the course’),
    And his colours were a vivid shade of green:
All the Dooleys and O’Donnells were on Father Riley’s horse,
    While the Orangeman were backing Mandarin!

It was Hogan, the dog-poisoner—aged man and very wise,
    Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag,
And who ventured the opinion, to the township’s great surprise,
    That the race would go to Father Riley’s nag.
“You can talk about your riders—and the horse has not been schooled,
    And the fences is terrific, and the rest!
When the field is fairly going, then yell see ye’ve all been fooled.
    And the chestnut horse will battle with the best.

“For there’s some has got condition, and they think the race is sure,
    And the chestnut horse will fall beneath the weight;
But the hopes of all the helpless, and the prayers of all the poor,
    Will be running by his side to keep him straight.
And it’s what the need of schoolin’ or of workin’ on the track,
    Whin the Saints are there to guide him round the course!
I’ve prayed him over every fence—I’ve prayed him out and back!
    And I’ll bet my cash on Father Riley’s horse!”

Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post!
    For he left the others standing, in the straight;
And the rider—well, they reckoned it was Andy Regan’s ghost,
    And it beat ’em how a ghost would draw the weight!
But he weighed in, nine stone seven; then he laughed and disappeared,
    Like a Banshee (which is Spanish for an elf),
And old Hogan muttered sagely, “If it wasn’t for the beard
    They’d be thinking it was Andy Regan’s self!”

And the poor at Kiley’s Crossing drank the health at Christmastide
    Of the chestnut and his rider dressed in green.
There was never such a rider, nut since Andy Regan died,
    And they wondered who on earth he could have been,
But they settled it among ’em, for the story got about,
    ‘Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course,
That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out
    For the steeplechase on Father Riley’s horse!