With wide corrales where the horses squealed, Biting and lashing out; some half-wild hounds Gnawed at the cowbones littered on the field, Or made the stallions stretch their picket bounds. Some hides were drying; horsemen came from rounds, Unsaddled stiff, and turned their mounts to feed, And then brewed bitter drink and sucked it through a reed. The Irishman removed his pipe and spoke: "You take a fool’s advice," he said. "Return. Go back where you belong before you’re broke; You’ll spoil more clothes at this job than you’ll earn; It’s living death, and when you die you’ll burn: Body and soul it takes you. Quit it. No? Don’t say I never told you, then. Amigos. Ho. "Here comes a Gringo; make him pay his shot. Pay up your footing, Michael; rum’s the word, It suits my genius, and I need a lot." So the great cauldron full was mixed and stirred. And all night long the startled cattle heard Shouting and shooting, and the moon beheld Mobs of dim, struggling men, who fired guns and yelled That they were Abel Brown just come to town, Michael among them. By a bonfire some Betted on red and black for money down, Snatching their clinking winnings, eager, dumb. Some danced unclad, rubbing their heads with rum. The grey dawn, bringing beauty to the skies, Saw Michael stretched among them, far too drunk to rise. His footing paid, he joined the living-shed, Lined with rude bunks and set with trestles: there He, like the other ranchers, slept and fed, Save when the staff encamped in open air, Rounding the herd for branding. Rude and bare That barrack was; men littered it about With saddles, blankets blue, old headstalls, many a clout Torn off to wipe a knife or clean a gun, Tin dishes, sailors’ hookpots, all the mess Made where the outdoor work is never done And every cleaning makes the sleeping less. Men came from work too tired to undress, And slept all standing like the trooper’s horse; Then with the sun they rose to ride the burning course, Whacking the shipment cattle into pen, Where, in the dust, among the stink of burning, The half-mad heifers bolted from the men, And tossing horns arose and hoofs were churning, A lover there had little time for yearning; But all day long, cursing the flies and heat, Michael was handling steers on horseback till his feet Gave on dismounting. All day long he rode, Then, when the darkness came, his mates and he Entered dog-tired to the rude abode And ate their meat and sucked their bitter tea, And rolled themselves in rugs and slept. The sea Could not make men more drowsy; like the dead, They lay under the lamp while the mosquitoes fed. There was no time to think of Mary, none; For when the work relaxed, the time for thought Was broken up by men demanding fun: Cards, or a well-kept ring while someone fought, Or songs and dancing; or a case was bought Of white Brazilian rum, and songs and cheers And shots and oaths rang loud upon the twitching ears