In Year 11 Literature I re-wrote Banjo Paterson's The Man From Snowy River so it was Medea themed instead.... It turned out... interestingly. Possibly an ambitious thing to attempt... Nevertheless, my teacher loved it and gave it an A+++ "A brilliant piece".
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The Young Boy and his Pony
A huge apology to A.B. "Banjo" Paterson for the desecration of his work.
There was movement throughout Corinth, for the word had just been told
That the witch who killed the King had got away,
And had joined the King of Athens - She was worth three chests of gold,
The best Corinth had to offer had to offer hope to slay.
All the tried and noted soldiers from the houses near and far
had gathered at the castle overnight,
For the soldiers love good hunting where the hunted is a star,
And the Greek horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Jason, who caused her heartbreak when he married Princess Glauce,
And an old man with his hair as white as snow;
Whose daughters with the women crowded into Jason's house -
And pleaded with their loved ones not to go.
Then past the ruins of the Argo, came more to lend a hand,
Though their hearts were full of fear for their lives.
For they knew sorceress Medea could strike them dead where they stand,
And the experts of the soldiers came with knives.
And one was there, an adolescent on a small and weedy beast,
He was almost like a unicorn undersized,
With a touch of Asian pony - three parts Corinthian at least -
And such as are by mountain soldiers 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 kid will never do
When that evil woman attacks - lad, you'd probably run away,
The fear is much too intense for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful - only Jason stood his friend -
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I'll warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred."
So he went - they moved on Athens where Medea was said to dwell -
It wasn't long before the convoy reached the town,
And the leader gave his orders, "Boys, now mind her powers well,
Don't forget she's got the blessing of the crown.
And, Jason, you must be careful, try and stay out of her sight,
Ride boldly, lad, and never mind the spills,
For never yet was soldier that could stay on through a fight,
And stop the witch from running to the hills."
But one soldier went to Medea - his bow and arrow drawn,
And threatened to with the arrow pierce her heart,
So she raised her arms towards him, he was looked upon with scorn,
As she prepared to hack his horse and him apart.
Then she halted for a moment, while she revelled in the slash,
The young soldier saw this murder in full view,
And she started for Olympus with a sharp and sudden dash,
So off towards the mountain they all flew.
And fast the soldiers followed, where the grasses lush and green,
Hid the thud and echoes of their tread,
And the hunters tried to follow, by that which could be seen
From vantage points of hills of up ahead.
And onward, ever onward, the soldiers held their way,
Where Goddesses and Gods proved to reside;
And the leader muttered fiercly, "We may bid this witch good day,
No mortal can hold Medea with them on her side."
When they reached the mountain's base, even Jason took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
For the fog rolled on them thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of traps designed to trip them to their death,
But the youngster on the pony charged and let it have it's head,
And he raced on up the mountain like being haunted by the dead,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
Then he was right among the deities with Medea on a hill,
And the watchers below the mountain standing mute,
Saw him pull his bow and arrow, both eyes on the target still,
And drawing back the string about to shoot.
Then they lost him for a moment, when the thunderstorm blew by
But shortly a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild woman standing yet,
With the young boy and his pony at her heels.
And the soldiers felt a sorrow for the boy who now would roam,
Because he dared to try and fight a heart that's black
And the army, cowed an beaten, gave up and turned their heads for home,
And alone and unsuccessful arrived back.
But the boy and his small pony that could hardly raise a trot,
Stayed on the mountain, the pony now the Gods',
But his pluck was now not present, where it used to be red hot,
For the pony's head would always shake and nod.
And down in Colchis city, where the blue-green ocean waves
Were lifting and were crashing from up high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars faily blaze
At midnight in the warm and deep black sky.
And where around a table people talk and say
To the children, with their small eyes open wide,
The young man on his pony is a hero from that day,
And the parents tell the children how he died.
