Lets hear some Aussie Bush Poetry

[Bob]

OUR CORRUGATED IRON TANK



Our tank stood on a crazy stand,

Bare to the burning sun,

White hot as glares the desert sand,

And dismal to the eye.

Its lid was like a rakish hat,

The tap bent all awry,

And with a drip so constant that

It almost dripped when dry.



It was a most convenient tank

Wherein most things could fall;

Where snakes came from the bush and drank,

And rabbits used to call,

The mice committed suicide,

The gum leaves sank to rest,

And in it possums dropped and died

And hornets made their nest.



But stark within my memory

I see it once again

When we all looked at it anxiously -

Days when we hoped for rain;

I hear the hollow sounds it made,

Like some prophetic drum,

As I tapped rung on rung, afraid

Of dreadful days to come,



When mother in despair would pray

As low the water sank:

Four rungs, three rungs, two rungs, and, aye,

How miserly we drank;

And there was none for face and hands,

Waste was a wicked thing.

There in the baked and parching lands,

With hope our only spring.



Next came the fatal 'one rung left!'

(How cruel words can be!)

As we all stood for joys bereft,

Dumb in out misery:

And then I tapped the tank in pain -

Those knells of drought and doom:

Our tank at last gone dry again,

Our home cast down in gloom;



But, Oh, the joy that filled our hearts

When came the bounteous rain,

And the drain-pipe sang in fits and starts

And we filled the tank again!

We felt as if we'd riches won,

That life again was sweet;

And overjoyed then, everyone,

We even washed our feet!

*********

By: Hal Gye ('James Hackston')

[twisty]

Great thread. Use to read this and others to my kids. This was thier favourite and great fun to read aloud.

THE MAN FROM IRONBARK by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,
He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.
He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop,
Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.
"'Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,
I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark."

The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,
He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar;
He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,
He laid the odds and kept a "tote", whatever that may be,
And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered, "Here's a lark!
Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark."

There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall.
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;
To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut,
"I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut."
And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:
"I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark."

A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,
Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.
He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,
Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat:
Upon the newly-shaven skin it made a livid mark -
No doubt it fairly took him in - the man from Ironbark.

He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,
And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,
He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe:
"You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go!
I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!
But you'll remember all your life the man from Ironbark."

He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.
He set to work with nail and tooth, he made the place a wreck;
He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.
And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,
And "Murder! Bloody murder!" yelled the man from Ironbark.

A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;
He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.
And when at last the barber spoke, and said
"'Twas all in fun— 'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone."
"A joke!" he cried, "By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark;
I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark."

And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape,
He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape.
"Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough,
One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough."
And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark,
That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.

[lorrieandjas]

OK - a little obvious some might say - but this sums up the Aussie Spirit....

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 stockhorse 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 a 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,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."


So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.


Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."


When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.


He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.


He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.


And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.


And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word today,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
The Bulletin, 26 April 1890.

[lorrieandjas]

Another one about mates...... For some of us this hasn't changed........

A Mate can do no Wrong

We learnt the creed at Hungerford,
We learnt the creed at Bourke;
We learnt it in the good times
And learnt it out of work.
We learnt it by the harbour-side
And on the billabong:
'No matter what a mate may do,
A mate can do no wrong!'
He’s like a king in this respect
(No matter what they do),
And, king-like, shares in storm and shine
The Throne of Life with you.
We learnt it when we were in gaol
And put it in a song:
' No matter what a mate may do,
A mate can do no wrong!'
They’ll say he said a bitter word
When he’s away or dead.
We’re loyal to his memory,
No matter what he said.
And we should never hesitate,
But strike out good and strong,
And jolt the slanderer on the jaw –
A mate can do no wrong !

Henry Lawson

[Bob]

The Sick Stockrider



Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down one more, and lay me in the shade.

Old man, you've had your work cut out to guide

Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I swayed,

All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride.



The dawn at "Moorabinda" was a mist-rack dull and dense,

The sunrise was a sullen, sluggish lamp;

I was dozing in the gateway at Arbuthnot's bound'ry fence,

I was dreaming on the Limestone cattle camp:



We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through the haze,

And suddenly the sun shot flaming forth;

To southward lay "Katawa," with the sand peaks all ablaze,

And the flushed fields of Glen Lomond lay to north.



Now westward winds the bridle-path that leads to Lindisfarm,

And yonder looms the double-headed bluff;

From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and calm,

You can see Sylvester's woolshed fair enough.



Five miles we used to call it from our homestead to the place

Where the big tree spans the roadway like an arch;

'Twas here we ran the dingo down that gave us such a chase

Eight years ago - or was it nine? - last March.



'Twas merry in the glowing morn, among the gleaming grass,

To wander as we've wandered many a mile,

And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass,

Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while.



'Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs,

To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard,

With a running fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs;

Oh, the hardest day was never then too hard!



Ay, we had a glorious gallop after "Starlight" and his gang,

When they bolted from Sylvester's on the flat;

How the sun-dried reed-beds crackled, how the flint-strewn ranges rang,

To the strokes of "Mountaineer" and "Acrobat."



Hard behind them in the timber, harder still across the heath,

Close behind them through the tea-tree scrub we dash'd;

And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath;

And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crash'd!



We led the hunt throughout, Ned, on the chestnut and the grey,

And the troopers were three hundred yards behind,

While we emptied our six-shooters on the bush-rangers at bay

In the creek with stunted box-trees for a blind!



There you grappled with the leader, man to man, and horse to horse,

And you roll'd together when the chestnut rear'd;

He blazed away and missed you in that shallow watercourse -

A narrow shave - his powder singed you beard!



In these hours when life is ebbing, how those days when life was young

Come back to us: how clearly I recall

Even the yarns Jack Hall invented, and the songs Jem Roper sung;

And where are now Jem Roper and Jack hall?



Ay! nearly all our comrades of the old colonial school,

Our ancient boon companions, Ned, are gone;

Hard livers for the most part, somewhat reckless as a rule,

It seems that you and I are left alone.



There was Hughes, who got in trouble through that business with the cards,

It matters little what became of him;

But a steer ripp'd up MacPherson in the Cooraminta yards,

And Sullivan was drown'd at Sink-or-Swim;



And Mostyn - poor Frank Mostyn - died at last, a fearful wreck,

In the "horrors" at the Upper Wandinong,

And Carisbrooke, the rider, at the Horsefall broke his neck;

Faith! the wonder was he saved his neck so long!



Ah! those days and nights we squandered at the Logans' in the glen -

The Logans, man and wife, have long been dead.

Elsie's tallest girl seems taller than your little Elsie then;

And Ethel is a woman grown and wed.



I've had my share of pastime, and I've done my share of toil,

And life is short - the longest life a span;

I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil,

Or for the wine that maketh glad the heart of man.



For good undone, and gifts misspent, and resolutions vain,

'Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know -

I should live the same life over, if I had to live again;

And the chances are I go where most men go.



The blue skies waxing dusky, and the tall green trees grow dim,

The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall;

And sickly, smokey shadows through the sleepy sun-light swim,

And on the very sun's face weave their pall.



Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms wave,

With never stone or rail to fence my bed;

Should the sturdy station children pull the bush-flowers on my grave,

I may chance to hear them romping overhead.





Adam Lindsay Gordon

[Bob]

The Dying Stockman



A strapping young stockman lay dying,

His saddle supporting his head;

His two mates around him were crying,

As he rose on his elbow and said:



Chorus: 'Wrap me up with my stockwhip and blanket,

And bury me deep down below,

Where the dingoes and crows can't molest me,

In the shade where the coolibahs grow.



'Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing,

Far o'er the plains would I fly,

Straight to the land of my childhood,

And there I would lay down and die.



'Then cut down a couple of saplings,

Place one at my head and my toe,

Carve on them cross, stockwhip, and saddle,

To show there's a stockman below.



'Hark! there's the wail of a dingo,

Watchful and weird - I must go,

For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman

From the gloom of the scrub down below.



'There's tea in the battered old billy;

Place the pannikins out in a row,

And we'll drink to the next merry meeting,

In the place where all good fellows go.



'And oft in the shades of the twilight,

When the soft winds are whispering low,

And the darkening shadows are falling,

Sometimes think of the stockman below.'



Anonymous

[The BigFella]

Awesome Bloke's, this is exactly what I was looking for when I posted this thread!

There just aint nothing better than a good Australian poem or verse,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Keep em coming blokes, keep em coming!

[twisty]

My kids loved this one as well ...

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?"

"See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
I'm good all round at everything as everybody knows,
Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight."

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
That perched above Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
But 'ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver steak,
It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek.

It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek.

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He said, "I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet,
But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve
To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still;
A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill."

The Sydney Mail, 25 July 1896.

[Bob]

ON THE PLAINS

Half-lost in film of faintest lawn,
A single star in armour white
Upon the dreamy heights of dawn
Guards dim frontier of the night,
Till plumed ray
And golden spray
Have washed its trembling light away.

The sun has peeped above the blue;
His level lances as they pass
Have shot the dew-drops thro' and thro',
And dashed with rubies all the grass,
And silver sound
Of horse-bells round
Floats softly o'er the jewelled ground.

The sunbeam and the wanton wind,
Among the feathery tufts at play,
Sing to the earth: "The night is blind,
But we will kiss your tears away."
With broad'ning glow
And rippling flow
Adown the laughing leagues they go.

The vagrant lark on wayward winds
Is fluttering low, is floating high;
No Northern trill of rapture rings
Tho' the vast temple of the sky;
But not in vain
Thy southern strain,
Thou brown-winged angel of the plain!

Here, where the days are dull and grey,
And youth has stilled his joyous song,
In fancy yet I love to stray
By creek, and plain, and billabong,
To the curlew's call
And the noiseless fall
Of the unshod hoof 'neath the gum-trees tall.

I hear one more the plovers "peet:"
The grey hawk wheels in dizzy height,
And swift beneath my horse's feet
The brown quail rises in his fright,
And the galahs fly
With pink breasts high,
A rosy cloud in a cloudless sky.

Afar I mark the emu's run;
The bustard slow, in motley clad;
And, basking in his bath of sun,
The brown snake on the cattle-pad,
And the reddish black
Of a dingo's back
As he loit'ring slinks on my horse's track.

And now I watch, with slackened rein,
The scattered cattle, hundreds strong,
As slowly moving home again
The lazy vanguard feeds along
To the waters cool
Of the tree-fringed pool
In the distant creek when the noon is full.

Slip girth and let the old horse graze;
The noon grows heavy on the air.
Kindle the tiny camp-fire's blaze,
And neath the shade, as monarch there,
Take thou thine ease:
For hours like these
A king had bartered satrapies!

Here lie and watch, thro' smoke-wreaths cool,
By yon sunk log and floating wrack,
The emporer of the silent pool,
The stately heron, white and black,
Afar from heat,
Upon his beat,
Knee-deep in shallowy retreat.

O mellow air! O sunny light!
O hope and youth that pass away!
Inscribe in letters of delight
Upon each heart one golden day -
To be there set
When we forget
There is a joy in living yet!


George Essex Evans

[lorrieandjas]

Saw these two ladies perform in Winton at the campground we stayed at. Absolutely amazing they were:

The Scottish Vet:

Our new veterinary surgeon came from Scotland in November
To replace old Doctor Douglas, who we found could not remember
If he had to birth a batch of pups, or euthanase a horse.
After one mistake too many, Doctor Doug, with great remorse
Left his business to the Scottish bloke, I'd never been out west,
And I braved their boisterous banter 'bout my tartan kilt and vest.

I had graduated Uni, I'd left my Highland home,
So I packed my kilt and bagpipes and I sailed across the foam.
Ask him now 'bout his arrival he'll obligingly confess
That he caused a fair commotion when he turned up in his dress.
There were looks of consternation, that were never meant to hurt
But we all were speculatin' what he wore beneath his skirt.

I had heard along the grapevine that the vet was called McLeod
So she went down to the station to join the jostling crowd
Of accumulated animals and eager clientele
Who were anxiously awaiting there to greet the Scottish swell.
Great-grandma came from Scotland, our genealogy had proved
That he could'a been a cousin, twenty seven times removed.

So I introduced meself, sayin', “We might be relations.”
But he put his finger to his lips and made a few notations
In the margins of a tartan book and quietly said to me,
“Though we might be related lass, there's nowt I'll do for free.
I'm weary of wee cats and dogs, that's why I've come out West.
I want to treat your native animals.” Well, I set this bloke a test.

See, we had a little problem with their randy kangaroo.
And no matter what me Mother said, I couldn't misconstrue
His lascivious intentions, which were evidently lewd,
The thoughts in his marsupial head were absolutely rude.
But me Mother wouldn't get him fixed, “He's made that way by God.”
Till his unrelenting appetites became completely odd.

Their poor Labrador was terrified to walk across the yard,
And me Mother treated all of this with total disregard.
That rapacious roo would stalk their dog, with amorous intent
So I rang the vet to see if he could gain me mums consent
The roo was in the paddock, so I took the vet outside.
We couldn't find their harried hound, she'd gone somewhere to hide.

Mum was in the garden bending over pulling weeds.
And about to be the target of the roos' immoral needs.
That miscreant marsupial was masticating grass,
When it turned towards me mum, McLeod yelled, “Move me lass!
Hey, do your best to stop him, you can see me hands are full!”
So I shoved me Mum, dropped me head, and charged him like a bull.

While McLeod was shoutin' at me, “You've knocked your Mum out cold!”
Like a rag doll on a rockin' horse, I tried to keep ahold.
Here's your chance, go lassie, try and wrap your legs around,
And I'll do the operation, when you've thrown him to the ground.
For one fantastic moment there I thought his plan would work
Till McLeod produced his scalpel and the beastie went berserk.

They cleared the fence in one long bound, and took the gully in their stride,
While McLeod ran close behind us yellin', “Hold on girlie, ride!”
Through the spinifex and thorn-bush at a racing pace we went,
Me Bum was turnin' black and blue from jolts on each descent.
Disaster loomed I dare not fall, they cleared a rotten log,
And these visions flashed before me, of me poor molested dog.

And McLeod was screamin' at me, “Try and wheel him to the right,
Then you can throw him down and hold him, and be sure to hang on tight!”
“Hang on tight!” I squealed, “you lunatic, you bag-pipe blowin' bum,
I wish you'd stayed in Scotland! And I'd listened to me Mum!”
That Malignant minded macropod then turned around and wheeled,
Bolting bravely through the middle of the local football field.

The entire population were now witness to me shame,
As they scattered refs and players in the semi-final game.
I dug me fingers in his fur and clung through every bound
Till a head-high from a half-back sent them sprawlin' to the ground.
I clamped me thighs around the roo, reached out to grab his paws
When McLeod whipped out his scalpel we were defended by applause.

I held the roo, McLeod attacked, complete with flashing blade,
One expeditious slicing stroke, the surgeons skill displayed.
As I lay there on the score-line and prepared to see it through,
My timing was impeccable, I tidied up the roo,
Then flicked his kilt and gave a bow, to sounds of wild acclaim,
While her legendary roo-ride was a gallop in to fame.

Now McLeod and I are famous, and the Kanga spends his day
Watching Mother weed the garden, while his thoughts are far away.
But I have a guilty conscious when I ponder what we done,
I remember my embarrassment, but geez the ride was fun!
And me Mother's none the wiser, so I guess things could be worse,
Still, I'm giving her a present, it's a leather draw-string purse.

Melanie Hall - 2010

And if anyone is interested - here is their website - well worth seeing if you ever get the chance!

http://www.melandsusieontour.com.au/