Lets hear some Aussie Bush Poetry [Archive]

Bob

22nd November 2012, 03:17 PM

Ok here is a classic

My Country

The love of field and coppice
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins.
Strong love of grey-blue distance,
Brown streams and soft, dim skies
I know, but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror
The wide brown land for me!

The stark white ring-barked forests,
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon,
Green tangle of the brushes
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops,
And ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When, sick at heart, around us
We see the cattle die
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the rainbow gold,
For flood and fire and famine
She pays us back threefold.
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze ...

An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand
though Earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.

******

©Dorothea MacKellar

Bob

22nd November 2012, 03:25 PM

and another

The Old Bark Hut

In an old bark hut on a mountainside

In a spot that was lone and drear

A woman whose heart was aching sat

Watching from year to year.

A small boy, Jim, her only child,

Helped her to watch and wait

But the time never came when they could go free,

Free from the bond of hate.

For McConnel was out on the mountainside

Living without a hope

And seeing nothing before him now

But death by a hangman’s rope.

Hated and chased by his fellow men,

To take him alive or dead,

An outlaw banned by the world was he

With five hundred pounds on his head.

A message had come that evening which said

“Now, Jim, you mustn’t wait,

If you want to save your father, or

By heaven, you’ll be too late.

“He’s out at Mackinnon’s Crossing, they say,

The track is rough, old man,

But if any here can do it—why

It’s you and old Darky can.”

And Jim knew well what the message meant,

As he brought his horse to the door!

While away through the gathering darkness came

The sound of the river’s roar.

But the brave little heart never faltered as

He stooped to kiss her good-bye

And said, “God bless you, Mother dear,

I’ll save Dad tonight or I’ll die.”

The old horse answered the touch of his hand

And galloped away from the door;

He seemed to know ‘twas a journey for life—

Well, he’d done such journey’s before.

Out from the firelight, and through the rails,

Out through the ghastly trees,

While all the time the warning roar

Of the river came back on the breeze;

Steadily down the mountainside

He rode, for his course was plain,

Though his heart was heavy, though not with fear,

But because of that brand of Cain.

The boy thinks over his mother’s last words:

“I’ll love him as long as I live!

He must have time for repentance on earth

But surely God will forgive.”

As he glanced back over his shoulder there

She stood by the light of the door

Trying to pierce the darkness in vain,

Thinking she’d see him no more.

Then as he looked she bowed her head

And slowly turned away,

And the boy knew that the noble wife

Had knelt by the bed to pray.

Mile after mile, hour after hour,

And then just ahead, shining and white,

Was the foam of Mackinnon’s Crossing—

What a jump for old Darky tonight!

And then Jim thinks of the long, lone years

And the hopes that are crushed and dead;

And a woman whose heart is as true as steel,

As true as the day she was wed.

As she loved him then in the years gone by

When the future held promise in store,

So she loved him today when the future held

Naught but death by his country’s law.

Jim pressed his knees to the saddle flap

And tightened his hold on the rein;

They had jumped the river last summertime,

How he hoped they would do it again!

Then a voice rang out through the darkness there,

“Hold, now hold, stand still!

We know you, lad, it’s too late to run;

Hands up or we’ll shoot to kill!”

Then he knew that the police were around him,

In the darkness they moved to and fro;

For an instant he pulled on the bridle-rein,

But he’d promised his mother he’d go.

And he thought of the poor, sad woman alone,

Kneeling in prayer by the bed;

So he loosened the reins on old Darky’s neck

And rushed at the river ahead.

Then a volley rang out through the forest dark—

A fall in the roaring flood;

And the darkness hid from all human eyes

The form that was stained with blood.

The horse struggled hard, the waters rushed on;

He sank to rise no more.

But the boy fought the flood in silence, inch

By inch to the other shore.

Slowly and sadly, but bravely on,

Brshing away the tears;

He was leaving behind in the river’s flood

His friend and companion for years.

And all the time the blood trickled down,

O God! what a hot burning pain!

And he knew he was doing is duty clean

He would never come back again.

Struggling on o’er the tough dark track,

A horrible pain with each breath;

Till he came to the hut in the ranges

Where his father lay, and the faint firelight

Showed through the ghostly gloom.

Staggering in through the yielding door

Into the cold dark room
Where his father lay, and the faint firelight

Showed through the ghostly gloom.

The bushranger sprang to his feet in alarm

And levelled the gun at his head

And his loud voice demanded, “Who are you?

Speak quick, or you are dead.”

And then a weak little voice made answer,

“It’s me; Mother sends you her love;

The police are back at the crossing now,

So clear out and meet Mother above.”

Then McConnel placed his gun by the wall

And knelt on the cold hard floor;

And somehow the tears came rushing down

As they never had before.

His arms went around the brave little lad,

He nursed his head on his breast;

He seemed to know that the end was nigh

And Jim would soon be at rest.

And the boy was speaking feebly at last,

“They shot me back at the creek,

And old Darky is dead and gone, Dad,

And oh, I’m so tired and weak.”

Then his voice fell away in a whisper soft,

So faint it could scarce be heard,

“Oh Dad,, clear out, they are coming fast;

Tell Mother, I kept my word.”

Quickly in silence the police gathered around,

They had captured the beast in his lair;

The outlaw sat with his boy in his arms,

He semed not to heed nor to care.

He was thinking now of the seed he had sown,

He was tasting its bitter fruit,

When the sergeant stepped to the door and said,

“McConnel, bail up or I’ll shoot.”

Then the sergeant placed a lamp by the door,

The rifles gleamed out in the light;

But the outlaw said, “Sergeant O’Drady,

Let’s have no more shooting tonight.

“You can take me now to the judgement seat

As God has taken this lad;

You’d die to take my life, you men—

He died to save his dad.

“I want you to help me dig his grave,

And perhaps you will say a prayer;

Then you can take me and hang me dead—

It’s my wife, or I wouldn’t care.

“Carefully now. . . Oh thank you, men,

Lay him as best you can;

The policeman is shown by his coat, of course;

But the tears—well, they show the man.”

Then the party went back to the old bark hut

As the sun was mounting the hill;

No smoke arose from the chimney cold

And all was silent and still.

The sergeant opened the creaky door,

And lifted his cap with a start,

…Ah, McConnel had broken the country’s laws

And broken a woman’s heart.

Anon

Bob

22nd November 2012, 03:38 PM

and the lucky last

A MOUNTAIN STATION by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

I bought a run a while ago,
On country rough and ridgy,
Where wallaroos and wombats grow --
The Upper Murrumbidgee.
The grass is rather scant, it's true,
But this a fair exchange is,
The sheep can see a lovely view
By climbing up the ranges.

And She-oak Flat's the station's name,
I'm not surprised at that, sirs:
The oaks were there before I came,
And I supplied the flat, sirs.
A man would wonder how it's done,
The stock so soon decreases --
They sometimes tumble off the run
And break themselves to pieces.

I've tried to make expenses meet,
But wasted all my labours,
The sheep the dingoes didn't eat
Were stolen by the neighbours.
They stole my pears -- my native pears --
Those thrice-convicted felons,
And ravished from me unawares
My crop of paddy-melons.

And sometimes under sunny skies,
Without an explanation,
The Murrumbidgee used to rise
And overflow the station.
But this was caused (as now I know)
When summer sunshine glowing
Had melted all Kiandra's snow
And set the river going.

And in the news, perhaps you read:
`Stock passings. Puckawidgee,
Fat cattle: Seven hundred head
Swept down the Murrumbidgee;
Their destination's quite obscure,
But, somehow, there's a notion,
Unless the river falls, they're sure
To reach the Southern Ocean.'

So after that I'll give it best;
No more with Fate I'll battle.
I'll let the river take the rest,
For those were all my cattle.
And with one comprehensive curse
I close my brief narration,
And advertise it in my verse --
`For Sale! A Mountain Station.'

PMC

22nd November 2012, 09:05 PM

Stop, stop, stop!

I am starting to cry now!

Regards,

RLI

The BigFella

22nd November 2012, 09:48 PM

Thanks Bob, they were awesome!

And yes, I to get a tad emotional when reading old bush poetry.

Long live the yarns, I say!

Bob

23rd November 2012, 07:38 AM

Drought

My road is fenced with the bleached, white bones
And strewn with the blind, white sand,
Beside me a suffering, dumb world moans
On the breast of a lonely land.

On the rim of the world the lightnings play,
And the heat-waves quiver and dance,
And the breath of the wind is a sword to slay
And the sunbeams each a lance.

I have withered the grass where my hot hoofs tread,
I have whitened the sapless trees,
I have driven the faint-heart rains ahead
To hide in their soft green seas.

I have bound the plains with an iron band,
I have stricken the slow streams dumb!
To the charge of my vanguards who shall stand?
Who stays when my cohorts come?

The dust-storms follow and wrap me round;
The hot winds ride as a guard;
Before me the fret of the swamps is bound
And the way of the wild-fowl barred.

I drop the whips on the loose-flanked steers;
I burn their necks with the bow;
And the green-hide rips and the iron sears
Where the staggering, lean beasts go.

I lure the swagman out of the road
To the gleam of a phantom lake;
I have laid him down, I have taken his load,
And he sleeps till the dead men wake.

My hurrying hoofs in the night go by,
And the great flocks bleat their fear
And follow the curve of the creeks burnt dry
And the plains scorched brown and sere.

The worn men start from their sleepless rest
With faces haggard and drawn;
They cursed the red Sun into the west
And they curse him out of the dawn.

They have carried their outposts far, far out,
But--blade of my sword for a sign!--
I am the Master, the dread King Drought,
And the great West Land is mine!

W. H. Ogilvie

Bob

26th November 2012, 07:08 AM

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

26th November 2012, 10:26 AM

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

26th November 2012, 12:31 PM

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

27th November 2012, 02:43 PM

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

27th November 2012, 02:52 PM

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

28th November 2012, 06:44 AM

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

2nd December 2012, 11:12 AM

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

2nd December 2012, 06:04 PM

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

3rd December 2012, 07:14 AM

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

3rd December 2012, 11:13 AM

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/

Bob

4th December 2012, 12:52 PM

There’s Only The Two Of Us Here

I camped one night in an empty hut on the side of a lonely hill.

I didn’t go much on empty huts, but the night was awful chill.

So I boiled me billy and had me tea and seen that the door was shut.

Then I went to bed in am empty bunk by the side of the old slab shed.

It must have been about twelve o’clock – I was feeling cosy and warm –

When at the foot of me bunk I sees a horrible ghostly form

It seemed in shape to be half an ape with a head like a chimpanzee

But wot the hell was it doin there, and wot did it want with me?

You may say if you please that I had DTs or call me a crimson liar,

But I wish you had seen it as plain as me, with it’s eyes like coals of fire.

Then it gave a moan and a horrible groan that curdled me blood with fear,

And ‘There’s only the two of us here,’ it ses. ‘There’s only the two of us here!’

I kept one eye on the old hut door and one on the awful brute;

I only wanted to dress meself and get to the door and scoot.

But I couldn’t find where I’d left me boots so I hadn’t a chance to clear

And, ‘There’s only the two of us here,’ it moans. ‘There’s only the two of us here!’

I hadn’t a thing to defend meself, not even a stick or stone,

And ‘There’s only the two of here!’ It ses again with a horrible groan.

I thought I’d better make some reply, though I reckoned me end was near,

‘By the Holy Smoke, when I find me boots, there’ll be only one of us here.’

I get me hands on me number tens and out through the door I scoots,

And I lit the whole of the ridges up with the sparks from me blucher boots.

So I’ve never slept in a hut since then, and I tremble and shake with fear

When I think of the horrible form wot moaned, ‘There’s only the two of us here!’

Edward Harrington

lorrieandjas

4th December 2012, 02:23 PM

The Thong

Let’s talk about the Icons that are worshipped by us Aussies.
Akubra hats, the Opera House, meat pies, Speedo Cossies.
Some would say our Icon is that famous waltzing song,
I reckon that it’s something else. I reckon it’s the thong.

I’ve thought a thousand thoughts of thongs, and I think that the thong,
Is more an Aussie Icon, than the swagman’s billabong.
Just as real men don’t eat quiche, the dinkum Aussie male,
Will wear his dinkum Aussie thong, come rain, or sleet, or hail.

You can keep your Nikes and Reeboks. It’s the thong that should be put,
With Aussie pride and dignity, on every Aussie foot.
I’m going to start a business. Like Bond, I can’t go wrong,
I’ll market it throughout the world, as Blue’s designer thong.

A thong for each occasions. It’s just sound commonsense
To make a tough, all purpose thong, to wear to all events.
Simple, sturdy, comfortable, my Blue’s designer thong,
Will let the foot breathe evenly, and dissipate the pong.

It’s good for killing blowflies on the barbecue or stove,
And it’s great for crushing garlic. Just belt it on the clove,
And wipe the garlic laden thong on chicken, beef, or pork,
Inhale the pure aroma of that garlic when you walk.

A thong for early evening, to wear with hipster tights,
I can see the jingle in my mind, as though it were in lights.
Just a thong at twilight, when the tights are low.
With a string of diamantes, ’twined artistic round each toe.

A thong to wear to worship. I’d call it even thong,
The strap is very holy, and the soul, so very strong.
A thong to wear to football, to cricket, or the shops,
To shearing sheds, to factories. Steel capped thongs for cops.

I’d move away from footwear, create a new design,
For a chocolate coated thong, to give my valentine,
And way into the future, when the years have moved along,
She will show her grandkids, her love’s old sweet thong.

And when we go republic, and we’re looking for a song
To celebrate our Icon, let’s hear it for the thong.
Forget Waltzing Matilda, Advance Australia Fair,
A brand new National Anthem will be wafting through the air:

God save our gracious thong.
Keep our feet safe and strong,
And free from pong.
Wear them instead of shoes,
To pubs and barbecues.
Health, happiness to all of youse,
God save our thong.

BLUE the shearer (Col Wilson)

mudski

4th December 2012, 06:02 PM

Dunno how poetic it is but it gave me a laugh. Read it on the back of the dunny door at Murrundindi before the fires...
Here I sit in silent bliss,
listening to the running piss,
now and then a fart is heard,
the warning of a coming turd...

Bob

6th December 2012, 07:04 AM

THE COLOURS OF LIGHT

This is not easy to understand

For you that come from a distant land

Where all the COLOURS are low in pitch -

Deep purples, emeralds deep and rich,

Where autumn's flaming and summer's green -

Here is a beauty you have not seen.

All is pitched in a higher key,

Lilac, topaz, and ivory,

Palest jade-green and pale clear blue

Like aquamarines that the sun shines through,

Golds and silvers, we have at will -

Silver and gold on each plain and hill,

Silver-green of the myall leaves,

Tawny gold of the garnered sheaves,

Silver rivers that silent slide,

Golden sands by the water-side,

Golden wattle, and golden broom,

Silver stars of the rosewood bloom;

Amber sunshine, and smoke-blue shade:

Opal colours that glow and fade;

On the gold of the upland grass

Blue cloud-shadows that swiftly pass;

Wood-smoke blown in an azure mist;

Hills of tenuous amethyst. . .

Oft the colours are pitched so high

The deepest note is the cobalt sky;

We have to wait till the sunset comes

For shades that feel like the beat of drums -

Or like organ notes in their rise and fall -

Purple and orange and cardinal,

Or the peacock-green that turns soft and slow

To peacock-blue as the great stars show . . .

Sugar-gum boles flushed to peach-blow pink;

Blue-gums, tall at the clearing's brink;

Ivory pillars, their smooth fine slope

Dappled with delicate heliotrope;

Grey of the twisted mulga-roots;

Golden-bronze of the budding shoots;

Tints of the lichens that cling and spread,

Nile-green, primrose, and palest red . . .

Sheen of the bronze-wing; blue of the crane;

Fawn and pearl of the lyrebird's train;

Cream of the plover; grey of the dove -

These are the hues of the land I love.

Dorothea MacKellar

lorrieandjas

9th December 2012, 10:21 PM

When the Sun's Behind the Hill

There's a soft and peaceful feeling
Comes across the farming hand
As the shadows go a-stealing
Slow along the new-turned land.
The lazy curling smoke above the thatch is showing blue,
And the weary old plough horses wander homeward two 'n' two,
With their chains a'clinkin', clankin', when their daily toil is through,
And the sun's behnd the hill.

Then it's slowly homeward plodding
As the night begins to creep,
And the barley grass is nodding
To the daisies, all asleep,
The crows are flying heavily, and cawing overhead;
The sleepy milking cows are lowing sof'ly in the shed,
And above them, in the rafters, all the fowls have gone to bed,
When the sun's behind the hill.

Then it's "Harry, feed old Roaney!"
And it's "Bill, put up the rail!"
And it's "Tom, turn out the pony!"
"Mary, hurry with the pail!"
And the kiddies run to meet us, and are begging for a ride
On the broad old "Prince" and "Darkey" they can hardly sit astride;
And mother, she is bustling with the supper things inside,
When the sun's behind the hill.

Then it's sitting down and yarning
When we've had our bite and sup,
And the mother takes her darning,
And Bess tells how the baldy cow got tangled in the wire,
And Katie keeps the baby-boy from tumbling in the fire;
And the baccy smoke goes curling as I suck my soothing briar,
When the sun's behind the hill.

And we talk about the season,
And of how it's turning out,
And we try to guess the reason
For the long-continued drought,
Oh! a farmer's life ain't roses and his work is never done:
And a job's no sooner over than another is begun.
For he's toiling late and early from the rising of the sun
Till he sinks behind the hill.

But it grows, that peaceful feeling
While I'm sitting smoking there,
And the kiddies all are kneeling
To repeat their ev'ning prayer;
For it seems, somehow, to lighten all the care that must be bore
When the things of life are worrying, and times are troubling sore;
And I pray that God will keep them when my own long-day is o'er,
And the sun's behind the hill.

C. J. Dennis

Bob

11th December 2012, 10:09 AM

The Swagman

Oh, he was old, he was spare;

His bushy whiskers and his hair

Were all fussed up and very grey

He said he’d come a long long way,

And had a long long way to go.

Each boot was broken at the toe,

And he’d a swag upon his back.

His billy-can as black as black,

Was just the thing for making tea

At picnics, so it seemed to me.

‘Twas hard to earn a bit of bread,

He told me. Then he shook his head,

And all the little corks that hung

Artound his hat brim danced and swung

And bobbed about his face; and when

I laughed he made them dance again.

He said they were for keeping flies

‘The pesky varmints’ from his eyes.

He called me ‘codger’ . . . ‘Now you see

The best days of your life,’ said he.

‘But days will come to bend your back,

And, when they come, keep off the track,

Keep off, young codger, if you can.’

He seemed a funny sort of man.

He told me that he wanted work,

But jobs were scarce this side of Bourke,

And he supposed he’d have to go

Another fifty miles or so.

‘Nigh all my life the track I’ve walked,’

He said. I liked the way he talked.

And oh, the places he had seen!

I don’t know where he had not been –

On every road, in every town,

All through the country, up and down.

‘Young codger, shun the track,’ he said.

And put his hand upon my head.

I noticed, then, that his old eyes

Were very blue and very wise.

‘Ay, once I was a little lad,’

He said, and seemed to grow quite sad.

I sometimes think: When I’m a man,

I’ll get a good black billy-can

And hang some corks around my hat,

And lead a jolly life like that.

C J Denis

lorrieandjas

11th December 2012, 10:46 AM

A Snake Yarn

"You talk of snakes," said Jack the Rat, "
But, blow me, one hot summer,
I seen a thing that knocked me flat
Fourteen foot long, or more than that,
It was a regular hummer!
Lay right along a sort of bog,
Just like a log!

"The ugly thing was lyin' there
And not a sign o' movin',
Give any man a nasty scare;
Seen nothin' like it anywhere
Since I first started drovin'.
And yet it didn't scare my dog.
Looked like a log!

I had to cross that bog, yer see,
And blue I was humpin';
But wonderin' what that thing could be
A-layin' there in front o' me
I didn't feel like jumpin'.
Yet, though I shivered like a frog,
It seemed a log!

I takes a leap and lands right on
The back of that there whopper!" He stopped.
We waited. Then Big Mac Remarked, "
Well, then, what happened, Jack?"
"Not much," said Jack, and drained his grog.
It was a log!"

W. T. Goodge

Bob

12th December 2012, 07:33 AM

WHEN THE SUN'S BEHIND THE HILL

There's a soft and peaceful feeling

Comes across the farming hand

As the shadows go a-stealing

Slow along the new-turned land.

The lazy curling smoke above the thatch is showing blue,

And the weary old plough horses wander homeward two 'n' two,

With their chains a'clinkin', clankin', when their daily toil is through,

And the sun's behnd the hill.

Then it's slowly homeward plodding

As the night begins to creep,

And the barley grass is nodding

To the daisies, all asleep,

The crows are flying heavily, and cawing overhead;

The sleepy milking cows are lowing sof'ly in the shed,

And above them, in the rafters, all the fowls have gone to bed,

When the sun&'s behind the hill.

Then it's "Harry, feed old Roaney!"

And it's "Bill, put up the rail!"

And it's "Tom, turn out the pony!"

"Mary, hurry with the pail!"

And the kiddies run to meet us, and are begging for a ride

On the broad old "Prince" and "Darkey" they can hardly sit astride;

And mother, she is bustling with the supper things inside,

When the sun&'s behind the hill.

Then it's sitting down and yarning

When we've had our bite and sup,

And the mother takes her darning,

And Bess tells how the baldy cow got tangled in the wire,

And Katie keeps the baby-boy from tumbling in the fire;

And the baccy smoke goes curling as I suck my soothing briar,

When the sun's behind the hill.

And we talk about the season,

And of how it's turning out,

And we try to guess the reason

For the long-continued drought,

Oh! a farmer's life ain't roses and his work is never done:

And a job's no sooner over than another is begun.

For he's toiling late and early from the rising of the sun

Till he sinks behind the hill.

But it grows, that peaceful feeling

While I'm sitting smoking there,

And the kiddies all are kneeling

To repeat their ev'ning prayer;

For it seems, somehow, to lighten all the care that must be bore

When the things of life are worrying, and times are troubling sore;

And I pray that God will keep them when my own long-day is o'er,

And the sun's behind the hill.

C J Dennis (1876 - 1938)

lorrieandjas

12th December 2012, 08:50 AM

Hey Bob - must be a popular poem from C J Dennis! :)

Jas

Bob

12th December 2012, 08:57 AM

Hey Bob - must be a popular poem from C J Dennis! :)

Jas

My apologies. I had read your Post and then in a Senior moment posted the same Poem.
Oh well back to the Drawing Board LOL

lorrieandjas

12th December 2012, 08:59 AM

All good Bob - its a good'un so probably respects two posts! I find I have to keep checking back too - I read a poem or thought and then end up posting it too. There are some real crackers on here!

Jas

Bob

12th December 2012, 09:14 AM

Moreton Bay

One Sunday morning as I went walking
By Brisbane waters I chanced to stray,
I heard a convict his fate bewailing
As on the sunny river bank he lay.

‘I am a native of Erin’s island,
Though banished now from my native shore;
They took me from my aged parents
And from the maiden whom I adore.

“Ive been a prisoner at Port Macquarie,
At Norfolk Island and Emu Plains,
At Castle Hill and at cursed Toongabbie,
At all those settlements I’ve worked in chains;
But of all places of condemnation
And penal stations in New South Wales
To Moreton Bay I have found no equal,
Excessive tyranny each day prevails.

‘For three long years I’ve been beastly treated
And heavy irons on my legs I wore;
My back with flogging is lacerated
And often painted with my crimson gore.
And many a man from downright starvation
Lies mouldering now underneath the clay;
And Captain Logan he had us mangled
At the triangles of Moreton Bay.

‘Like the Egyptians and ancient Hebrews
We were oppressed under Logan’s yoke,
Till a native black lying there in ambush
Did deal our tyrant with his mortal stroke.
My fellow prisoners, be exhilarated
That all such monsters such death may find!
And when from bondage we are liberated
Our former sufferings shall fade from mind.’

anon

lorrieandjas

12th December 2012, 11:45 AM

OK - this one is a bit of a sad one:

MOLLY

I thought it was time to be leaving
My visit here nearing it's end
But he was out riding and working all day
And Molly, she needed a friend

Molly looked tired, unsteady,
And so old; she was still in her prime
Nothing was said. Her eyes begged me to stay
And what was I giving but time

The sunlight shone weaker around her
She looked like she just couldn't cope
Nails bitten, hands wringing, soft milky eyes
And what was I giving but hope

I knew this black sadness would lighten
She'd wake to a blue sky above
But right now her poor heart was tearing in two
And what was I giving but love

So how could I think to refuse her?
But in truth, I was desperate to go
Somebody, anyone better than me
For it hung in the air like...a blow

I just couldn't enter her kitchen
For how can a broken thing mend?
How could I just sit there and listen to her?
Yet Molly so needed a friend

I'd only dropped by with the photo
I meant just to leave it outside
It shows our two boys, so handsome, so young
On the morning they went for ...that ride

I wanted to show her I'm with her
I know that it's all said and done
But why didn't I say, on the morning they left,
“Stevie lad, don't take the gun”

How many hours spent in that kitchen
With tea, and the kids and our quilt
It all stopped with the bloodstain, and bullet and blame
And Stevie, destroyed by the guilt

I could not cross over the chasm
The slick black abyss of the pain
Her boy, lost now forever for her,
My boy, near dead from the shame

Her eyes pleaded with me to enter
And it felt like the core of me tore
Memories rose up and ripped through my heart
I bit back the tears and I saw

Two baby boys in the bathtub
Two laughing boys running free
The greatest of friends, oh such wonderful boys
Lost to us both, her and me

The old table rang with their lifetimes
The walls seemed to sing with their joy
No trace of what happened. We'll never quite know
He left not long after, my boy

I glanced at our unfinished quilting
Oh would we could stitch our amends
The load's always lighter with two sets of hands
Could Molly and I still be friends?

Her mercy a touchstone upon me
Was her loss not far worse than mine
Her boy out of reach yet she reached out to me
And what was she giving but time

With tea and our quilt came the talking
Memories plaiting like rope
Weaving the fabric of friendship again
And what were we giving but hope

I fancy I felt their sweet spirits
Swirling around and above
Accident? Accident. Oh what a word
For what had they given but love

Susan Carcary

Bob

13th December 2012, 07:02 AM

Nine Miles from Gundagai

I’ve done my share of shearing sheep,

Of droving and all that,

And bogged a bullock-team as well,

On a Murrumbidgee flat.

I’ve seen the bullock stretch and stain

And blink his bleary eye,

And the dog sat on the tucker box,

Nine miles from Gundagai.

I’ve been jilted, jarred, and crossed in love,

And sand-bagged in the dark,

Till if a mountain fell on me

I’d treat it as a lark.

It’s when you’ve had your bullocks bogged

That’s the time you flog and cry,

And the dog sat on the tucker box,

Nine miles from Gundagai.

We’ve all got our little troubles,

In life’s hard, thorny way.

Some strike them in a motor car

And others in a dray.

But when your dog and bullocks strike

It ain’t no apple pie.

And the dog sat on the tucker box,

Nine miles from Gundagai.

But thats all past and dead and gone,

And I’ve sold the team for meat.

And perhaps some day where I was bogged,

There’ll be an asphalt street.

The dog, ah! Well he got bait,

And thought he’d like to die,

So I buried him in the tucker box,

Nine miles from Gundagai.

Jack Moses 1860 – 1945

lorrieandjas

13th December 2012, 09:10 AM

Town and Country

In the town it's all expense,
in the bush you're free from duns;
In the town they run the rents,
in the bush they rent the runs!

In the town they walk or run,
in the bush they always ride;
In the town they hide the sun,
in the bush they sun the hide!

W. T. Goodge

Bob

15th December 2012, 08:36 AM

The Cross of the South

‘Twas the month of December, the year ‘54
When the men of Eureka rebelled;
When they swore that the flag that they’d made for themselves
Hither proudly aloft would be held.
Oh, the miners took arms in the stockade that day,
The bold words passed from mouth to mouth –
‘We will stand by this flag and the stars that she bears,
White stars of the Cross of the South.’

Though the hot blood of heroes ran fast in their veins,
There was but one man they obeyed!
And the hero of heroes they chose from their ranks,
Peter Lalor, their hero they made.
Peter Lalor said, ‘Now you must stand by your guns,
Fear not the cannon’s fierce mouth;
For I see that the soldiers are gathering now
To tear down the Cross of the South!’

Captain Thomas, he charged the Eureka Stockade
With three hundred troops by his side;
Fire and steel met them there and they fell back again,
But the first of the miners had died!
And the smoke of the battle had scarce cleared away,
When the soldiers came charging once more!
And the miners were killed as they stood round the flag,
Or fell from the wounds that they bore.

Bold Peter Lalor lay shot on the ground
Where the soldiers had left him for dead!
The flag that he loved lay there by his side,
The white starts all stained with the red!
Peter Lalor, he rose on his knees in the dust,
These wild words poured from his mouth –
‘You can murder us all in black tyranny’s name,
But you can’t kill the Cross of the South.’

anon

lorrieandjas

17th December 2012, 04:04 PM

A Bushman’s Last Farewell

As a bushman I’ve been wandering for all my working life,
and I never settled down with home and family, a wife.
I just worked where work was going as a drover, station hand;
did some mustering and shearing, always working on the land.

As the twilight of my years now finds me lost in solitude
and I gaze across this billabong with peacefulness imbued,
now my billycan is boiling so I rise to make some tea,
whilst it seems that Max is dozing—yet I know he watches me.

I retrieve the mug and shuffle to my horse beside the tree,
and he snorts in recognition, brown eyes gazing lazily.
Though within deceptive silence here grave threats at times arise,
he is calm tonight—no danger lurks—I see it in his eyes.

Sometimes lost in idle musings how another life might seem
if I’d dropped this roving bushman’s life for that romantic dream,
I reflect—but know the bush was ever in my heart and soul,
and persistently it called me to this solitary role.

For I craved the crackling firelight and the space that looms immense—
was enticed by blazing sunsets so inspiring and intense;
yearned for silence that engulfed me when I laid my bedroll down,
choosing harmony and peace above the noise and lights of town.

So I’ve never once felt lonely in this splendid, grand expanse,
which has never failed to stir me with its myst’ry and romance.
While its eerie, timeless wonder always held me in its thrall,
its inhabitants beguiled me with each strange, alluring call.

For I’ve seen the awesome spectacle of brumbies on the run,
with their nostrils flaring, flowing manes, their breath in unison—
heard them shake the ground with thunder and refuse to compromise,
with the love of freedom glinting in their haunted, stormy eyes.

I have ridden round the cattle resting near each water hole,
or when tailing them to shepherd and to keep them in control,
yet felt terrified excitement at a bullock’s mad stampede,
with the dust clouds dense, revealing just the crazed one at the lead.

The rewards and satisfaction earned by mustering the sheep,
or the teamwork of the ringers, building mate-ship that runs deep…
All these pleasures have sustained me on my isolated track,
so although there’s certain things I’ve missed, I wouldn’t take it back.

Though I’ve known the bitter heartbreak of the unrelenting drought,
have experienced a desert storm and feared I’d not get out,
witnessed total devastation wrought by bushfire’s wrath, and flood,
yet been stunned by man’s humanity and sacrifice of blood.

I could not forget the stillness of a soundless outback dawn,
nor the bustling sounds of creatures that begin to greet the morn;
I could not become complacent over ancient rocks and caves,
and escarpments towering—brooding over centuries of graves.

I still wonder at the boundless blue horizons that I scan
with no life in sight, and feel the insignificance of man;
where the stars look etched in crystal and the Southern Cross rides high—
seems engraved on inky blackness in an endless velvet sky.

There a crocodile is surfacing—Max growls, his ears on end,
while another spasm grips my chest and startles my old friend…
But the croc is only browsing and he slithers off downstream,
while a startled heron takes to flight with elegance supreme.

Now the great red orb is setting and the firmament’s alight—
soon the hunting preparations start for creatures of the night.
High above are flawless patterns formed by countless magpie geese,
whilst a massive eagle oversees his realm of timeless peace.

I am lying here prepared for death, for life has run its course;
when you find me, please take care of Max and this old faithful horse.
For my ticker’s let me down again and this time I just know—
and I think the dog does too—that it is time for me to go.

I suspect tomorrow’s sunrise is a glory I’ll not see—
this idyllic spot so fitting as my final memory.
On the eucalyptus breeze I will approach that unknown door,
joining countless other bushmen who have paved the way before.

There’s no spirit guide to come for me, no mystery to solve;
there are few who will remember, and there’s no-one to absolve.
And quite honestly there isn’t any better place for me
to depart this life, than in the bush that’s been my destiny.

Though I’ll miss so many things about my life here on this land,
I am leaving with a smile, my hat and stock whip in my hand;
I will say farewell to this amazing kingdom unsurpassed,
and within the great Australian bush my soul will sleep at last.

© 2011 - Catherine Clarke

(kept the copyright intact in case......)

Bob

18th December 2012, 08:06 AM

BLUEY BRINK

There was once a shearer by name Bluey Brink,
A devil for work and a devil for drink;
He could shear his two hundred a day without fear,
And drink without blinking four gallons of beer.

Now Jimmy the barman who served out the drink,
He hated the sight of this here Bluey Brink,
Who stayed much too late and came much too soon,
At evening, at morning, at night and at noon.

One morning as Jimmy was cleaning the bar,
With sulphuric acid he kept in a jar,
Old Bluey came yelling and boiling with thirst;
‘ What ever you’ve got Jim, just hand me the first!’

Now it ain’t in the histories, it ain’t put in print,
But Bluey drank acid with never a stint,
Saying, ‘That’s the stuff Jimmy! Well, strike me stone dead,
This’ll make me the ringer of Stevenson’s shed!’

Now all that long day as he served out the beer,
Poor Jimmy was sick with his trouble and fear;
Too worried to argue, too anxious to fight,
Seeing the shearer a corpse in his fright.

When early next morning he opened the door,
Then along came the shearer, asking for more,
With his eyebrows all singed and his whiskers deranged,
And holes in his hide like a dog with the mange.

Says Jimmy, ‘and how did you find the new stuff?’
Says Bluey, ‘It’s fine, but I’ve not had enough!
It gives me great courage to shear and to fight,
But why does that stuff set my whiskers alight?

‘I thought I knew drink, but I must have been wrong,
for what you just give me was proper and strong;
It set me to coughing and you know I’m no liar,
But every cough set my whiskers on fire!’

anon

Bob

18th December 2012, 08:34 AM

Tumba Bloody Rumba

I was down the Riverina, knockin' 'round the towns a bit,
And occasionally resting with a schooner in me mitt,
And on one of these occasions, when the bar was pretty full
And the local blokes were arguin' assorted kind of bull,
I heard a conversation, most peculiar in its way.
It's only in Australia you would hear a joker say:

"Howya bloody been, ya drongo, haven't seen ya fer a week,
And yer mate was lookin' for ya when ya come in from the creek.
'E was lookin' up at Ryan's, and around at bloody Joe's,
And even at the Royal, where 'e bloody NEVER goes".

And the other bloke says "Seen 'im? Owed 'im half a bloody quid.
Forgot to give it back to him, but now I bloody did -
Could've used the thing me bloody self. Been off the bloody booze,
Up at Tumba-bloody-rumba shootin' kanga-bloody-roos."

Now the bar was pretty quiet, and everybody heard
The peculiar integration of this adjectival word,
But no-one there was laughing, and me - I wasn't game,
So I just sits back and lets them think I spoke the bloody same.

Then someone else was interested to know just what he got,
How many kanga-bloody-roos he went and bloody shot,
And the shooting bloke says "Things are crook -
the drought's too bloody tough.
I got forty-two by seven, and that's good e-bloody-nough."

And, as this polite rejoinder seemed to satisfy the mob,
Everyone stopped listening and got on with the job,
Which was drinkin' beer, and arguin', and talkin' of the heat,
Of boggin' in the bitumen in the middle of the street,
But as for me, I'm here to say the interesting piece of news
Was Tumba-bloody-rumba shootin' kanga bloody-roos.

John Patrick O'Grady 9.10.1907 - 1981 (aka Nino Culotta)

dads tractor

18th December 2012, 01:56 PM

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_ZB98eS1fs

RIP Hayesy

Bob

19th December 2012, 07:20 AM

PIONEERS

We are the Old-world people,

Ours were the hearts to dare;

But our youth is spent, and our backs are bent,

And the snow is in our hair.

Back in the early fifties,

Dim through the mists of years,

By the bush-grown strand of a wild, strange land,

We entered - the pioneers.

Our axes rang in the woodlands,

Where the gaudy bush-birds flew,

And we turned the loam of our newfound home,

Where the Eucalyptus grew.

Housed in the rough log shanty,

Camped in the leaking tent,

From sea to view of the mountains blue

Where the eager diggers went.

We wrought with a will unceasing,

We moulded, and fashioned, and planned

And we fought with the black and we blazed the track

That ye might inherit the land.

There are your shops and churches,

Your cities of stucco and smoke;

And the swift trains fly where the wild cat’s cry

O’er the sad bush silence broke.

Take now the fruit of our labour,

Nourish and guard it with care;

For our youth is spent, and our backs are bent

And the snow is in our hair.

Frank Hudson

lorrieandjas

19th December 2012, 09:35 AM

THE WHITE RIBBON

“It’s quiet now…so still, my dear; the dogs are restless, though.
I think a storm is very near, they somehow always know.”
He knocks his pipe against the hearth and rubs his aching head.
“I think I’ll have a nice hot bath before I go to bed.”

He hears a sound outside the door, a whimper in the night,
and limps across the old stone floor towards the fading light.
The dog is there, sprawled on its side; he hears its laboured breath
and knows his mate, so long his pride, is very close to death.

“G’day old friend.” He settles back against the hand-sawn logs,
and says a prayer for One-Eyed Jack, the king of all his dogs.
He reaches out and runs his hand along Jack’s heaving flanks.
“The pain will go, please understand…for that I must give thanks.”

Beyond the red gums by the creek a blaze of red on high
becomes a pink and orange streak as sunset lights the sky.
He smiles. “It’s one of ours, my love, remember how we sat
that night when sunset flamed above, and talked of this and that.

I saw you at the local dance, the Town and Country Ball,
and didn’t give myself a chance of meeting you at all.
And yet you came and said hello, I felt I walked on air;
you held my hand and seemed to know the things that we could share.

You smelled of musk, I can’t forget; that perfume haunts me still,
and though it’s decades since we met, I know it always will.”
He feels the dog stir at his feet and senses in its pain
the final moments of retreat, a battle fought in vain.

“Don’t wait around, please go, old friend, you should be on your way;
it comes to all of us, the end…and you have had your day.
I’d like to help to set you free, to do what I should do,
but I’m a coward, don’t you see, it must be up to you.”

Despite himself, the word is there, the source of all his shame;
it hovers in the still night air with memories of blame.
For now it all comes flooding back, the years just fall away,
and she is standing on the track, like it was yesterday.

She’s in that dress, as white as milk, and nestling in her hair
the matching ribbon, purest silk, he’d given her to wear.
But something’s wrong, her eyes so blue now shine with angry tears:
“You don’t mean that…say it’s not true. I can’t believe my ears!”

He gasps in shock and reaches out; she knocks away his hand,
and then he pleads, now sick with doubt: “Please try to understand…
I simply don’t believe in war, I’ve really thought it through,
and killing men, whatever for, is something I can’t do.”

But as he speaks he knows he’s lost, and yet his voice goes on,
refusing to accept the cost, to say that hope has gone.
“I’ve bought some land…for you and I…out there past Ten Mile Creek;
it’s where we always said we’d buy, the future we would seek.

I want to build a home for us, the timber’s fine out there.
I never thought you’d make a fuss…it’s more than I can bear!”
He hears her voice, as cold as ice, a tone he’s never heard,
and now he has to pay the price, struck down by each harsh word.

“I see the truth, it’s very clear…I don’t care what you thought…
you’re just a coward, full of fear, and not the man I sought.
I thought I loved you; I was wrong. If you won’t go and fight
then you and I just don’t belong…it simply isn’t right!”

She stares a moment, then she turns, a gesture of disgust;
the fury in her eyes still burns, and down there in the dust
he sees the ribbon, white as snow, contemptuously tossed.
While he just stands to watch her go and mourn for all he’s lost.

And now he sits, as dreams unfold, outside the house he built,
and feels again that hurt of old, the agony of guilt.
“You didn’t stop, or turn around, or give me any chance;
you walked away without a sound, without a backward glance.

How could you simply leave behind the love that we had shared?
And how could I have been so blind, completely unprepared?
I thought you knew and understood the way I looked at life,
would welcome that, and think it good, and say you’d be my wife.

But I was wrong, to my regret, it seems the die was cast,
and fate decreed the night we met our love could never last.”
He wipes away a silent tear, then feels a sudden chill;
beneath his hand, so very near, old Jack is lying still.

“Well done, my friend, you knew the way, you sensed your time was nigh;
you called me here to sit and pray, to say my last goodbye.
I only wish we all could choose when it was time to go,
that very moment when we lose the hopes we cherish so.

I guess we’re all of afraid of death; we cling to what might be…
the dream that drives each daily breath, a future we can see.”
As sunset casts a final gleam he sighs and slowly stands,
then from his pocket takes the dream and holds it in his hands.

The band of silk is soft to touch, it soothes his fingertips.
He says “I miss you dear, so much,” and lifts it to his lips.
Her smiling face is all he sees as twilight turns to dusk,
and from afar, borne on the breeze, there’s just a hint of musk.

© 2009 - David Campbell

Bob

21st December 2012, 05:53 AM

Relief of Mildura

Doctors had run out of whisky, and our stock of liquor was spent,

Save one poor half dozen of lager that belonged to the Rechabite tent;

And the sky was as brass above us, and the land was fevered with drought,

And we wandered with blistered gullets, and tongues that were hanging out.

And ever the Murray to temp us, at the edge of the sun-cracked flat;

But no, we were men of Mildura – we hadn’t come down to that.

But daily the torture lasted, and daily the horror grew

Of the thought that we dare not utter – the thing that all of us knew.

Someone must try the water, must yield to the fatal law,

So we shared in that devil’s gamble-and mine was the shortest straw.

One moment of human weakness-then I stepped to the river’s brink;

It was flowing before me-water-and I was condemned to drink.

And then, oh was it an angel, or that daft lass, Jessie Brown,

Cried “Dinna ye sniff the reek o’t-the pipes of Echuca town?”

And louder and ever louder, and near and nearer the while,

We heard the beat of her paddles, the rescuing steamboat Nile.

With her bar-doors breathing a blessing, on her mission of mercy she came,

And the sunlight blazed on the bottles in a halo of living flame.

And “Courage,” the skipper shouted, as he moored to the blighted scrub,

“There’s forty tons of liquor aboard, consigned to the local club.”

Then madly rushed through our being the warm red current of life;

We didn’t wait for a corkscrew-we hanked off the heads with a knife.

And the brass bank burst into music, and the temperance banners waved,

And we saw three stars in the evening sky, and we knew that Mildura was saved.

Davidson Symmons

Bob

23rd December 2012, 10:16 AM

A BUSH CHRISTMAS

The sun burns hotly thro' the gums
As down the road old Rogan comes --
The hatter from the lonely hut
Beside the track to Woollybutt.
He likes to spend his Christmas with us here.
He says a man gets sort of strange
Living alone without a change,
Gets sort of settled in his way;
And so he comes each Christmas day
To share a bite of tucker and a beer.

Dad and the boys have nought to do,
Except a stray odd job or two.
Along the fence or in the yard,
"It ain't a day for workin' hard."
Says Dad. "One day a year don't matter much."
And then dishevelled, hot and red,
Mum, thro' the doorway puts her head
And says, "This Christmas cooking, My!
The sun's near fit for cooking by."
Upon her word she never did see such.

"Your fault," says Dad, "you know it is.
Plum puddin'! on a day like this,
And roasted turkeys! Spare me days,
I can't get over women's ways.
In climates such as this the thing's all wrong.
A bit of cold corned beef an' bread
Would do us very well instead."
Then Rogan said, "You're right; it's hot.
It makes a feller drink a lot."
And Dad gets up and says, "Well, come along."

The dinner's served -- full bite and sup.
"Come on," says Mum, "Now all sit up."
The meal takes on a festive air;
And even father eats his share
And passes up his plate to have some more.
He laughs and says it's Christmas time,
"That's cookin', Mum. The stuffin's prime."
But Rogan pauses once to praise,
Then eats as tho' he'd starved for days.
And pitches turkey bones outside the door.

The sun burns hotly thro' the gums,
The chirping of the locusts comes
Across the paddocks, parched and grey.
"Whew!" wheezes Father. "What a day!"
And sheds his vest. For coats no man had need.
Then Rogan shoves his plate aside
And sighs, as sated men have sighed,
At many boards in many climes
On many other Christmas times.
"By gum!" he says, "That was a slap-up feed!"

Then, with his black pipe well alight,
Old Rogan brings the kids delight
By telling o'er again his yarns
Of Christmas tide 'mid English barns
When he was, long ago, a farmer's boy.
His old eyes glisten as he sees
Half glimpses of old memories,
Of whitened fields and winter snows,
And yuletide logs and mistletoes,
And all that half-forgotten, hallowed joy.

The children listen, mouths agape,
And see a land with no escape
For biting cold and snow and frost --
A land to all earth's brightness lost,
A strange and freakish Christmas land to them.
But Rogan, with his dim old eyes
Grown far away and strangely wise
Talks on; and pauses but to ask
"Ain't there a drop more in that cask?"
And father nods; but Mother says "Ahem!"

The sun slants redly thro' the gums
As quietly the evening comes,
And Rogan gets his old grey mare,
That matches well his own grey hair,
And rides away into the setting sun.
"Ah, well," says Dad. "I got to say
I never spent a lazier day.
We ought to get that top fence wired."
"My!" sighs poor Mum. "But I am tired!
An' all that washing up still to be done."

"C.J. Dennis"

MC97GQ

23rd December 2012, 01:35 PM

One about my home town,

The Coachman's Yarn by E. J. Brady

This is a tale that the coachman told,
As he flicked the flies from Marigold
And flattered and fondled Pharaoh.
The sun swung low in the western skies;
Out on a plain, just over a rise,
Stood Nimitybell, on Monaro;
Cold as charity, cold as Hell,
Bleak, bare, barren Nimitybell --
Nimitybell on Monaro.

"Now this 'ere 'appened in eighty-three,
The coldest winter ever we see;
Strewth, it was cold, as cold as could be
Out 'ere on Monaro:
It froze the blankets, it froze the fleas,
It froze the sap in the blinkin' trees.
I made a grindstone out of cheese,
Right 'ere in Monaro!

"Freezin' an' snowin' -- ask the old hands
They seen, they knows, an' they understand
The ploughs was froze, and the cattle brands,
Down 'ere in Monaro:
It froze our fingers and froze our toes:
I seen a passenger's breath so froze
Icicles 'ung from 'is bloomin' nose
Long as the tail on Pharaoh!

"I ketched a curlew down by the creek;
His feet was froze to his blessed beak;
'E stayed like that for over a week --
That's cold on Monaro.
Why, even the air got froze that tight
You'd 'ear the awfullest sounds at night,
When things was put to a fire or light,
Out 'ere on Monaro.

"For the sounds was froze. At Haydon's Bog
A cove 'e crosscut a big back-log,
An' carted 'er 'ome ('e wants to jog --
Stiddy, go stiddy there, Pharaoh!).
As soon as his log begins to thaw
They 'ears the sound of the crosscut saw
A-thawin' out. Yes, his name was Law.
Old hands, them Laws, on Monaro.

"The second week of this 'ere cold snap
I'm drivin' the coach. A Sydney chap,
'E strikes this part o' the bloomin' map,
A new hand 'ere on Monaro:
'Is name or game I never heard tell,
But 'e gets of at Nimitybell;
Blowin' like Bluey, freezin' like 'ell,
At Nimitybell on Monaro.

"The drinks was froze, o' course, in the bar:
They breaks a bottle of old Three Star,
An' the barman sezs, 'Now, there y' are,
You can't beat that for Monaro!'
The stranger bloke, 'e was tall an' thin,
Sez 'Strike me blue, but I think you win;
We'll 'ave another an' I'll turn in --
It's blitherin' cold on Monaro.'

"'E borrowed a book an' went to bed
To read awhile, so the missus said,
By the candle-light. 'E must ha' read
(These nights is long on Monaro)
Past closin' time. Then 'e starts an' blows
The candle out: but the wick 'ad froze!
Leastways, that's what folks round 'ere suppose
Old hands as lived on Monaro.

"So bein' tired, an' a stranger, new
To these mountain ways, they think he threw
'Is coat on the wick; an' maybe, too,
Any odd clothes 'e'd to spare. Oh,
This ain't no fairy, an' don't you fret!
Next day came warmer, an' set in wet --
There's some out 'ere as can mind it yet,
The real old 'ands on Monaro.

"The wick must ha' thawed. The fire began
At breakfast time. The neighbors all ran
To save the pub`.....an' forgot the man
(Stiddy, go stiddy there, mare-oh).
The pub was burned to the blanky ground;
'Is buttons was all they ever found.
The blinkin' cow, 'e owed me a pound --
From Cooma his blinkin' fare, oh!

"That ain't no fairy, not what I've told;
l'm gettin' shaky an' growin' old,
An' I hope I never again see cold,
Like that down 'ere 'on Monaro!"

He drives his horses, he drives them well,
And this is the tale he loves to tell
Nearing the town of Nimitybell,
Nimitybell on Monaro.

First published in The Bulletin, 20 April 1922

Bob

28th December 2012, 06:45 AM

A RAIN SONG

There is music in the Mallee,

Lilting music, soft and low,

Like the songs in vale and valley

Where the summer waters flow;

But an anthem of elation

Wedded to a woman’s mouth

Is the message from each station

From the Mitchell River south.

For it’s raining! raining! raining!

How the iron roof tops ring!

How the waters, swiftly draining

Through the straining down pipes sing!

Every drop a golden rhyme is,

Every shower a stanza strong,

And each day of raining time is

Canto sweet of God’s great song.

Oh, the earth was dry as tinder,

And her lips were cracked with pain!

From the south to Thargominda

Like a dead thing she has lain;

But, at last, the long drought broken,

She - like lazarus, the Jew,

When the Christ words had been spoken -

She shall leap to life anew.

For it’s raining! raining! raining!

Don’t you hear the merry din?

Don’t you hear the old earth straining

As she sucks the juices in?

And the swelling creeks and rivers -

Hark! their mellow madrigal!

Oh, the sweetest music givers

Are the autumn rains that fall!

All the air is sweet with voices,

Sweet with human voices now;

And the anvil-tool rejoices

On the ploughshare and the plough;

Yes, above the joyous beating

Of the roof bass you can hear

All the choirs of nature meeting

In an anthem loud and clear.

For it’s raining! raining! raining!

Over all the thirsty land!

Don’t you hear the old earth straining

As the sapless roots expand?

But her famine days are over,

And her smiles shall soon be seen,

For her old-time Autumn lover

Brings her back her garb of green.

E. S. Emmerson

Bob

1st January 2013, 07:36 AM

CLANCY OF THE OVERFLOW - A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just "on spec", addressed as follows: "Clancy, of The Overflow".

And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written in a thumbnail dipped in tar)
'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."

In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.

I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.

And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.

And I somehow fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cashbook and the journal -
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".

The BigFella

2nd January 2013, 06:09 AM

Bob, you've done it again old son. That would have to be one of my favourite poems. The way it flows could almost be sung to tune,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
Keep them coming boys,,,,,,,,,,,

Bob

2nd January 2013, 06:14 AM

SAID HANRAHAN

"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
One frosty Sunday morn.

The congregation stood about,
Coat-collars to the ears,
And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,
As it had done for years.

"It's lookin' crook," said Daniel Croke;
"Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad."

"It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil,
With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.

And so around the chorus ran
"It's keepin' dry, no doubt."
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out.

"The crops are done; ye'll have your work
To save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-o'-Bourke
They're singin' out for rain.

"They're singin' out for rain," he said,
"And all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head,
And gazed around the sky.

"There won't be grass, in any case,
Enough to feed an ass;
There's not a blade on Casey's place
As I came down to Mass."

"If rain don't come this month," said Dan,
And cleared his throat to speak--
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If rain don't come this week."

A heavy silence seemed to steal
On all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.

"We want a inch of rain, we do,"
O'Neil observed at last;
But Croke "maintained" we wanted two
To put the danger past.

"If we don't get three inches, man,
Or four to break this drought,
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."

In God's good time down came the rain;
And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane
It drummed a homely tune.

And through the night it pattered still,
And lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill
Kept talking to themselves.

It pelted, pelted all day long,
A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song
Way out to Back-o'Bourke.

And every creek a banker ran,
And dams filled overtop;
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If this rain doesn't stop."

And stop it did, in God's good time;
And spring came in to fold
A mantle o'er the hills sublime
Of green and pink and gold.

And days went by on dancing feet,
With harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat
Nid-nodding o'er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face,
As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey's place
Went riding down to Mass.

While round the church in clothes genteel
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed his piece of bark.

"There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man,
There will, without a doubt;
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."

John O'Brien

MC97GQ

2nd January 2013, 06:14 AM

Now Bob's retired he will have plenty of time to put some original compositions up here.

Bob

2nd January 2013, 06:18 AM

The Magpie's Song

Where the dreaming Tiber wanders by the haunted Appian Way,

Lo! the nightingale is uttering a sorrow-burdened lay!

While the olive trees are shaking, and the cypress boughs are stirred:

Palpitates the moon's white bosom to the sorrow of the bird,

Sobbing, sobbing, sobbing; yet a sweeter song I know:

'Tis the magpie's windblown music where the Gippsland rivers flow.

O, I love to be by Bindi, where the fragrant pastures are,

And the Tambo to his bosom takes the trembling Evening Star -

Just to hear the magpies warble in the blue-gums on the hill,

When the frail green flower of twilight in the sky is lingering still,

Calling, calling, calling to the abdicating day:

O, they fill my heart with music as I loiter on my way.

O, the windy morn of Matlock, when the last snow-wreath had gone,

And the backwoods robed by tardy Spring with star-like beauty shone;

When the lory showed his crimson to the golden blossom spread,

And the Goulburn's grey-green mirror showed the loving colours wed:

Chiming, chiming, chiming in the pauses of the gale,

How the magpie's notes came ringing down the mountain o'er the vale.

O, the moon beside the ocean, where the springtide, landward set,

Cast ashore the loosened silver from the waves of violet,

As the seagod sang a lovesong and the sheoak answer made,

Came the magpie's carol wafted down the piny colonade,

Trolling, trolling, trolling in the nuptial melody,

As it floated from the moaning pine to charm the singing sea.

And the dark hour in the city, when my love had silent flown,

Nesting in some far-off valley, to the seraphs only known,

When the violet had no odour and the rose no purple bloom,

And the grey-winged vulture, Sorrow, came rustling through the gloom,

Crooning, crooning, crooning on the swaying garden bough:

O, the song of hope you uttered then my heart is trilling now.

Voice of happy shephard chanting by a stream in Arcady,

Seems they song this blue-eyed morning over lilac borne to me;

In his arms again Joy takes me, Hope with dimpling cheek appears,

And my life seems one long lovely vale where grow the rosy years:

lilting, lilting, lilting; when I slumber at the last,

Let your music in the joyous wind be ever wandering past.

Frank S. Williamson

Bob

3rd January 2013, 09:08 AM

Henry Lawson

And down towards the languid, sinking sun,

Along the winding, wattle-guarded track,

He passed, and left his heavy swag, as one

Who casts the weight of troubles from his back,

And leaves the world, and life, and care behind,

And onward fares,---to seek, and know, and find.

Perchance the Bush, in that last moment saw

Its minstrel, rapt and joyful, gliding on,

For all the trees bowed silent crests in awe,

And one lone song-bird mourned, when he had gone.

And when had sunk the fiery-hearted sun,

Australia's poet's pilgrimage was done.

He loved her well. To her he gave his all,

For her he lived, and toiled, and spent his days,

And now, when there has come that quiet call,

Is it too late to deck his name with praise?

Ah! Westward, westward sank the dying sun,

And tear-dimmed stars marched forward one by one.

R Guy Howarth

lorrieandjas

3rd January 2013, 12:50 PM

ENCOUNTER WITH WHALES

Whaling was SA's first important industry. It was critical to the state's early economic survival and growth, with Encounter Bay the focus of activities. In 21st Century SA, whales are still important to the economy, but in a more sustainable and environmentally-acceptable way.

The air was drunk and heavy as it idled round the Bay,
where whalers lounged and chatted on a warm September day.
Like dancing flames, the sunlight played on seas of polished glass
and frowning Look-Out spied the coast for spouting fish to pass.
A shout rang from the blacks’ camp stirring whalers in the shed,
as yonder whiff was hoisted high above Rosetta Head.

In rush to launch their wooden crafts, the headsman made it first;
he tested kegs of water lashed to slake their toiling thirst.
And cookie puffed with scranbags that he’d packed to give each crew,
with salted pork and jerky beef the hungry hands could chew.
The boats upon the rollers creaked as extras pushed them down
and every black was whooping in their camp outside of town!

They met each line of breakers, plunging onward for the deep,
the helmsmen carving furrows with a circle of the sweep.
And muscles locked in tension from the straining tug of oars,
on track for interception when they crossed Encounter’s shores.
A flagger waved to guide them out – they heard his distant shout;
below the boats’ horizon, hidden whales began to spout.

For lolling down the coastline came a lazy pod of five,
their graceful flukes suspended in each convoluted dive.
A mother nudged the newborn calf that nestled by her teat;
their world was finely balanced and maternity was sweet.
But then within her vision flashed a panic-stirring sign;
the leading boat was bearing down, with death upon its line.

They broke for open water to escape the jagged spears,
as sweating whalers cursing oaths confirmed their darkest fears.
The cow had started strongly, leaving daylight in her wake,
but separating from her son was risk she wouldn’t take.
So quickly now, a harpoon struck with cruel and sickening thud;
her precious child lay wallowing in crimson waves of blood.

The whalers call it instinct, but perhaps a higher drive
prevented her from swimming off, ensuring she’d survive.
By lingering in loyalty she chose to share his fate;
the tryworks at Encounter and Balaena had a date.
As bloodied dusk descended on the weary crews’ return,
her carcass rolled ignobly behind the leader’s stern.

Those whaling days are history; museums hold their lore.
Yet through the breakers peering still are lookouts on the shore.
They tune their car transistors in and scope with optics fine,
in flukish hope of sighting whales that frolic down the line.
And fingers press on triggers that will shoot the wondrous prey
they’ll store as album memories – Encounters in the Bay.

© 2011 - Max Merckenschlager

Bob

7th January 2013, 10:34 AM

WITH THE CATTLE by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

The drought is down on field and flock,
The river-bed is dry;
And we must shift the starving stock
Before the cattle die.
We muster up with weary hearts
At breaking of the day,
And turn our heads to foreign parts,
To take the stock away.
And it's hunt 'em up and dog 'em,
And it's get the whip and flog 'em,
For it's weary work is droving when they're dying every day;
By stock-routes bare and eaten,
On dusty roads and beaten,
With half a chance to save their lives we take the stock away.

We cannot use the whip for shame
On beasts that crawl along;
We have to drop the weak and lame,
And try to save the strong;
The wrath of God is on the track,
The drought fiend holds his sway,
With blows and cries and stockwhip crack
We take the stock away.
As they fall we leave them lying,
With the crows to watch them dying,
Grim sextons of the Overland that fasten on their prey;
By the fiery dust-storm drifting,
And the mocking mirage shifting,
In heat and drought and hopeless pain we take the stock away.

In dull despair the days go by
With never hope of change,
But every stage we draw more nigh
Towards the mountain range;
And some may live to climb the pass,
And reach the great plateau,
And revel in the mountain grass,
By streamlets fed with snow.
As the mountain wind is blowing
It starts the cattle lowing,
And calling to each other down the dusty long array;
And there speaks a grizzled drover:
`Well, thank God, the worst is over,
The creatures smell the mountain grass that's twenty miles away.'

They press towards the mountain grass,
They look with eager eyes
Along the rugged stony pass,
That slopes towards the skies;
Their feet may bleed from rocks and stones,
But though the blood-drop starts,
They struggle on with stifled groans,
For hope is in their hearts.
And the cattle that are leading,
Though their feet are worn and bleeding,
Are breaking to a kind of run -- pull up, and let them go!
For the mountain wind is blowing,
And the mountain grass is growing,
They settle down by running streams ice-cold with melted snow.

. . . . .

The days are done of heat and drought
Upon the stricken plain;
The wind has shifted right about,
And brought the welcome rain;
The river runs with sullen roar,
All flecked with yellow foam,
And we must take the road once more,
To bring the cattle home.
And it's `Lads! we'll raise a chorus,
There's a pleasant trip before us.'
And the horses bound beneath us as we start them down the track;
And the drovers canter, singing,
Through the sweet green grasses springing,
Towards the far-off mountain-land, to bring the cattle back.

Are these the beasts we brought away
That move so lively now?
They scatter off like flying spray
Across the mountain's brow;
And dashing down the rugged range
We hear the stockwhip crack,
Good faith, it is a welcome change
To bring such cattle back.
And it's `Steady down the lead there!'
And it's `Let 'em stop and feed there!'
For they're wild as mountain eagles and their sides are all afoam;
But they're settling down already,
And they'll travel nice and steady,
With cheery call and jest and song we fetch the cattle home.

We have to watch them close at night
For fear they'll make a rush,
And break away in headlong flight
Across the open bush;
And by the camp-fire's cheery blaze,
With mellow voice and strong,
We hear the lonely watchman raise
The Overlander's song:
`Oh! it's when we're done with roving,
With the camping and the droving,
It's homeward down the Bland we'll go, and never more we'll roam;'
While the stars shine out above us,
Like the eyes of those who love us --
The eyes of those who watch and wait to greet the cattle home.

The plains are all awave with grass,
The skies are deepest blue;
And leisurely the cattle pass
And feed the long day through;
But when we sight the station gate,
We make the stockwhips crack,
A welcome sound to those who wait
To greet the cattle back:
And through the twilight falling
We hear their voices calling,
As the cattle splash across the ford and churn it into foam;
And the children run to meet us,
And our wives and sweethearts greet us,
Their heroes from the Overland who brought the cattle home.

Bob

10th January 2013, 07:47 AM

The Austral 'light'

We were standing by the fireside at the pub one wintry night
Drinking grog and 'pitching fairies' while the lengthening hours took flight,
And a stranger there was present, one who seemed quite city-bred---
There was little showed about him to denote him 'mulga-fed'.

For he wore a four-inch collar, tucked up pants, and boots of tan---
You might take him for a new-chum, or a Sydney city man---
But in spite of cuff or collar, Lord! he gave himself away
When he cut and rubbed and had filled his coloured clay.

For he never asked for matches--although in that boozing band
There was more than one man standing with a matchbox in his hand;
And I knew him for a bushman 'spite his tailor-made attire'.
As I saw him stoop and fossick for a fire-stick from the fire.

And that mode of weed-ignition to my memory brough back
Long nights when nags were hobbled on a far North-western track;
Recalled campfires in the timber, when the stars shone big and bright,
And we learned the matchless virtues of a glowing gidgee light.

And I thought of piney sand-ridges---and somehow I could swear
That this tailor-made johnny had at one time been 'out there'.
And as he blew the white ash from the tapering, glowing coal,
Faith! my heart went out towards him for a kindred country soul.

Harry Morant (the breaker)

Forced Offroad

10th January 2013, 07:36 PM

It was a cold night in the bush
And I needed to warm my Toosh
So I made a mean Curry
Which made me go in a hurry
It could have been Bad
Which would have been me sad
But all was good
So there I stood
In front of a Fire
Feeling much Finer

Copyright Forced Offroad 2013 :)

Bob

11th January 2013, 06:30 AM

Bell Birds

By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling;
It lives in the mountain, where moss ad the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges:
Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers,
And softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.
The silver voiced bell-birds, the darlings of day-time,
They sing in September their songs of the May-time.
When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather,
And straightway the hues of the feathers unfolden
And the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.

October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,
Loiters for love in these cool windernesses,
Loiters knee-deep in the grasses to listen,
Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten.
Then is the time when the water-moons splendid
Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended
Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning
Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the morning.

Welcome as waters, unkissed by the summers
Are the voices of bell-birds to thirsty far-comers.
When fiery December sets foot in the forest,
And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,
Pent in the ridges for ever and ever,
The bell-birds, direct him to spring and to river,
With ring and with ripple, like runnels whose torrents
Are turned by the pebbles and leaves in the currents.

Often I sit looking back to a childhood
Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,
Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion
Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of passion --
Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters
Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest rafters;
So I might keep in the city and alleys
The beauty and strengths of the deep mountain valleys,
Charming to slumber the pain of my losses
With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.

******

© Henry Kendall

Bob

15th January 2013, 06:30 AM

The Women of the West.

They left their vine-wreathed cottages and the mansion on the hill,
The houses on the busy streets where life is never still,
The pleasures of the city and the friends they cherished best,
For love they faced the wilderness – the women of the West.

The roar and rush and fever of the city died away,
And the old-time joys and faces, they were gone for many a day;
In their place the lurching coach wheel or the creaking bullock chains,
O’er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains.

In the slab-built zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run,
In a tent beside the bankment of a railway just begun,
In the huts of new selections, in a camp of men’s unrest,
On the frontiers of the nations, lived the women of the West.

The red sun robbed their beauty and in weariness and pain,
The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again,
And there are hours men cannot soothe and words men cannot say –
The nearest woman’s face may be a hundred miles away.

The wide bush holds the secret of their longings and desires,
When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires,
And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast –
Perchance He hears and understands the women of the West.

For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts –
They only hear the beating of their gallant loving hearts.
But they have sung with silent lives the songs all songs above –
The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

Well have we held our father's creed. No call has passed us by.
We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die.
And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o'er all the rest,
The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the West

G. E. Evans

Bob

21st January 2013, 08:37 AM

The Outhouse

I grabbed the torch one real dark night
and bolted down the yard.
The shadows stretched their long dark arms,
my heart was beating hard.

Mum said there were no boogie men
but I was not so sure.
The wind was howling through the trees
as I ran for the door.

I shone the torch across the seat
then shone it up the wall.
I'd hate to get a spider bite
or see things creep and crawl.

When I was sure that it was safe
I'd hurry up and go.
Then I was done. I'd check again
for any deadly foe.

I made the dash back to the house
the devil at my heels,
and once inside I'd slam the door.
You don't know how that feels.

One freezing, rainy, winter night
scared, I used a bucket.
When morning came I'd empty it,
I'd just go and chuck it.

Alas, when I woke up next day
forgetting it was there,
I kicked it over spilling it
and cried out in despair.

I sure am glad that things have changed
in places we reside,
'cause I'm not frightened anymore.
The outhouse is inside.

Author ?????

The BigFella

21st January 2013, 08:49 AM

Can I just thank everyone for contributing to this thread.
A special thanks to Bob for his input here, mate where do you get these from? Awesome stuff!
Some of these really stir the heart strings! Some make us sad, such is the power of poetry.
Please keep them coming, soon I will put them into a booklet available only to members (free of charge of course) for those camping trips where some old poetry around the camp fire is just what the Doctor ordered.

Bob

21st January 2013, 09:39 AM

THE PRESBYT'RY DOG

Now of all the old sinners in mischief immersed,

From the ages of Gog and Magog,

At the top of the list,from the last to the first,

And by every good soul in the parish accursed,

Is that scamp of a Presbyt'ry Dog.

He's a hairy old scoundrel as ugly as sin,

He's a demon that travels incog.,

With a classical name, and an ignorant grin,

And a tail, by the way, that is scraggy and thin,

And the rest of him merely a dog.

He is like a young waster of fortune possessed,

As he rambles the town at a jog;

For he treats the whole world as a sort of a jest,

While the comp'ny he keeps--well, it must be confessed

It's unfit for a Presbyt'ry Dog.

He is out on the street at the sound of a fight,

With the eyes on him standing agog,-

And the scut of a tail--well, bedad, it's a fright;

Faith, you'd give him a kick that would set him alight,

But you can't with the Presbyt'ry Dog.

His rotundity now to absurdity runs,

Like a blackfellow gone to the grog;

For the knowing old shaver the presbyt'ry shuns

When it's time for a meal, and goes off to the nuns,

Who're deceived in the Presbyt'ry Dog.

When he follows the priest to the bush, there is war.

He inspects the whole place at a jog,

And he puts on great airs and fine antics galore,

While he chases the sheep till we're after his gore,

Though he may be the Presbyt'ry Dog.

'Twas last Sunday a dog in the church went ahead

With an ill- bred and loud monologue,

And the priest said some things that would shiver the dead,

And I'm with him in every last word that he said -

Ah, But wait - 'twas the Presbyt'ry Dog.

John O'Brien

Bob

22nd January 2013, 07:39 AM

THE OLD BLACK BILLY AN’ ME

The sheep are yarded, an’ I sit

Beside the fire an’ poke at it.

Far from talk an’ booze o’ men

Glad, I’m glad I’m back agen

On the station, wi’ me traps

An’ fencin’ wire, an’ tanks an’ taps,

Back to salt-bush plains, an’ flocks,

An’ old bark hut be the apple-box.

I turn the slipjack, make the tea,

All’s as still as still can be -

An’ the old black billy winks at me.

Louis Esson

Lowedoggy18

22nd January 2013, 11:32 AM

thats quite a nice poem threedogs, youve got some talent there!

Bob

24th January 2013, 09:26 AM

Wallaby Stew

Poor Dad, He got five years or more, as everybody knows,
And now he lives in Maitland Gaol, broad arrows on his clothes;
He branded old Browns cleanskins and he never left a tail
So I relate the family’s fate since Dad got put in gaol

Chorus: So stir the wallaby stew, make soup of the kangaroo tail;
I tell you things is pretty tough since Dad got put in gaol.

Our sheep all died a month ago, of foot-rot and the fluke;
Our cow got shot last Christmas day by my big brother Luke;
Our Mother’s got a shearer cove forever within hail;
The family will have grown a bit when Dad gets out of gaol.

Our Bess got shook upon some bloke, but he’s gone, we don’t know where;
He used to act about the sheds, but he ain’t acted square;
I sold the buggy on my own, and the place is up for sale;
That won’t be all that has been junked when Dad comes out of gaol.

They let Dad out before his time to give us a surprise.
He came and slowly looked around, then gently blessed our eye;
He shook hands with the shearer cove, and said that things seemed stale,
And left him here to shepherd us and battled back into gaol.

Cecil Poole

Bob

29th January 2013, 06:32 AM

Click go the Shears, Boys

Out on the board the old shearer stands,

Grasping his shears in his long, bony hands,

Fixed is his gaze on a bare-bellied 'joe'

Glory if he gets her, won't he make the ringer go.

Chorus: Click go the shears, boys, click, click, click,

Wide is his blow and his hands move quick,

The ringer looks around and is beaten by a blow,

And curses the old snagger with the blue-bellied 'joe'

In the middle of the floor in his cane bottomed chair

Is the boss of the board, with eyes everywhere;

Notes well each fleece as it comes to the screen,

Paying strict attention if it's taken off clean.

The colonial-experience man, he is there, of course,

With his shiny leggin's, just got off his horse,

Casting round his eye like a real connoisseur,

Whistling the old tune, 'I'm the perfect lure'.

Now Mister Newchum for to begin,

In number seven paddock bring all the sheep in;

Don't leave none behind, whatever you may do,

And then you'll be fit for a jackaroo.

The tarboy is there, awaiting in demand,

With his blackened tar pot, and his tarry hand;

Sees one old sheep with a cut upon its back,

Hears what he's waiting for, 'Tar here Jack!'

Shearing is all over and we've all got our cheques,

Roll up your swags for we're off on the tracks;

The first pub we come to, it's there we'll have a spree,

And everyone that comes along it's, 'come and drink with me!'

Down by the bar the old shearer stands,

Grasping his glass in his thin bony hands;

Fixed is his gaze on a green-painted keg,

Glory, he'll get down on it, ere he stirs a peg.

There we leave him standing, shouting for all hands,

Whilst all around him every shouter stands;

His eyes are on the cask, which is now lowering fast,

He works hard, he drinks hard, and goes to hell at last!

Anonymous

Bob

31st January 2013, 08:19 AM

THE OLD BUSH SCHOOL

'Tis a queer, old battered landmark that belongs to other years;
With the dog-leg fence around it, and its hat about its ears,
And the cow-bell in the gum-tree, and the bucket on the stool,
There's a motley host of memories round that old bush school--

With its seedy desks and benches, where at least I left a name
Carved in agricultural letters--'twas my only bid for fame;
And the spider-haunted ceilings, and the rafters, firmly set,
Lined with darts of nibs and paper (doubtless sticking in them yet),
And the greasy slates and blackboards, where I oft was proved a fool
And a blur upon the scutcheon of the old bush school.

There I see the boots in order--" 'lastic-sides" we used to wear--
With a pair of "everlastin's" cracked and dusty here and there;
And we marched with great "high action"--hands behind and eyes
before--
While we murdered "Swanee River" as we tramped around the floor.

Still the scholars pass before me with their freckled features grave,
And a nickname fitting better than the name their mothers gave;
Tousled hair and vacant faces, and their garments every one
Shabby heirlooms in the family, handed down from sire to son.
Ay, and mine were patched in places, and half-masted, as a rule--
They were fashionable trousers at the old bush school.

There I trudged it from the Three-mile, like a patient, toiling brute,
With a stocking round my ankle, and my heart within my boot,
Morgan, Nell and Michael Joseph, Jim and Mary, Kate and Mart
Tramping down the sheep-track with me, little rebels at the heart;

Shivery grasses round about us nodding bonnets in the breeze,
Happy Jacks and Twelve Apostles* hurdle-racing up the trees,
Peewees calling from the gullies, living wonders in the pool--
Hard bare seats and drab gray humdrum at the old bush school.

Early rising in the half-light, when the morn came, bleak and chill;
For the little mother roused us ere the sun had topped the hill,
"Up, you children, late 'tis gettin'." Shook the house beneath her knock,
And she wasn't always truthful, and she tampered with the clock.

Keen she was about "the learnin'," and she told us o'er and o'er
Of our luck to have "the schoolin'" right against our very door.
And the lectures--Oh, those lectures to our stony hearts addressed!
"Don't be mixin' with the Regans and the Ryans and the rest"--

"Don't be pickin' up with Carey's little talkative kanats*"--
Well, she had us almost thinking we were born aristocrats.
But we found our level early--in disaster, as a rule~
For they knocked "the notions" sideways at the old bush school.

Down the road came Laughing Mary, and the beast that she bestrode
Was Maloney's sorry piebald she had found beside the road;
Straight we scrambled up behind her, and as many as could fit
Clung like circus riders bare-back without bridle-rein or bit,.
On that corrugated backbone in a merry row we sat~
We propelled him with our school-bags; Mary steered him with her
hat~
And we rolled the road behind us like a ribbon from the spool,
"Making butter," so we called it, to the old bush school.

What a girl was Mary Casey in the days of long ago!
She was queen among the scholars, or at least we thought her so;
She was first in every mischief and, when overwhelmed by fate,
She could make delightful drawings of the teacher on her slate.
There was rhythm in every movement, as she gaily passed along
With a rippling laugh that lilted like the music of a song;
So we called her "Laughing Mary," and a fitful fancy blessed
E'en the bashful little daisies that her dainty feet caressed.

She had cheeks like native roses in the fullness of their bloom,
And she used to sing the sweetest as we marched around the room;
In her eyes there lurked the magic, maiden freshness of the morn,
In her hair the haunting colour I had seen upon the corn;
Round her danced the happy sunshine when she smiled upon the stool--
And I used to swap her dinners at the old bush school.

Hard the cobbled road of knowledge to the feet of him who plods
After fragile fragments fallen from the workshop of the gods;
Long the quest, and ever thieving pass the pedlars o'er the hill
With the treasures in their bundles, but to leave us questing still.
Mystic fires horizons redden, but each crimson flash in turn
Only lights the empty places in the bracken and the fern;
So in after years I've proved it, spite of pedant, crank, and fool,
Very much the way I found it at the old bush school.

*These names are often applied to the same bird; but Happy Jacks (alias Gray-crowned Babblers) are brown with white markings; Twelve Apostles (alias Apostle-Birds) are gray with brown wings. Peewees, in the next line, are of course MagpieLarks.
* The essential kanat (possibly a corruption of gnat) is undersized, mischievous, useless and perky.

John O'Brien

TPC

4th February 2013, 08:44 PM

Aussie Poem

The sun was hot already - it was only 8 o'clock
The cocky took off in his Ute, to go and check his stock.
He drove around the paddocks checking wethers, ewes and lambs,
The float valves in the water troughs, the windmills on the dams

He stopped and turned a windmill on to fill a water tank
And saw a ewe down in the dam, a few yards from the bank.
"Typical bloody sheep," he thought, "they've got no common sense,
"They won't go through a gateway but they'll jump a bloody fence."

The ewe was stuck down in the mud, he knew without a doubt
She'd stay there 'til she carked it if he didn't get her out.
But when he reached the water's edge, the startled ewe broke free
And in her haste to get away, began a swimming spree.

He reckoned once her fleece was wet, the weight would drag her down
If he didn't rescue her, the stupid sod would drown.
Her style was unimpressive, her survival chances slim
He saw no other option, he would have to take a swim.

He peeled his shirt and singlet off, his trousers, boots and socks
And as he couldn't stand wet clothes, he also shed his jocks.
He jumped into the water and away that cocky swam
He caught up with her somewhere near the middle of the dam.

The ewe was quite evasive, she kept giving him the slip
He tried to grab her sodden fleece but couldn't get a grip.
At last he got her to the bank and stopped to catch his breath
She showed him little gratitude for saving her from death.

She took off like a Bondi tram around the other side
He swore next time he caught that ewe he'd hang her bloody hide.
Then round and round the dam they ran, although he felt quite puffed
He still thought he could run her down, she must be nearly
stuffed.

The local stock rep came along, to pay a call that day.
He knew this bloke was on his own, his wife had gone away,
He didn't really think he'd get fresh scones for morning tea
But neither was he ready for what he was soon to see.

He rubbed his eyes in disbelief at what came into view
For running down the catchment came this frantic-looking ewe.
And on her heels in hot pursuit and wearing not a stitch
The farmer yelling wildly, "Come back here, you lousy bitch!"

The stock rep didn't hang around, he took off in his car
The cocky's reputation has been damaged near and far
So bear in mind the Work Safe rule when next you check your flocks
Spot the hazard, assess the risk, and always wear your jocks!

twisty

5th February 2013, 06:54 AM

TPC ... loved it! where did you find that?

ps. I'm expecting a stock rep visit soon as it happens

The BigFella

5th February 2013, 07:19 AM

TPC, that was awesome dude. Ive done my fair share of sheep work as a young bloke on the south west slopes and in the Riverina, that made me laugh out loud. So much the missus got worried,,,,,,,,,,

TPC

5th February 2013, 07:55 AM

TPC ... loved it! where did you find that?

ps. I'm expecting a stock rep visit soon as it happens

My old man emailed it to me yesterday, not sure where he got it from, as soon as i read i new i had to share it.
Make sure you keep your pants on for the stock rep visit.

The BigFella

5th February 2013, 09:43 AM

Bah bah black sheep,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Bob

14th February 2013, 10:50 AM

The Big White Bullock

Under a guidin’ providence

Is Mickety Mulga Jim,

For nothink yet of serious ‘arm

‘As ever come to him.

A big white Bullick charged him once,

But never gored ‘is pelt

Because the animal’ s two ‘orns

Run just inside ‘is belt.

The Bullick kicked and tossed and roared,

But couldn’t shake him loose;

Jim tried to slip the buckle free,

But found it was no use.

For days and days, so Mulga says,

He was suspended so,

And then became unconscious

Wid swinging to and fro.

In this suspensive attitude

He hung, he thinks, a week,

Until the bullick went to drink

And soused him in the creek.

The water brought his senses back,

And made him kick and cough,

Till wid his frantic strugglin’s

The bullick’s ‘orns broke orf,

If to convince his hearers

This anecdote should fail,

He shows ‘em both the ‘orns and belt

To certify his tale.

T Ranken

Bob

18th February 2013, 06:26 AM

Old Tracks

© Vivienne Ledlie

They fascinate and beckon me,
Old tracks and roads unsealed,
Presenting such a challenge to
Explore their haunts concealed.

Sometimes a track leads nowhere, stops
Abruptly 'midst the trees
Which guard the secrets of this place,
Left floating in the breeze.

One track leads to a miner's shack,
Abandoned to its fate:
A rusty dish which panned for gold,
A battered metal plate.

Sometimes a lonely fishing beach
Where sandflies bite and sting,
Where mangroves spread their eerie roots
Which harbour fingerling.

Maybe just rotting stumps portray
What was a family home;
Now mango and bush lemon trees
Thrive in the sandy loam.

The sprawling chinky-apple trees,
The broken windmill fins;
Glass bottle fragments' darting glint,
Corroded, empty tins.

Just rubbish now, just useless trash,
Which speak of bygone days
When folk fought bravely in their quest,
Surviving Nature's frays.

I ponder on their meagre lives,
This pioneering breed;
From diverse origins they came
And lived by Mateship's Creed.

These dusty roads and lonely tracks
Intrigue, appeal, assuage:
Imagination's open book
Where History turns the page.

Bob

22nd February 2013, 08:16 AM

The Little Worn Out Pony

There's a little worn-out pony this side of Hogan's shack
With a snip upon his nuzzle and a mark upon his back;
Just a common little pony is what most people say,
But then of course they've never heard what happened in his day:
I was droving on the Leichhardt with a mob of pikers wild,
When this tibby little pony belonged to Hogan's child.

One night it started raining – we were camping on a rise,
When the wind blew cold and bleakly and thunder shook the skies;
The lightning cut the figure eight around the startled cattle,
Then down there fell torrential rains and then began a battle.
In a fraction of an instant the wild mob became insane,
Careering through the timber helter-skelter for the plain.

The timber fell before them like grass before a scythe,
And heavy rain in torrents poured from the grimly blackened sky;
The mob rushed ever onward through the slippery sodden ground,
While the men and I worked frantically to veer their heads around;
And then arose an awful cry – it came from Jimmy Rild,
For there between two saplings straight ahead was Hogan's child.

I owned not man or devil, I had not prayed since when,
But I called upon the blessed Lord to show His mercy then;
I shut my eyes and ground my teeth, the end I dared not see
Great God! The cattle – a thousand head – were crashing through the trees.
"God pity us bush children in our darkest hour of need,"
Were the words I prayed although I followed neither church or creed.

Then my right-hand 'man was shouting, the faithful Jimmy Rild,
"Did you see it, Harry, see the way he saved that child?"
"Saved! Saved, did you say?" and I shot upright with a bound,
"Yes, saved," he said, "indeed old man, the child is safe and sound.
I was feeling pretty shaky and was gazing up the track,
Just then a pony galloped, the kid hopped on its back.

"A blinding Bash of lightning then the thunder's rolling crack;
With two hands clasped upon his mane he raced towards the shack."
"Good heavens, man," I shouted then, "if that is truly so,
To blazes with the cattle, to the shanty we must go."
We reached Bill Hogan's shanty in fifteen minutes' ride,
Then left our horses standing and wildly rushed inside.

The little child was there unhurt but shivering with fear,
And Hogan told us, "Yes, thank God, there's the pony brought her here."
There's a little worn-out pony just this side of Hogan's shack
With a snip upon his nuzzle and a mark upon his back;
Just a common little pony is what most people say,
But I doubt if there's his equal in the pony world today.

anon

Bob

6th May 2013, 09:59 AM

AT THE MELTING OF THE SNOW by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

There's a sunny Southern land,
And it's there that I would be
Where the big hills stand,
In the South Countrie!
When the wattles bloom again,
Then it's time for us to go
To the old Monaro country
At the melting of the snow.

To the East or to the West,
Or wherever you may be,
You will find no place
Like the South Countrie.
For the skies are blue above,
And the grass is green below,
In the old Monaro country
At the melting of the snow.

Now the team is in the plough,
And the thrushes start to sing,
And the pigeons on the bough
Sit a-welcoming the Spring.
So come my comrades all,
Let us saddle up and go
To the old Monaro country
At the melting of the snow.

Bob

12th August 2013, 10:40 AM

Bob

20th September 2013, 07:36 AM

THE DEATH OF BEN HALL

Will. H. Ogilvie (1869 - 1963)

Ben Hall was out on Lachlans side

With a thousand pounds on his head;

A score of troopers were scattered wide

And a hundred more were ready to ride

Wherever a rumour led.

They had followed his track from the

Weddin Heights And north by the Weelong yards;

Through dazzling days and moonlit nights

They had sought him over their rifle-sights,

With their hands on their trigger guards.

The outlaw stole like a hunted fox

Through the scrub and stunted heath,

And peered like a hawk from his eyrie rocks

Through the waving boughs of the sapling box

On the troopers riding beneath.

His clothes were rent by the clutching thorn

And his blistered feet were bare;

Ragged and torn, with his beard unshorn,

He hid like a beast forlorn,

With a padded path to his lair.

But every night when the white stars rose

He crossed by the Gunning Plain

To a stockman's hut where the Gunning flows,

And struck on the door three swift light blows,

And a hand unhooked the chain -

And the outlaw followed the lone path back

With food for another day;

And the kindly darkness covered his track

And the shadows swallowed him deep and black

Where the starlight melted away.

But his friend had read of the big reward,

And his soul was stirred with greed;

He fastened his door and window board,

He saddled his horse and crossed the ford,

And spurred to the town at speed.

You may ride at a man's or maid's behest

When honour or true love call

And steel your heart to the worst or the best,

But the ride that is ta'en on a traitor's quest

Is the bitterest ride of all.

A hot wind blew from the Lachlan bank

And a curse on its shoulder came;

The pine-trees frowned at him, rank on rank,

The sun on a gathering storm-cloud sank

And flushed his cheek with shame.

He reigned at the Court; and the tale began

That the rifles alone should end;

Sergeant and trooper laid their plan

To draw the net on a hunted man

At the treacherous word of a friend.

False was the hand that raised the chain

And false was the whispered word:

'The troopers have turned to the south again,

You may dare to camp on the Gunning Plain.'

And the weary outlaw heard.

He walked from the hut but a quarter mile

Where a clump of saplings stood

In a sea of grass like a lonely isle;

And the moon came up in a little while

Like silver steeped in blood.

Ben Hall lay down on the dew-wet ground

By the side of his tiny fire;

And a night breeze woke, and he heard no sound

As the troopers drew their cordon round -

And the traitor earned his hire.

And nothing they saw in the dim grey light,

But the little glow in the trees;

And they crouched in the tall cold grass all night,

Each one ready to shoot at sight,

With his rifle cocked on his knees.

When the shadows broke and the dawn's white sword

Swung over the mountain wall,

And a little wind blew over the ford,

A sargeant sprang to his feet and roared:

'In the name of the Queen, Ben Hall!'

Haggard, the outlaw leapt from his bed

With his lean arms held on high,

'Fire!' And the word was scarcely said

When the mountains rang to rain of lead -

And the dawn went drifting by.

They kept their word and they paid his pay

Where a clean man's hand would shrink;

And that was the traitor's master day

As he stood by the bar on his homeward way

And called on the crowd to drink.

He banned no creed and he barred no class,

And he called to his friends by name;

But the worst would shake his head and pass

And none would drink from the bloodstained glass

And the goblet red with shame.

And I know when I hear the last grim call

And my mortal hour is spent,

When the light is hid and the curtains fall

I would rather sleep with the dead Ben Hall

Than go where that traitor went.

Bob

16th October 2013, 09:36 AM

The Call of the Bush

Three roads there are that climb and wind
Amongst the hills, and leave behind
The patterned orchards, sloping down
To meet a little country town.

And of these roads I'll take the one
That tops the ridges, where the sun
Is tempered by the mountain-breeze
And dancing shadows of the trees.

The road is rough - but to my feet
Softer than is the city street;
And then the trees! - how beautiful
She-oak and gum - how fresh and cool!

No walls there are to hamper me;
Only in blue infinity
The distant mountain-ramparts rise
Beneath the broad arch of the skies.

And in that high place I shall hear
The wild birds' singing, soft and clear;
And horse-bells tinkling as of old
In amongst the wattles' gold

Far-off is the ocean tide;
But there across the country-side
Roll waves of bush that rise and fall
To break against the mountain-wall.

And every little farm is seen
An island in a sea of green;
And every little farm at night
Flings through the dark its beacon-light -

There in the silence of the hills,
I shall find peace that soothes and stills
The throbbing of the weary brain, -
For I am going home again.

Dora Wilcox

Avo

16th October 2013, 09:19 PM

here's one of my own I smashed out for one of my daughters first year on earth...

The day I was due was june 29
But I waited a week and entered my own date and time
The nurses rolled me in a blanket,tossed me in a crib
Took me to the nursery and did what nurses did!
They measured me and weighed me,that was just fine
But when they put me in the bath,that's where I drew the line
I screamed and screamed making quite a fuss
lucky I couldn't talk yet cause I know I would have cussed.

My first word was mum while upset in my cot,
then came ada (dad),sis and what-da?but sis I now forgot
I learnt to go "PFFF"when I need of a nappy change
Should have heard the noises dad makes,and pulls faces that are strange
I've also learnt to eat solid food,sit up and even clap
Or blowing my mum kisses then sit angel like in her lap
And I can say yummy by slurping food through my lips
Which my dad calls them ,my little animal tricks

I can shake my head NO! at dads commands
Wave "See ya" by flapping my little hands
I know when I rub my eyes that it's time for bed
And I can do "yeah Ebony"with my arms above my head
Play peek a boo mummy till she's had enough
I like nursery rhymes,music and dancing too
I'm always on the prowl for something else to do
The cuboards I know now open and close
But dad is usually watching and says"NO Ebony rose"
No is all he seems to say so i'll leave it for another day
And now your relaxed with time on your hands
It's time for me to learn balance and stand.........

Our Lovely daughter Ebony Rose Williams

Avo

16th October 2013, 09:28 PM

alright that was for an Australian but not bush poetry so here's another I once wrote..

Across the misty dew laden farms
Lay an quietness of an era
Full of adventurous yarns

Of once how the bullocks broke loose
And left logs on the track,and the poor bugger
Who took a week to get them back
They say it was said without a lie
That he ate some sort of mushroom
And swore he could fly
Happy as larry or as a pig in mud
When he came down to earth he did with a thud

Avo

16th October 2013, 09:33 PM

Another by me

Another also of a farmer and his pup
The bloody things four and still hasn't grown up
He would come home at night all sodden and spent
And tell his dear wife how his day went
From his work wrinkled face,a hint of a grin
You wouldn't believe what a good day it's been

While watching the dog doing his usual tricks
I had quite enough and knew just the fix
With the cattle prodder I gave him a zap on the arse
A yelp and a howl and scurring fast
He swung around to have the last lunge
When I zapped the bugger right on his tongue
As his jaws clamped down his eyes lit up
And that was the day he stopped being a pup

Bob

17th October 2013, 06:44 AM

Thanks for those wa489

Quite impressive

Avo

17th October 2013, 09:53 AM

Thanks Bob,thats all I got for now,have about 3 books on bush poetry written by a bloke from down this way i'll try and dig them out to put a few up...

Bob

30th October 2013, 10:26 AM

The Wattle Tree

Winter is not yet gone - but now

The birds are carolling from the bough.

And the mist has rolled away

Leaving more beautiful the day.

The sun is out - O come with me

To look upon the wattle tree!

Let misers hoard and hide their gold;

Here there is treasure-trove untold,

In yellow blossom, mass on mass

Spread out for wayfarers who pass

With hearts to feel, and eyes to see

How lovely is the wattle tree.

O strange, O magical! to forget

For a moment care and fret,

Whilst the next spirit, like a cup

Drained of delight, again fills up

And overflows with ecstasy

Before the miracle of the tree.

And rich and poor, who pause to bless

The shining tree in thankfulness,

Are bound in fellowship indeed.

What matter politics or creed,

Or class or colour? surely he

Loves mankind who loves a Tree!

Towards illimitable skies

From the earth the trees arise:

Givers of Joy, their gold and green

Against the blue of Heaven is seen.

A symbol of man's destiny

Is the blossoming the wattle tree.

Winter is not yet gone - but now

The birds are carolling from the bough.

And the mist has rolled away

Leaving more beautiful the day.

The sun is out - O come with me

To look upon the wattle tree!

Dora Wilcox

Bob

21st November 2013, 07:09 AM

TPC

3rd December 2013, 08:34 AM

He was getting old and paunchy

And his hair was falling fast,

And he sat around the Legion,

Telling stories of the past.

Of a war that he once fought in

And the deeds that he had done,

In his exploits with his buddies;

They were heroes, every one.

And 'tho sometimes to his neighbors

His tales became a joke,

All his buddies listened quietly

For they knew where of he spoke.

But we'll hear his tales no longer,

For ol' Joe has passed away,

And the world's a little poorer

For a Soldier died today.

He won't be mourned by many,

Just his children and his wife.

For he lived an ordinary,

Very quiet sort of life.

He held a job and raised a family,

Going quietly on his way;

And the world won't note his passing,

'Tho a Soldier died today.

When politicians leave this earth,

Their bodies lie in state,

While thousands note their passing,

And proclaim that they were great.

Papers tell of their life stories

From the time that they were young

But the passing of a Soldier

Goes unnoticed, and unsung.

Is the greatest contribution

To the welfare of our land,

Some jerk who breaks his promise

And cons his fellow man?

Or the ordinary fellow

Who in times of war and strife,

Goes off to serve his country

And offers up his life?

The politician's stipend

And the style in which he lives,

Are often disproportionate,

To the service that he gives.

While the ordinary Soldier,

Who offered up his all,

Is paid off with a medal

And perhaps a pension, small.

It is not the politicians

With their compromise and ploys,

Who won for us the freedom

That our country now enjoys.

Should you find yourself in danger,

With your enemies at hand,

Would you really want some cop-out,

With his ever waffling stand?

Or would you want a Soldier

His home, his country, his kin,

Just a common Soldier,

Who would fight until the end.

He was just a common Soldier,

And his ranks are growing thin,

But his presence should remind us

We may need his likes again.

For when countries are in conflict,

We find the Soldier's part

Is to clean up all the troubles

That the politicians start.

If we cannot do him honor

While he's here to hear the praise,

Then at least let's give him homage

At the ending of his days.

Perhaps just a simple headline

In the paper that might say:

"OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,

A SOLDIER DIED TODAY."

Bob

1st October 2014, 10:49 AM

THE COLOURS OF LIGHT

This is not easy to understand
For you that come from a distant land
Where all the COLOURS are low in pitch -
Deep purples, emeralds deep and rich,
Where autumn's flaming and summer's green -
Here is a beauty you have not seen.

All is pitched in a higher key,
Lilac, topaz, and ivory,
Palest jade-green and pale clear blue
Like aquamarines that the sun shines through,
Golds and silvers, we have at will -
Silver and gold on each plain and hill,
Silver-green of the myall leaves,
Tawny gold of the garnered sheaves,
Silver rivers that silent slide,
Golden sands by the water-side,

Golden wattle, and golden broom,
Silver stars of the rosewood bloom;
Amber sunshine, and smoke-blue shade:
Opal colours that glow and fade;
On the gold of the upland grass
Blue cloud-shadows that swiftly pass;
Wood-smoke blown in an azure mist;
Hills of tenuous amethyst. . .

Oft the colours are pitched so high
The deepest note is the cobalt sky;
We have to wait till the sunset comes
For shades that feel like the beat of drums -
Or like organ notes in their rise and fall -
Purple and orange and cardinal,
Or the peacock-green that turns soft and slow
To peacock-blue as the great stars show . . .

Sugar-gum boles flushed to peach-blow pink;
Blue-gums, tall at the clearing's brink;
Ivory pillars, their smooth fine slope
Dappled with delicate heliotrope;
Grey of the twisted mulga-roots;
Golden-bronze of the budding shoots;
Tints of the lichens that cling and spread,
Nile-green, primrose, and palest red . . .

Sheen of the bronze-wing; blue of the crane;
Fawn and pearl of the lyrebird's train;
Cream of the plover; grey of the dove -
These are the hues of the land I love.

Dorothea MacKellar

TPC

24th February 2015, 04:56 PM

Plastic Stacker Chair.

Trevor’s on a mission to Consumer Affairs,

trying to get a ban on plastic stacker chairs

He reckons that they’re dangerous, a serious threat to life

Cos it was through a plastic chair that he got into strife.

It was at the Tamworth Festival, a concert in the park,

Trev and Ken were there, with gear to last them until dark.

An esky full of coldies, Trev was without a care-

Stubbies, thongs and t-shirt, on his plastic stacker chair.

But as he stretched his legs out, his left crown jewel rolled free,

and dropped through the chair seat, a real catastrophe.

But Trev remained unaware of his dire situation,

Until they gave the singer a standing ovation.

As Trev rose to his feet he gave a fearsome yell,

Cos tethered to his testicle,

The chair came up as well.

He grabbed the chair with both hands as he crashed back to the ground,

But the errant family jewel was well and truly stuck he quickly found

He tried to extract the enclosed cod but he began to curse

Cos nothing he did seemed to work, it only made things worse.

Trev’s mate Ken was laughing fit to go right off his brain,

Ken’s tears were from laughter but Trev’s were from real pain.

Ken produced a Stanley knife and Trev’s mouth went dry,

He said “I’ll only cut the chair” but Trev wouldn’t let him try.

Well Ken climbed underneath the chair and tried to poke things through,

It’s times like these when you find out what your mates will really do.

They pulled and poked and prodded but all efforts were in vain

Trevor’s nut was red and raw and giving heaps of pain

All this unwanted attention was no good you realise,

Trevor’s tortured testicle swelled to twice its size.

Well the word spread quickly througT the Park,

And people tried to get a glimpse of trev’s threatened castration.

Mums and Dads and kids and dogs of every age-

Trev got more attention than the singer on the stage.

Little kids were pointing, dogs were trying to have a smell,

And Trevor, trying to cover up, said “Go to Bloody Hell”!

“Poor bloke needs an ice pack” was the only good advice,

So they sat Trevor over his esky, with his agate in the ice!

Someone called an ambulance, and they drove through the crowd,

Trev was drinking Bundy rum, and swearing very loud.

When the ambos stopped laughing they carted Trev away,

to the hospital where he was the highlight of the day.

Well Trevor’s now recovered, with both crown jewels in place,

But don’t offer him a plastic chair if you truly value your face.

And next year at the Festival Trevor will be there,

wearing tight undies and long trousers, on his canvas fold-out chair.

mudnut

24th February 2015, 05:02 PM

That's bloody funny, Tony.

threedogs

24th February 2015, 05:20 PM

X 2 really needed that thanks pml

BigRAWesty

24th February 2015, 05:47 PM

Good one tony.

Bob

26th February 2015, 07:03 AM

Where the Dead Men Lie

(Banjo Paterson thought this was one of Barcroft's first class works and so do I)

Out on the wastes of the "Never Never,"
That's where the dead men lie,
There where the heat-waves dance forever,
That's where the dead men lie;
That's where the Earth's lov'd sons are keeping
endless tryst - not the west wind sweeping
feverish pinions, can wake their sleeping -
Out where the dead men lie!

Where brown Summer and Death have mated,
That's where the dead men lie,
Loving with fiery lust unsated,
That's where the dead men lie;
Out where the grinning skulls bleach whitely,
Under the saltbush sparkling brightly,
Out where the wild dogs chorus nightly,
That's where the dead men lie.

Deep in the yellow, flowing river,
That's where the dead men lie,
Under the banks where the shadows quiver,
That's where the dead men lie;
Where the platypus twists and doubles,
leaving a trail of tiny bubbles;
Rid at last of their earthly troubles,
That's where the dead men lie.

East and backward pale faces turning,
That's how the dead men lie;
Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning,
That's how the dead men lie;
Oft in the fragrant hush of nooning,
Hearing again their mother's crooning,
Wrapt for aye in a dreadful swooning,
That's how the dead men lie.

Nought but the hand of Night can free them;
That's when the dead men fly;
Only the frightened cattle see them -
See the dead men go by;
Cloven hoofs beating out one measure,

Barecroft Henry Boake

Family4x4

26th February 2015, 09:55 AM

Great thread. Much to my familys delight I start reciting Mulga bill every time we go to Eaglehawk which is quite often as the gun shop has moved there.

Bob

26th February 2015, 12:17 PM

SONG OF THE ARTESIAN WATER

Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought;

But we’re sick of prayers and providence - we’re going to do without;

With the derricks up above us and the solid earth below,

We are waiting at the lever for the word to let her go.

Sinking down, deeper down,

Oh, we’ll sink it deeper down:

As the drill is plugging downward at a thousand feet of level,

If the Lord won’t send us water, oh, we’ll get it from the devil;

Yes, we’ll get it from the devil deeper down.

Now, our engine’s built in Glasgow by a very canny Scot,

And he marked it twenty horse-power, but he don’t know what is what:

When Canadian Bill is firing with the sun-dried gidgee logs,

She can equal thirty horses and a score or so of dogs.

Sinking down, deeper down,

Oh, we’re going deeper down:

If we fail to get the water, then it’s ruin to the squatter,

For the drought is on the station and the weather’s growing hotter,

But we’re bound to get the water deeper down.

But the shaft has started caving and the sinking’s very slow,

And the yellow rods are bending in the water down below,

And the tubes are always jamming, and they can’t be made to shift

Till we nearly burst the engine with a forty horse-power lift.

Sinking down, deeper down,

Oh, we’re going deeper down,

though the shaft is always caving, and the tubes are always jamming,

Yet we’ll fight our way to water while the stubborn drill is ramming -

While the stubborn drill is ramming deeper down.

But there’s no artesian water, though we’ve passed three thousand feet,

And the contract price is growing, and the boss is nearly beat.

But it must be down beneath us, and it’s down we’ve got to go,

Though she’s bumping on the solid rock four thousand feet below,

Sinking down, deeper down,

Oh, we’re going deeper down:

And it’s time they heard us knocking on the roof of Satan’s dwellin’;

But we’ll get artesian water if we cave the roof of hell in -

Oh, we’ll get artesian water deeper down.

But it’s hark! The whistle,s blowing with a wild, exultant blast,

And the boys are madly cheering, for they’ve struck the flow at last;

And it’s rushing up the tubing from four thousand feet below,

Till it spouts above the casing in a million-gallon flow.

And it’s down, deeper down -

Oh, it comes from deeper down;

It is flowing ever flowing, in a free, unstinted measure

From the silent hidden places where the old earth hides her treasure-

Where the old earth hides her treasures deeper down.

And it’s clear away the timber, and it’s let the water run:

How it glimmers in the shadow, how it flashes in the sun!

By the silent belts of timber, by the miles of blazing plain

It is bringing hope and comfort to the thirsty land again.

Flowing down, further down;

It is flowing further down

To the tortured thirsty cattle, bringing gladness in its going;

Through the droughty days of summer it is flowing, ever flowing -

It is flowing, ever flowing, further down.

A. B. Paterson

mudnut

15th March 2015, 09:20 AM

Blasted Crows

Rack off, you feathered demons, leave me be.
I am helpless as a new born lamb, its eyes your easy meal.
Your calls drive me to despair, as does your destructive talent.
All efforts forwarding your ruin, to nothing they amount.

Rack off, you winged hecklers, your exit is desired.
Your song grating and forlorn, nor is it inspired.
You keep your distance when I’m armed ready to take the shot.
But merrily show yourselves when I’m unprepared and not.

Rack off, you dark harbingers of anguish and depression.
My fresh-sown crop will be consumed at your leisurely discretion.
No devices I have erected to harass you and avert,
have the slightest effect, are useless, totally inert.

Rack off, you flock of vermin that I loathe and despise.
Take your leave! Inhabit some other poor farmer’s skies.
Hawk and eagle you harass, doggedly drive away,
leaving rodents in my fields to chew my profits away.

Rack off, you ravaging raven hoard.
You are akin to my bankers’ management board.
Sitting there waiting for me to fail,
ready to swarm in and take my last bale.

Rack off, you feckless financial wizards
Eating irons in hand set to feast on my fiscal gizzards.
Since being unshackled from your regulatory restraints
All that matters is your investor’s monetary gain.

Rack off, you suited hyena pack,
set to strip the flesh right off my back.
Three generations, for sixty golden years
this land has fed on my family’s blood sweat and tears.

Rack off, you unprincipled parasites,
your property manager is now at my gates.
At his hands my future is not hard to deduce,
I’ll be driving trucks, delivering foreign produce.

mudnut.

Avo

15th March 2015, 05:16 PM

wow,that is good....thanks mudnut

Gecko17

17th March 2015, 03:31 PM

You really need to publish that Mudnut! That is awesome!

mudnut

17th March 2015, 03:45 PM

Thanks blokes. I've written a few others but the computer they were on went BANG! I'll have to dig around and see if I've still got them.

Avo

28th July 2017, 10:44 PM

Dhuck

28th July 2017, 11:20 PM

Bloody dogs

FNQGU

18th November 2018, 09:36 PM

A rhythm induced, world spinning, high. Heavy rock rules, the mountains rumble. Shifting and rolling. Lightning flashes, the clouds part, the secrets of the heavens revealed. Visions flash. Beach fires. Sparks flying. The earth kneels to the Gods of energy.

The joining of minds, the simplicity of the beat. The beast grows from mere particles into one. One beat, one rhythm, one passion. Shit gets real. Fingers fly, chords explode, hips move, arms rise, the body moves without volition.

A gasp of breath after a shattering of the universe I thought was real. Life again? Regrets remain. Rhythm rules. The heart pumps.
Me

FNQGU

18th November 2018, 10:12 PM

Mind dump, sorry people. Wrote that after my Dad passed away. I was on the piss with my memories and some cranking tunes. The words just fell onto the keyboard. No rhyme or reason. Just felt right to let it fly...

18th November 2018, 11:06 PM

Never be sorry mate, it was powerful, thankyou!

Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

Avo

10th April 2020, 09:22 PM

Goodnight Bob..R.I.P
Thanks for the poems you shared
Thinking of you mate,

Sent from my SM-A205YN using Tapatalk

Arfa Brayne

10th April 2020, 10:37 PM

RIP Bob.
Here's one for when you get to heaven.

BRAWLING IN THE NAME OF GOD

I was at a church convention
sitting quietly on my seat
As I listened quite intently to the throng
For their words had firm conviction
and their argument had heat
as they discussed the different points of right & wrong

Said the Baptist, with a booming voice
The way to god is clear !
or the curse of fire & brimstone you will find
Woe betide the one amongst you
who fails to cringe in godly fear
for beneath the stones of hell your soul will grind.

Don’t be tense, said Krishna softly
in his bright & fluttering dress
You must first find peace & happiness within
Come with me and chant a mantra
It will help relieve your stress
Come give offering to Krishna and his kin

Away foul demon ! , spat the Catholic
at poor Krishna’s vacant stare
Shun your idols, and your gods, and chanting way
Ten Hail Marys to the mother
And give the saints your prayer
For there is but one, to who we all must pray

That is true !, we pray to Allah !
sang the Muslim bowing low
To Jehovah !, called the Witness standing near
Praise to Buddha, gushed the Buddhist
(and each man began to crow
their god’s name, so loud, that god could surely hear!)

They berated one another
and they poked each others chests
and fist-i-cuffs came very close to hand
So I thought I,d turn the lights out
Just to give them all a rest
and give myself some time to understand

So I slipped outside the building
where the air was fresh & cool
and I looked up to the stars that specked the sky
and I honestly considered
If that mob of squabbling fools
Had any greater grasp of god than I

Howard Izz.

Arfa Brayne

10th April 2020, 11:16 PM

One of my favourites was already posted on this thread "The Coachman's Yarn" by E.J. Brady
http://www.nissanpatrol.com.au/forums/showthread.php?15708-Lets-hear-some-Aussie-Bush-Poetry&p=309202&viewfull=1#post309202 -

this one is a similar style.

Jones's Selection

You hear a lot of new-chum talk
Of goin’ on the land.
An raisin’ record crops of wheat
On rocks and flamin’ sand.

I ‘ates exaggerated skite,
But if yer likes I can
Authenticate a case in which
The land went on the man.

Bill Jones ‘e ‘ad a mountain block
Up Kosciusko way,
He farmed it pretty night to death,
The neighbours used to say.

He scarified its surface
With his double-furrow ploughs,
An’ ate its blinded hearted right out
With sheep and milkin’ cows.

He filled its blamed intestines up
With agricultural pipes,
An’ lime an’ superphosphates – fit
To give the land the gripes

Until at length the tortured soil,
Worn out with Jones’s thrift,
Decided as the time was come
To up an’ make a shift.

One day the mountain shook itself
An’ give a sort of groan,
The neighbours they was a lot more scared
Than they was game to own.

Their jaws they dropped upon their chests,
Their eyes they opened wide,
They saw the whole of Jones’s farm
Upend itself and slide.

It slithered down the mountain spur,
Majestic-like an’ slow,
An’ landed in the river bed,
A thousand feet below.

Bill Jones was on the lower slopes
Of ‘is long-suffering farm,
a-testin’ some new-fangled plough
which acted like a charm.

He’d just been screwin’ up a nut
When somethin’ seemed to crack,
An’ fifty acres, more or less,
Come down on Jones’s back.

Twas sudden-like, a shake, a crack,
A slitherin’ slide, an’ Bill
Was buried fifty feet below
The soil he used to till.

One moment Bill was standin’ up
A-owning all that land,
The next ‘e’s in eternity –
A spanner in ‘is ‘and.

They never dug up no remains
Nor scraps of William Jones –
The superphosphates ate the lot,
Hide, buttons, boots and bones.

For this ‘ere land wot Jones abused
And harassed in the past
‘Ad turned an’ wiped ‘im out, an’ things
Got evened up at last.

From this untimely end o’ Bill
It would perhaps appear
That goin’ free-selectin’ ain’t
All skittles, no, nor beer.

So all you cocky city coves
Wot’s savin’ up yer screws
To get upon the land, look out
The land don’t get on youse.

G.H.Gibson.