Lets hear some Aussie Bush Poetry

Early to Rise for the day has begun!

Early to rise with jobs to do,
Breakfast was quick as the air was cold!
Off up the paddock I muster the dogs,
While Dad drives the cattle towards the yards to be sold!

Collect the eggs then feed the chooks,
The days are long when you live in the bush!
Chop some wood for mum’s old stove,
My little brothers asleep I’ll give him a push!

We travel through rain, sleet and the dry,
Or ride to school atop Dad’s mare!
Our trips to school were often left wanting,
As we watched the water buffalo, stop and stare!

Although our lives as we knew them were lost,
For the white fella brought many changes!
They’re intentions were good or so we were told,
But for us, we were roaming the ranges!

By: Jacob Forrest
May 2010

The Drover’s old blue mate!


He served none else than Peter Meehan,
His master and his friend.
A comradeship wove of the bush
To last unto the end.
Mute faith in one, a friendship bond,
In rugged ranges where
A loneliness prevailed the scene,
Just man and dog to share!

They shared each others humble way,
The way of bush law treading.
Beneath Australia’s sunny skies,
Beneath the tree ferns bending.
Along the ranges beside the stream,
A way of life transcending.

Until the end, the bitter end,
Though dumb in canine way
He wove a story of the bush that
We respect today.
He served to mould a history, though
Little was he known.
He rests beside this mountain stream
Beneath these slabs of stone!


-S J Treasure
1964

Not my cup of tea but wrote this in 03 for some reason, still got me beat why.

THE RIVER by TD

Just staring at the campfire
I've often wondered why'
whats happened over the years
as the river flows slowly by

This truly is the meaning of life
as God has testified,
for without this mighty river,
all things would surely die.

Like the river redgums
and the flood plains further down
theres life along this river
'and its easy to be found

There are fish Rex taught us how to catch,
where roo's come down to drink,
but when ts gone,
it'll be too late for the bureaucrats to think

They buggered up the Snowy
and the Coopers next to go,
but when all the historys gone
we'll have nothing left to show

So enjoy this mighty river
whilst you have the chance,
go sit down by your campfire
and watch the river dance.

I really like that threedogs! I hear ya!

brilliant 3d sounds like youve been writing for years great poem mate

Yeah thanks was having a moment , like when you can stare at a campfire for hours and not say a word, same as sitting on top af the cliffs watching the waves smash into the rocks. who knows might have another one in me after cod opening.LOL

will be a great one with cod and the mighty murry

the Murray Cod or "GooDoo" and the River Murray are both very majestic creatures in their own right!
To experience their regal beauty side by side is simply awesome!

"The boy stood on the burning deck with a pocket full of crackers,,,,

,,,,,,, one fell down beneath the deck and blew off both his knackers!

"Mary had a little lamb, it's fleece was black as charcoal,,,,,
,,,,, everytime it jumped the fence, you could see its little arsehole!


"Mary had a little lamb, the kids all used to heckle,,,,,
,,,,,, evertime it jumped the fence you could see its little freckle!

Spring has sprung
the Grass has Rizz
and I wonder where the flowers is
Birds on Wing
Now isnt that absurd
I always thought the Wings were on the Bird

You hitting the giggle juice earlier than normal Bob. I like reading your "pearls of wisdom"
standard slipping a touch lol

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by threedogs

You hitting the giggle juice earlier than normal Bob. I like reading your "pearls of wisdom"
standard slipping a touch lol

---

Yeah we all have our Off days LOL

And also apologies to The Bigfella for mucking up his thread

hey Bob, no apologies needed man, like listening and reciting bush poetry thats all mate.

if you have some ditties, lets have em,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

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

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

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.'

Stop, stop, stop!

I am starting to cry now!

Regards,

RLI

Thanks Bob, they were awesome!

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

Long live the yarns, I say!

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

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')

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.

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.

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

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

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

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!

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.

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

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/

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

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)

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...

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

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

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

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

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)

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

Jas

Quote:

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Originally Posted by lorrieandjas

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

Jas

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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