Lets hear some Aussie Bush Poetry

Good one tony.

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

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.

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

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.

wow,that is good....thanks mudnut

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

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.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Avo

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

---

ah today was one of them days

Bloody dogs