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
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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
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
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
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
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
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
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......)
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
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)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_ZB98eS1fs
RIP Hayesy
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
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
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
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"
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
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
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".
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,,,,,,,,,,,
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
Now Bob's retired he will have plenty of time to put some original compositions up here.
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
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
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
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.
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)
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 :)
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
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
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 ?????
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.
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
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
thats quite a nice poem threedogs, youve got some talent there!
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
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
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
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!
TPC ... loved it! where did you find that?
ps. I'm expecting a stock rep visit soon as it happens
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,,,,,,,,,,
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.Quote:
Originally Posted by twisty
Make sure you keep your pants on for the stock rep visit.