Bah bah black sheep,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
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Bah bah black sheep,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
The Big White Bullock
Under a guidin’ providence
Is Mickety Mulga Jim,
For nothink yet of serious ‘arm
‘As ever come to him.
A big white Bullick charged him once,
But never gored ‘is pelt
Because the animal’ s two ‘orns
Run just inside ‘is belt.
The Bullick kicked and tossed and roared,
But couldn’t shake him loose;
Jim tried to slip the buckle free,
But found it was no use.
For days and days, so Mulga says,
He was suspended so,
And then became unconscious
Wid swinging to and fro.
In this suspensive attitude
He hung, he thinks, a week,
Until the bullick went to drink
And soused him in the creek.
The water brought his senses back,
And made him kick and cough,
Till wid his frantic strugglin’s
The bullick’s ‘orns broke orf,
If to convince his hearers
This anecdote should fail,
He shows ‘em both the ‘orns and belt
To certify his tale.
T Ranken
Old Tracks
© Vivienne Ledlie
They fascinate and beckon me,
Old tracks and roads unsealed,
Presenting such a challenge to
Explore their haunts concealed.
Sometimes a track leads nowhere, stops
Abruptly 'midst the trees
Which guard the secrets of this place,
Left floating in the breeze.
One track leads to a miner's shack,
Abandoned to its fate:
A rusty dish which panned for gold,
A battered metal plate.
Sometimes a lonely fishing beach
Where sandflies bite and sting,
Where mangroves spread their eerie roots
Which harbour fingerling.
Maybe just rotting stumps portray
What was a family home;
Now mango and bush lemon trees
Thrive in the sandy loam.
The sprawling chinky-apple trees,
The broken windmill fins;
Glass bottle fragments' darting glint,
Corroded, empty tins.
Just rubbish now, just useless trash,
Which speak of bygone days
When folk fought bravely in their quest,
Surviving Nature's frays.
I ponder on their meagre lives,
This pioneering breed;
From diverse origins they came
And lived by Mateship's Creed.
These dusty roads and lonely tracks
Intrigue, appeal, assuage:
Imagination's open book
Where History turns the page.
The Little Worn Out Pony
There's a little worn-out pony this side of Hogan's shack
With a snip upon his nuzzle and a mark upon his back;
Just a common little pony is what most people say,
But then of course they've never heard what happened in his day:
I was droving on the Leichhardt with a mob of pikers wild,
When this tibby little pony belonged to Hogan's child.
One night it started raining – we were camping on a rise,
When the wind blew cold and bleakly and thunder shook the skies;
The lightning cut the figure eight around the startled cattle,
Then down there fell torrential rains and then began a battle.
In a fraction of an instant the wild mob became insane,
Careering through the timber helter-skelter for the plain.
The timber fell before them like grass before a scythe,
And heavy rain in torrents poured from the grimly blackened sky;
The mob rushed ever onward through the slippery sodden ground,
While the men and I worked frantically to veer their heads around;
And then arose an awful cry – it came from Jimmy Rild,
For there between two saplings straight ahead was Hogan's child.
I owned not man or devil, I had not prayed since when,
But I called upon the blessed Lord to show His mercy then;
I shut my eyes and ground my teeth, the end I dared not see
Great God! The cattle – a thousand head – were crashing through the trees.
"God pity us bush children in our darkest hour of need,"
Were the words I prayed although I followed neither church or creed.
Then my right-hand 'man was shouting, the faithful Jimmy Rild,
"Did you see it, Harry, see the way he saved that child?"
"Saved! Saved, did you say?" and I shot upright with a bound,
"Yes, saved," he said, "indeed old man, the child is safe and sound.
I was feeling pretty shaky and was gazing up the track,
Just then a pony galloped, the kid hopped on its back.
"A blinding Bash of lightning then the thunder's rolling crack;
With two hands clasped upon his mane he raced towards the shack."
"Good heavens, man," I shouted then, "if that is truly so,
To blazes with the cattle, to the shanty we must go."
We reached Bill Hogan's shanty in fifteen minutes' ride,
Then left our horses standing and wildly rushed inside.
The little child was there unhurt but shivering with fear,
And Hogan told us, "Yes, thank God, there's the pony brought her here."
There's a little worn-out pony just this side of Hogan's shack
With a snip upon his nuzzle and a mark upon his back;
Just a common little pony is what most people say,
But I doubt if there's his equal in the pony world today.
anon
AT THE MELTING OF THE SNOW by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
There's a sunny Southern land,
And it's there that I would be
Where the big hills stand,
In the South Countrie!
When the wattles bloom again,
Then it's time for us to go
To the old Monaro country
At the melting of the snow.
To the East or to the West,
Or wherever you may be,
You will find no place
Like the South Countrie.
For the skies are blue above,
And the grass is green below,
In the old Monaro country
At the melting of the snow.
Now the team is in the plough,
And the thrushes start to sing,
And the pigeons on the bough
Sit a-welcoming the Spring.
So come my comrades all,
Let us saddle up and go
To the old Monaro country
At the melting of the snow.
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!
THE DEATH OF BEN HALL
Will. H. Ogilvie (1869 - 1963)
Ben Hall was out on Lachlans side
With a thousand pounds on his head;
A score of troopers were scattered wide
And a hundred more were ready to ride
Wherever a rumour led.
They had followed his track from the
Weddin Heights And north by the Weelong yards;
Through dazzling days and moonlit nights
They had sought him over their rifle-sights,
With their hands on their trigger guards.
The outlaw stole like a hunted fox
Through the scrub and stunted heath,
And peered like a hawk from his eyrie rocks
Through the waving boughs of the sapling box
On the troopers riding beneath.
His clothes were rent by the clutching thorn
And his blistered feet were bare;
Ragged and torn, with his beard unshorn,
He hid like a beast forlorn,
With a padded path to his lair.
But every night when the white stars rose
He crossed by the Gunning Plain
To a stockman's hut where the Gunning flows,
And struck on the door three swift light blows,
And a hand unhooked the chain -
And the outlaw followed the lone path back
With food for another day;
And the kindly darkness covered his track
And the shadows swallowed him deep and black
Where the starlight melted away.
But his friend had read of the big reward,
And his soul was stirred with greed;
He fastened his door and window board,
He saddled his horse and crossed the ford,
And spurred to the town at speed.
You may ride at a man's or maid's behest
When honour or true love call
And steel your heart to the worst or the best,
But the ride that is ta'en on a traitor's quest
Is the bitterest ride of all.
A hot wind blew from the Lachlan bank
And a curse on its shoulder came;
The pine-trees frowned at him, rank on rank,
The sun on a gathering storm-cloud sank
And flushed his cheek with shame.
He reigned at the Court; and the tale began
That the rifles alone should end;
Sergeant and trooper laid their plan
To draw the net on a hunted man
At the treacherous word of a friend.
False was the hand that raised the chain
And false was the whispered word:
'The troopers have turned to the south again,
You may dare to camp on the Gunning Plain.'
And the weary outlaw heard.
He walked from the hut but a quarter mile
Where a clump of saplings stood
In a sea of grass like a lonely isle;
And the moon came up in a little while
Like silver steeped in blood.
Ben Hall lay down on the dew-wet ground
By the side of his tiny fire;
And a night breeze woke, and he heard no sound
As the troopers drew their cordon round -
And the traitor earned his hire.
And nothing they saw in the dim grey light,
But the little glow in the trees;
And they crouched in the tall cold grass all night,
Each one ready to shoot at sight,
With his rifle cocked on his knees.
When the shadows broke and the dawn's white sword
Swung over the mountain wall,
And a little wind blew over the ford,
A sargeant sprang to his feet and roared:
'In the name of the Queen, Ben Hall!'
Haggard, the outlaw leapt from his bed
With his lean arms held on high,
'Fire!' And the word was scarcely said
When the mountains rang to rain of lead -
And the dawn went drifting by.
They kept their word and they paid his pay
Where a clean man's hand would shrink;
And that was the traitor's master day
As he stood by the bar on his homeward way
And called on the crowd to drink.
He banned no creed and he barred no class,
And he called to his friends by name;
But the worst would shake his head and pass
And none would drink from the bloodstained glass
And the goblet red with shame.
And I know when I hear the last grim call
And my mortal hour is spent,
When the light is hid and the curtains fall
I would rather sleep with the dead Ben Hall
Than go where that traitor went.
The Call of the Bush
Three roads there are that climb and wind
Amongst the hills, and leave behind
The patterned orchards, sloping down
To meet a little country town.
And of these roads I'll take the one
That tops the ridges, where the sun
Is tempered by the mountain-breeze
And dancing shadows of the trees.
The road is rough - but to my feet
Softer than is the city street;
And then the trees! - how beautiful
She-oak and gum - how fresh and cool!
No walls there are to hamper me;
Only in blue infinity
The distant mountain-ramparts rise
Beneath the broad arch of the skies.
And in that high place I shall hear
The wild birds' singing, soft and clear;
And horse-bells tinkling as of old
In amongst the wattles' gold
Far-off is the ocean tide;
But there across the country-side
Roll waves of bush that rise and fall
To break against the mountain-wall.
And every little farm is seen
An island in a sea of green;
And every little farm at night
Flings through the dark its beacon-light -
There in the silence of the hills,
I shall find peace that soothes and stills
The throbbing of the weary brain, -
For I am going home again.
Dora Wilcox
here's one of my own I smashed out for one of my daughters first year on earth...
The day I was due was june 29
But I waited a week and entered my own date and time
The nurses rolled me in a blanket,tossed me in a crib
Took me to the nursery and did what nurses did!
They measured me and weighed me,that was just fine
But when they put me in the bath,that's where I drew the line
I screamed and screamed making quite a fuss
lucky I couldn't talk yet cause I know I would have cussed.
My first word was mum while upset in my cot,
then came ada (dad),sis and what-da?but sis I now forgot
I learnt to go "PFFF"when I need of a nappy change
Should have heard the noises dad makes,and pulls faces that are strange
I've also learnt to eat solid food,sit up and even clap
Or blowing my mum kisses then sit angel like in her lap
And I can say yummy by slurping food through my lips
Which my dad calls them ,my little animal tricks
I can shake my head NO! at dads commands
Wave "See ya" by flapping my little hands
I know when I rub my eyes that it's time for bed
And I can do "yeah Ebony"with my arms above my head
Play peek a boo mummy till she's had enough
I like nursery rhymes,music and dancing too
I'm always on the prowl for something else to do
The cuboards I know now open and close
But dad is usually watching and says"NO Ebony rose"
No is all he seems to say so i'll leave it for another day
And now your relaxed with time on your hands
It's time for me to learn balance and stand.........
Our Lovely daughter Ebony Rose Williams
alright that was for an Australian but not bush poetry so here's another I once wrote..
Across the misty dew laden farms
Lay an quietness of an era
Full of adventurous yarns
Of once how the bullocks broke loose
And left logs on the track,and the poor bugger
Who took a week to get them back
They say it was said without a lie
That he ate some sort of mushroom
And swore he could fly
Happy as larry or as a pig in mud
When he came down to earth he did with a thud
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
Thanks for those wa489
Quite impressive
Thanks Bob,thats all I got for now,have about 3 books on bush poetry written by a bloke from down this way i'll try and dig them out to put a few up...
The Wattle Tree
Winter is not yet gone - but now
The birds are carolling from the bough.
And the mist has rolled away
Leaving more beautiful the day.
The sun is out - O come with me
To look upon the wattle tree!
Let misers hoard and hide their gold;
Here there is treasure-trove untold,
In yellow blossom, mass on mass
Spread out for wayfarers who pass
With hearts to feel, and eyes to see
How lovely is the wattle tree.
O strange, O magical! to forget
For a moment care and fret,
Whilst the next spirit, like a cup
Drained of delight, again fills up
And overflows with ecstasy
Before the miracle of the tree.
And rich and poor, who pause to bless
The shining tree in thankfulness,
Are bound in fellowship indeed.
What matter politics or creed,
Or class or colour? surely he
Loves mankind who loves a Tree!
Towards illimitable skies
From the earth the trees arise:
Givers of Joy, their gold and green
Against the blue of Heaven is seen.
A symbol of man's destiny
Is the blossoming the wattle tree.
Winter is not yet gone - but now
The birds are carolling from the bough.
And the mist has rolled away
Leaving more beautiful the day.
The sun is out - O come with me
To look upon the wattle tree!
Dora Wilcox
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
He was getting old and paunchy
And his hair was falling fast,
And he sat around the Legion,
Telling stories of the past.
Of a war that he once fought in
And the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies;
They were heroes, every one.
And 'tho sometimes to his neighbors
His tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened quietly
For they knew where of he spoke.
But we'll hear his tales no longer,
For ol' Joe has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer
For a Soldier died today.
He won't be mourned by many,
Just his children and his wife.
For he lived an ordinary,
Very quiet sort of life.
He held a job and raised a family,
Going quietly on his way;
And the world won't note his passing,
'Tho a Soldier died today.
When politicians leave this earth,
Their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing,
And proclaim that they were great.
Papers tell of their life stories
From the time that they were young
But the passing of a Soldier
Goes unnoticed, and unsung.
Is the greatest contribution
To the welfare of our land,
Some jerk who breaks his promise
And cons his fellow man?
Or the ordinary fellow
Who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his country
And offers up his life?
The politician's stipend
And the style in which he lives,
Are often disproportionate,
To the service that he gives.
While the ordinary Soldier,
Who offered up his all,
Is paid off with a medal
And perhaps a pension, small.
It is not the politicians
With their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom
That our country now enjoys.
Should you find yourself in danger,
With your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some cop-out,
With his ever waffling stand?
Or would you want a Soldier
His home, his country, his kin,
Just a common Soldier,
Who would fight until the end.
He was just a common Soldier,
And his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us
We may need his likes again.
For when countries are in conflict,
We find the Soldier's part
Is to clean up all the troubles
That the politicians start.
If we cannot do him honor
While he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least let's give him homage
At the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline
In the paper that might say:
"OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,
A SOLDIER DIED TODAY."
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
Plastic Stacker Chair.
Trevor’s on a mission to Consumer Affairs,
trying to get a ban on plastic stacker chairs
He reckons that they’re dangerous, a serious threat to life
Cos it was through a plastic chair that he got into strife.
It was at the Tamworth Festival, a concert in the park,
Trev and Ken were there, with gear to last them until dark.
An esky full of coldies, Trev was without a care-
Stubbies, thongs and t-shirt, on his plastic stacker chair.
But as he stretched his legs out, his left crown jewel rolled free,
and dropped through the chair seat, a real catastrophe.
But Trev remained unaware of his dire situation,
Until they gave the singer a standing ovation.
As Trev rose to his feet he gave a fearsome yell,
Cos tethered to his testicle,
The chair came up as well.
He grabbed the chair with both hands as he crashed back to the ground,
But the errant family jewel was well and truly stuck he quickly found
He tried to extract the enclosed cod but he began to curse
Cos nothing he did seemed to work, it only made things worse.
Trev’s mate Ken was laughing fit to go right off his brain,
Ken’s tears were from laughter but Trev’s were from real pain.
Ken produced a Stanley knife and Trev’s mouth went dry,
He said “I’ll only cut the chair” but Trev wouldn’t let him try.
Well Ken climbed underneath the chair and tried to poke things through,
It’s times like these when you find out what your mates will really do.
They pulled and poked and prodded but all efforts were in vain
Trevor’s nut was red and raw and giving heaps of pain
All this unwanted attention was no good you realise,
Trevor’s tortured testicle swelled to twice its size.
Well the word spread quickly througT the Park,
And people tried to get a glimpse of trev’s threatened castration.
Mums and Dads and kids and dogs of every age-
Trev got more attention than the singer on the stage.
Little kids were pointing, dogs were trying to have a smell,
And Trevor, trying to cover up, said “Go to Bloody Hell”!
“Poor bloke needs an ice pack” was the only good advice,
So they sat Trevor over his esky, with his agate in the ice!
Someone called an ambulance, and they drove through the crowd,
Trev was drinking Bundy rum, and swearing very loud.
When the ambos stopped laughing they carted Trev away,
to the hospital where he was the highlight of the day.
Well Trevor’s now recovered, with both crown jewels in place,
But don’t offer him a plastic chair if you truly value your face.
And next year at the Festival Trevor will be there,
wearing tight undies and long trousers, on his canvas fold-out chair.
That's bloody funny, Tony.
X 2 really needed that thanks pml
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.
ah today was one of them daysQuote:
Originally Posted by Avo
Bloody dogs
A rhythm induced, world spinning, high. Heavy rock rules, the mountains rumble. Shifting and rolling. Lightning flashes, the clouds part, the secrets of the heavens revealed. Visions flash. Beach fires. Sparks flying. The earth kneels to the Gods of energy.
The joining of minds, the simplicity of the beat. The beast grows from mere particles into one. One beat, one rhythm, one passion. Shit gets real. Fingers fly, chords explode, hips move, arms rise, the body moves without volition.
A gasp of breath after a shattering of the universe I thought was real. Life again? Regrets remain. Rhythm rules. The heart pumps.
Me
Mind dump, sorry people. Wrote that after my Dad passed away. I was on the piss with my memories and some cranking tunes. The words just fell onto the keyboard. No rhyme or reason. Just felt right to let it fly...
Never be sorry mate, it was powerful, thankyou!
Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
Goodnight Bob..R.I.P
Thanks for the poems you shared
Thinking of you mate,
Sent from my SM-A205YN using Tapatalk
RIP Bob.
Here's one for when you get to heaven.
BRAWLING IN THE NAME OF GOD
I was at a church convention
sitting quietly on my seat
As I listened quite intently to the throng
For their words had firm conviction
and their argument had heat
as they discussed the different points of right & wrong
Said the Baptist, with a booming voice
The way to god is clear !
or the curse of fire & brimstone you will find
Woe betide the one amongst you
who fails to cringe in godly fear
for beneath the stones of hell your soul will grind.
Don’t be tense, said Krishna softly
in his bright & fluttering dress
You must first find peace & happiness within
Come with me and chant a mantra
It will help relieve your stress
Come give offering to Krishna and his kin
Away foul demon ! , spat the Catholic
at poor Krishna’s vacant stare
Shun your idols, and your gods, and chanting way
Ten Hail Marys to the mother
And give the saints your prayer
For there is but one, to who we all must pray
That is true !, we pray to Allah !
sang the Muslim bowing low
To Jehovah !, called the Witness standing near
Praise to Buddha, gushed the Buddhist
(and each man began to crow
their god’s name, so loud, that god could surely hear!)
They berated one another
and they poked each others chests
and fist-i-cuffs came very close to hand
So I thought I,d turn the lights out
Just to give them all a rest
and give myself some time to understand
So I slipped outside the building
where the air was fresh & cool
and I looked up to the stars that specked the sky
and I honestly considered
If that mob of squabbling fools
Had any greater grasp of god than I
Howard Izz.
One of my favourites was already posted on this thread "The Coachman's Yarn" by E.J. Brady
http://www.nissanpatrol.com.au/forum...l=1#post309202 -
this one is a similar style.
Jones's Selection
You hear a lot of new-chum talk
Of goin’ on the land.
An raisin’ record crops of wheat
On rocks and flamin’ sand.
I ‘ates exaggerated skite,
But if yer likes I can
Authenticate a case in which
The land went on the man.
Bill Jones ‘e ‘ad a mountain block
Up Kosciusko way,
He farmed it pretty night to death,
The neighbours used to say.
He scarified its surface
With his double-furrow ploughs,
An’ ate its blinded hearted right out
With sheep and milkin’ cows.
He filled its blamed intestines up
With agricultural pipes,
An’ lime an’ superphosphates – fit
To give the land the gripes
Until at length the tortured soil,
Worn out with Jones’s thrift,
Decided as the time was come
To up an’ make a shift.
One day the mountain shook itself
An’ give a sort of groan,
The neighbours they was a lot more scared
Than they was game to own.
Their jaws they dropped upon their chests,
Their eyes they opened wide,
They saw the whole of Jones’s farm
Upend itself and slide.
It slithered down the mountain spur,
Majestic-like an’ slow,
An’ landed in the river bed,
A thousand feet below.
Bill Jones was on the lower slopes
Of ‘is long-suffering farm,
a-testin’ some new-fangled plough
which acted like a charm.
He’d just been screwin’ up a nut
When somethin’ seemed to crack,
An’ fifty acres, more or less,
Come down on Jones’s back.
Twas sudden-like, a shake, a crack,
A slitherin’ slide, an’ Bill
Was buried fifty feet below
The soil he used to till.
One moment Bill was standin’ up
A-owning all that land,
The next ‘e’s in eternity –
A spanner in ‘is ‘and.
They never dug up no remains
Nor scraps of William Jones –
The superphosphates ate the lot,
Hide, buttons, boots and bones.
For this ‘ere land wot Jones abused
And harassed in the past
‘Ad turned an’ wiped ‘im out, an’ things
Got evened up at last.
From this untimely end o’ Bill
It would perhaps appear
That goin’ free-selectin’ ain’t
All skittles, no, nor beer.
So all you cocky city coves
Wot’s savin’ up yer screws
To get upon the land, look out
The land don’t get on youse.
G.H.Gibson.
This is a bloody beauty……
AUSSIE SPEAK
( this is a coded message that only Aussie’s will understand, see how your foreign mate goes with this)
Well I’ll go to buggery fair dinkum
I thought for sure you’d made a blue
You’re a bottler , a great little Sheila
I’m bloody stoked to be ‘going with’ you
The B and S was a little ball tearer
We was into the turps the whole night
Did some Ute circle work in the morning
‘Baldy’ and ‘Wakka’ had a bit of a yike
The show was held way out yonder
In Jack’s Woolshed, geez he’s a dag
He got knocked back by that bloody big heifer
He chucked a wobbly and was cracking’ the ‘sads’
We knocked off a slab in the arvo
Had a pie with ‘dead horse’ for a snack
Then some ringers had lit up the barby
So we lined up and gave that a crack
All together a pretty fair weekend,
All of us really do ‘hate a beer’
We pinned our ears back and went for the doctor
Now we’re all lookin worse for the wear
Now if you’re a ridgey didge Aussie
You’ll know what I’m yappin about
So pull ya head in, dive into the esky
Mate it’s your bloody shout!
Thanks to Poems by the Crazy Man in the Caravan
Sent from my SM-G973F using Tapatalk
Been brewing this one for a while, (pardon the pun).
The Two Sheet Phantom.
We’ve all been victim of the one, society has bred.
The one who won’t fill the car or sharpen the lead.
Nine tenths of the milk in the carton has been downed.
Only one or two biscuits can be ever be found.
The string on the spool has not enough length.
The toothpaste is near empty, Oh give me strength!
The bar of soap is nought, but a scrap.
The plastic left is a not enough to wrap.
Far worse awaits when nature calls,
Tinkle, tinkle plop, plop your business falls.
Only two sheets left and this isn’t random!
You’re the latest victim of the Two Sheet Phantom!
mudnut.
Quote:
Originally Posted by mudnut
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dKsFUiS8QPM
A bit preachy and not country, but here goes.
Give It Time
Starting young is the way of the world
Leaving childhood in it’s tracks.
Starting an evisioned life in paradise
Then the wake up call, you’re stuck.
Shoulda just bided your time, play silly.
Shoulda waited out life, play it on.
This perceived paradise is flawed, awful.
You keep swimming but just tread water.
You’re bein ridden hard. Harder than fair.
The weight becomes almighty, to much to bare.
You stagger, you’re crawling on all fours.
The future thiers now, never yours.
You’re beat now, done now, all broken.
Your faith, love, hope all crushed. Gone.
With indifference meds dull your mind and soul.
Just biding time, it slips by. Let it roll.
Years have dulled the dark memories
Miracle pills have opened your mind.
Realise now, life is not just trash.
Your thoughts lighter now, perspective fresh.
Mourn those wasted years gone. Wasted effort.
Mourn those relationships, broken and scattered.
But look forward with brighter eyes
Rise above the demanded duty, corporate lies.
You grow up a person, not a job, nor career.
Be careful where society will try to steer you.
Be more than a breadwinner, just essential.
Become a loving, caring, nurturing individual.
mudnut.