Lets hear some Aussie Bush Poetry

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