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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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)
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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 :)
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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
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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
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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 ?????
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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.
