Lets hear some Aussie Bush Poetry

[Bob]

There’s Only The Two Of Us Here



I camped one night in an empty hut on the side of a lonely hill.

I didn’t go much on empty huts, but the night was awful chill.

So I boiled me billy and had me tea and seen that the door was shut.

Then I went to bed in am empty bunk by the side of the old slab shed.



It must have been about twelve o’clock – I was feeling cosy and warm –

When at the foot of me bunk I sees a horrible ghostly form

It seemed in shape to be half an ape with a head like a chimpanzee

But wot the hell was it doin there, and wot did it want with me?



You may say if you please that I had DTs or call me a crimson liar,

But I wish you had seen it as plain as me, with it’s eyes like coals of fire.

Then it gave a moan and a horrible groan that curdled me blood with fear,

And ‘There’s only the two of us here,’ it ses. ‘There’s only the two of us here!’



I kept one eye on the old hut door and one on the awful brute;

I only wanted to dress meself and get to the door and scoot.

But I couldn’t find where I’d left me boots so I hadn’t a chance to clear

And, ‘There’s only the two of us here,’ it moans. ‘There’s only the two of us here!’



I hadn’t a thing to defend meself, not even a stick or stone,

And ‘There’s only the two of here!’ It ses again with a horrible groan.

I thought I’d better make some reply, though I reckoned me end was near,

‘By the Holy Smoke, when I find me boots, there’ll be only one of us here.’



I get me hands on me number tens and out through the door I scoots,

And I lit the whole of the ridges up with the sparks from me blucher boots.

So I’ve never slept in a hut since then, and I tremble and shake with fear

When I think of the horrible form wot moaned, ‘There’s only the two of us here!’

Edward Harrington

[lorrieandjas]

The Thong

Let’s talk about the Icons that are worshipped by us Aussies.
Akubra hats, the Opera House, meat pies, Speedo Cossies.
Some would say our Icon is that famous waltzing song,
I reckon that it’s something else. I reckon it’s the thong.

I’ve thought a thousand thoughts of thongs, and I think that the thong,
Is more an Aussie Icon, than the swagman’s billabong.
Just as real men don’t eat quiche, the dinkum Aussie male,
Will wear his dinkum Aussie thong, come rain, or sleet, or hail.

You can keep your Nikes and Reeboks. It’s the thong that should be put,
With Aussie pride and dignity, on every Aussie foot.
I’m going to start a business. Like Bond, I can’t go wrong,
I’ll market it throughout the world, as Blue’s designer thong.

A thong for each occasions. It’s just sound commonsense
To make a tough, all purpose thong, to wear to all events.
Simple, sturdy, comfortable, my Blue’s designer thong,
Will let the foot breathe evenly, and dissipate the pong.

It’s good for killing blowflies on the barbecue or stove,
And it’s great for crushing garlic. Just belt it on the clove,
And wipe the garlic laden thong on chicken, beef, or pork,
Inhale the pure aroma of that garlic when you walk.

A thong for early evening, to wear with hipster tights,
I can see the jingle in my mind, as though it were in lights.
Just a thong at twilight, when the tights are low.
With a string of diamantes, ’twined artistic round each toe.

A thong to wear to worship. I’d call it even thong,
The strap is very holy, and the soul, so very strong.
A thong to wear to football, to cricket, or the shops,
To shearing sheds, to factories. Steel capped thongs for cops.

I’d move away from footwear, create a new design,
For a chocolate coated thong, to give my valentine,
And way into the future, when the years have moved along,
She will show her grandkids, her love’s old sweet thong.

And when we go republic, and we’re looking for a song
To celebrate our Icon, let’s hear it for the thong.
Forget Waltzing Matilda, Advance Australia Fair,
A brand new National Anthem will be wafting through the air:

God save our gracious thong.
Keep our feet safe and strong,
And free from pong.
Wear them instead of shoes,
To pubs and barbecues.
Health, happiness to all of youse,
God save our thong.


BLUE the shearer (Col Wilson)

[mudski]

Dunno how poetic it is but it gave me a laugh. Read it on the back of the dunny door at Murrundindi before the fires...
Here I sit in silent bliss,
listening to the running piss,
now and then a fart is heard,
the warning of a coming turd...

[Bob]

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

[lorrieandjas]

When the Sun's Behind the Hill

There's a soft and peaceful feeling
Comes across the farming hand
As the shadows go a-stealing
Slow along the new-turned land.
The lazy curling smoke above the thatch is showing blue,
And the weary old plough horses wander homeward two 'n' two,
With their chains a'clinkin', clankin', when their daily toil is through,
And the sun's behnd the hill.

Then it's slowly homeward plodding
As the night begins to creep,
And the barley grass is nodding
To the daisies, all asleep,
The crows are flying heavily, and cawing overhead;
The sleepy milking cows are lowing sof'ly in the shed,
And above them, in the rafters, all the fowls have gone to bed,
When the sun's behind the hill.

Then it's "Harry, feed old Roaney!"
And it's "Bill, put up the rail!"
And it's "Tom, turn out the pony!"
"Mary, hurry with the pail!"
And the kiddies run to meet us, and are begging for a ride
On the broad old "Prince" and "Darkey" they can hardly sit astride;
And mother, she is bustling with the supper things inside,
When the sun's behind the hill.

Then it's sitting down and yarning
When we've had our bite and sup,
And the mother takes her darning,
And Bess tells how the baldy cow got tangled in the wire,
And Katie keeps the baby-boy from tumbling in the fire;
And the baccy smoke goes curling as I suck my soothing briar,
When the sun's behind the hill.

And we talk about the season,
And of how it's turning out,
And we try to guess the reason
For the long-continued drought,
Oh! a farmer's life ain't roses and his work is never done:
And a job's no sooner over than another is begun.
For he's toiling late and early from the rising of the sun
Till he sinks behind the hill.

But it grows, that peaceful feeling
While I'm sitting smoking there,
And the kiddies all are kneeling
To repeat their ev'ning prayer;
For it seems, somehow, to lighten all the care that must be bore
When the things of life are worrying, and times are troubling sore;
And I pray that God will keep them when my own long-day is o'er,
And the sun's behind the hill.

C. J. Dennis

[Bob]

The Swagman



Oh, he was old, he was spare;

His bushy whiskers and his hair

Were all fussed up and very grey

He said he’d come a long long way,

And had a long long way to go.

Each boot was broken at the toe,

And he’d a swag upon his back.

His billy-can as black as black,

Was just the thing for making tea

At picnics, so it seemed to me.



‘Twas hard to earn a bit of bread,

He told me. Then he shook his head,

And all the little corks that hung

Artound his hat brim danced and swung

And bobbed about his face; and when

I laughed he made them dance again.

He said they were for keeping flies

‘The pesky varmints’ from his eyes.

He called me ‘codger’ . . . ‘Now you see

The best days of your life,’ said he.

‘But days will come to bend your back,

And, when they come, keep off the track,

Keep off, young codger, if you can.’

He seemed a funny sort of man.



He told me that he wanted work,

But jobs were scarce this side of Bourke,

And he supposed he’d have to go

Another fifty miles or so.

‘Nigh all my life the track I’ve walked,’

He said. I liked the way he talked.

And oh, the places he had seen!

I don’t know where he had not been –

On every road, in every town,

All through the country, up and down.

‘Young codger, shun the track,’ he said.

And put his hand upon my head.

I noticed, then, that his old eyes

Were very blue and very wise.

‘Ay, once I was a little lad,’

He said, and seemed to grow quite sad.

I sometimes think: When I’m a man,

I’ll get a good black billy-can

And hang some corks around my hat,

And lead a jolly life like that.

C J Denis

[lorrieandjas]

A Snake Yarn

"You talk of snakes," said Jack the Rat, "
But, blow me, one hot summer,
I seen a thing that knocked me flat
Fourteen foot long, or more than that,
It was a regular hummer!
Lay right along a sort of bog,
Just like a log!

"The ugly thing was lyin' there
And not a sign o' movin',
Give any man a nasty scare;
Seen nothin' like it anywhere
Since I first started drovin'.
And yet it didn't scare my dog.
Looked like a log!

I had to cross that bog, yer see,
And blue I was humpin';
But wonderin' what that thing could be
A-layin' there in front o' me
I didn't feel like jumpin'.
Yet, though I shivered like a frog,
It seemed a log!

I takes a leap and lands right on
The back of that there whopper!" He stopped.
We waited. Then Big Mac Remarked, "
Well, then, what happened, Jack?"
"Not much," said Jack, and drained his grog.
It was a log!"

W. T. Goodge

[Bob]

WHEN THE SUN'S BEHIND THE HILL

There's a soft and peaceful feeling

Comes across the farming hand

As the shadows go a-stealing

Slow along the new-turned land.

The lazy curling smoke above the thatch is showing blue,

And the weary old plough horses wander homeward two 'n' two,

With their chains a'clinkin', clankin', when their daily toil is through,

And the sun's behnd the hill.

Then it's slowly homeward plodding

As the night begins to creep,

And the barley grass is nodding

To the daisies, all asleep,

The crows are flying heavily, and cawing overhead;

The sleepy milking cows are lowing sof'ly in the shed,

And above them, in the rafters, all the fowls have gone to bed,

When the sun&'s behind the hill.

Then it's "Harry, feed old Roaney!"

And it's "Bill, put up the rail!"

And it's "Tom, turn out the pony!"

"Mary, hurry with the pail!"

And the kiddies run to meet us, and are begging for a ride

On the broad old "Prince" and "Darkey" they can hardly sit astride;

And mother, she is bustling with the supper things inside,

When the sun&'s behind the hill.

Then it's sitting down and yarning

When we've had our bite and sup,

And the mother takes her darning,

And Bess tells how the baldy cow got tangled in the wire,

And Katie keeps the baby-boy from tumbling in the fire;

And the baccy smoke goes curling as I suck my soothing briar,

When the sun's behind the hill.

And we talk about the season,

And of how it's turning out,

And we try to guess the reason

For the long-continued drought,

Oh! a farmer's life ain't roses and his work is never done:

And a job's no sooner over than another is begun.

For he's toiling late and early from the rising of the sun

Till he sinks behind the hill.

But it grows, that peaceful feeling

While I'm sitting smoking there,

And the kiddies all are kneeling

To repeat their ev'ning prayer;

For it seems, somehow, to lighten all the care that must be bore

When the things of life are worrying, and times are troubling sore;

And I pray that God will keep them when my own long-day is o'er,

And the sun's behind the hill.



C J Dennis (1876 - 1938)

[lorrieandjas]

Hey Bob - must be a popular poem from C J Dennis!

Jas

[Bob]

Hey Bob - must be a popular poem from C J Dennis!

Jas

My apologies. I had read your Post and then in a Senior moment posted the same Poem.
Oh well back to the Drawing Board LOL