Lets hear some Aussie Bush Poetry

[Bob]

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

[Bob]

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

[Lowedoggy18]

thats quite a nice poem threedogs, youve got some talent there!

[Bob]

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

[Bob]

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

[Bob]

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

[TPC]

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!

[twisty]

TPC ... loved it! where did you find that?

ps. I'm expecting a stock rep visit soon as it happens

[The BigFella]

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,,,,,,,,,,

[TPC]

TPC ... loved it! where did you find that?

ps. I'm expecting a stock rep visit soon as it happens

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.
Make sure you keep your pants on for the stock rep visit.