Lets hear some Aussie Bush Poetry

[The BigFella]

Bah bah black sheep,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

[Bob]

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

[Bob]

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.

[Bob]

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

[Bob]

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.

[Bob]

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!

[Bob]

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.

[Bob]

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

[Avo]

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

[Avo]

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