The Geebung Polo Club
It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side,
And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride;
But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash --
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
Though their coats were quite unpolished,
and their manes and tails were long.
And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub:
They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.
It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam,
That a polo club existed, called `The Cuff and Collar Team'.
As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets with them -- just to give their boots a rub
Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.
Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road;
And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
A spectator's leg was broken -- just from merely looking on.
For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die,
Was the last surviving player -- so the game was called a tie.
Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him -- all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck at goal -- and missed it -- then he tumbled off and died.
. . . . .
By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,
There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a crude inscription saying, `Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here.'
And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub --
He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.
A.B. (Banjo) Paterson
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
But I went to the University of Texas in the 30s, and while there I learned to ride. Mostly polo ponies.
quote by Eli Wallach
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I was fourteen and first started going out, I always wanted to be the opposite of everyone else. So I would go to the club in a polo T-shirt and pants and sneakers and a hat on backward, just so I would not be dressed like other girls.
Country Club
(Catesby Jones/Dennis Lord)
I took a double take out on the interstate
When I saw her makin' eyes at me
So I followed her down - the clubhouse drive
Past the pool on the 18th green
In the parkin' lot...I said it's mighty hot
Maybe I could buy you a beer
She said I'm glad you asked...but I'll have to pass
Cause only members are allowed in here...and I said
Well I'm a member of a country club
Country music is what I love
I drive an old Ford pick-up truck
I do my drink-in from a dixie cup
Yea I'm a bona-fide dancin' fool
I shoot a mighty mean game of pool
At any honky-tonk roadside pub
I'm a member of a country club
You look so invitin'...thought it might be excitin'
For a woman with a limousine
To go bouncin around...in a beat up truck
With a man...in wore out jeans
It's five o'clock before Friday night
Here's where the fun begins
So don't worry 'bout your reputation
Cause you can tell all your friends
Well I'm a member of a country club
Country music is what I love
I drive an old Ford pick-up truck
I do my drink-in from a dixie cup
Yea I'm a bona-fide dancin' fool
I shoot a mighty mean game of pool
At any honky-tonk roadside pub
I'm a member of a country club
Well I'm a member of a country club
Country music is what I love
I drive an old Ford pick-up truck
I do my drink-in from a dixie cup
Yea I'm a bona-fide dancin' fool
I shoot a mighty mean game of pool
At any honky-tonk roadside pub
I'm a member of a country club
song performed by by Travis Tritt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grand Rapids Cricket Club
In Grand Rapids is a handsome club,
Of men that cricket play,
As fine a set of skillful men
That can their skill display.
They are the champions of the West,
They think they are quite fine,
They've won a hundred honors well;
It is their most cunning design.
Brave Kelso, he's considered great,
Chief of the club he is found;
Great crowds he draws to see him bowl
The ball upon the ground.
And Mr. Follet is very brave,
A lighter player than the rest,
He got struck severe at the fair ground
For which he took a rest.
When Mr. Dennis does well play,
His courage is full great,
And accidents to him occur,
But not much, though, of late.
This ball play is a dangerous game,
Brave knights to play it though;
Those boys would be the nation's pride,
If they to war would go.
From Milwaukee their club did come,
With thoughts of skill at play,
But beat they was, and then went home --
Had nothing more to say.
Grand Rapids club that cricket play,
Will soon be known afar,
Much prouder do the members stand,
Like many a noble star.
poem by Julia A Moore
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The Open Steeplechase
I had ridden over hurdles up the country once or twice,
By the side of Snowy River with a horse they called 'The Ace'.
And we brought him down to Sydney, and our rider, Jimmy Rice,
Got a fall and broke his shoulder, so they nabbed me in a trice,
Me, that never wore the colours, for the open Steeplechase.
'Make the running,' said the trainer, 'it's your only chance whatever,
Make it hot from start to finish, for the old black horse can stay,
And just think of how they'll take it, when they hear on Snowy River
That the country boy was plucky, and the country horse was clever.
You must ride for old Monaro and the mountain boys today.'
'Are you ready? said the starter, as we held the horses back.
All ablazing with impatience, with excitement all aglow;
Before us like a ribbon stretched the steeplechasing track,
And the sun-rays glistened brightly on the chestnut and the black
As the starter's words came slowly, 'Are, you, ready? Go!'
Well I scarcely knew we'd started, I was stupid-like with wonder
Till the field closed up beside me and a jump appeared ahead.
And we flew it like a hurdle, not a baulk and not a blunder,
As we charged it all together, and it fairly whistled under,
And then some were pulled behind me and a few shot out and led.
So we ran for half the distance, and I'm making no pretenses
When I tell you I was feeling very nervous-like and queer,
For those jockeys rode like demons; you would think they'd lost their senses
If you saw them rush their horses at those rasping five-foot fences,
And in place of making running I was falling to the rear.
Till a chap came racing past me on a horse the called 'The Quiver',
And said he, 'My country joker, are you going to give it best?
Are you frightened of the fences? does their stoutness make you shiver?
Have they come to breeding cowards by the side of Snowy River?
Are there riders in Monaro?, 'but I never heard the rest.
For I drove The Ace and sent him just as fast as he could pace it
At the big black line of timber stretching fair across the track,
And he shot beside The Quiver. 'Now,' said I, 'my boy, we'll race it.
You can come with Snowy River if you're only game to face it,
Let us mend the pace a little and we'll see who cries a crack.'
So we raced away together, and we left the others standing,
And the people cheered and shouted as we settled down to ride,
And we clung beside The Quiver. At his taking off and landing
I could see his scarlet nostril and his mighty ribs expanding,
And The Ace stretched out in earnest, and we held him stride for stride.
But the pace was so terrific that they soon ran out their tether,
They were rolling in their gallop, they were fairly blown and beat,
But they both were game as pebbles, neither one would show the feather.
And we rushed them at the fences, and they cleared them both together,
Nearly every time they clouted, but they somehow kept their feet.
Then the last jump rose before us, and they faced it game as ever,
We were both at spur and whipcord, fetching blood at every bound,
And above the people's cheering and the cries of 'Ace' and 'Quiver',
I could hear the trainer shouting, 'One more run for Snowy River.'
Then we struck the jump together and came smashing to the ground.
Well, The Quiver ran to blazes, but The Ace stood still and waited,
Stood and waited like a statue while I scrambled on its back.
There was no one next or near me for the field was fairly slated,
So I cantered home a winner with my shoulder dislocated,
While the man who rode The Quiver followed limping down the track.
And he shook my hand and told me that in all his days he never
Met a man who rode more gamely, and our last set-to was prime.
Then we wired them on Monaro how we chanced to beat The Quiver,
And they sent us back an answer, 'Good old sort from Snowy River:
Send us word each race you start in and we'll back you every time.'
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Kicks-Cauchy3
Kick….
Dancer marked by polo heads.
Politics pieces are served on easy.
Strange to walk are catchy winds.
Strange to get are polo tint.
Give the butcher candy can.
Give the fools my little rights.
Minor rules are candy man.
Upper ranges are over our might.
Buggers ears that sting our words!
Bugger works are bitchy worlds.
Versions on laws are riddle piles.
Version laws are poor to kick.
Kick the dances are crying down.
Kick on sides are piggy crown.
Rare to rise are polo thinks.
Give the fools my little rights.
--Cheung Shun Sang=Cauchy3--
poem by Cheung Shun Sang
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On The Wayne Carey Scandal
The captain of the Kangaroos Football Club known for his dash and flair
And in the game of Australian rules a football millionaire
But he quit the Club in disgrace when news broke of his affair
With the wife of a team mate his future now elsewhere.
He breached the trust of his mate and was unfaithful to his own wife
And he must now try to save his marriage and get on with his life
He went back home to Wagga to hide away in shame
And many feel Wayne Carey might have played his last game
Of Australian Rules Football but without him the game will go on
And the North Melbourne club is still around though their ex captain from them gone
The Club's bigger than the individual is that's always been the case
And as good a player though he may be there's one to take his place.
He should have gone to a brothel for his bit on the side
Instead he had sex with his best mate's wife and their friendship he destroyed
The Roos fans had him on a pedestal and they called him the king
But like a silly person he did the silly thing.
My sympathies not with Carey or any sporting millionaire
My sympathies are with the poor and all people in despair
Like those brave souls who in leaky boats cross the dangerous southern seas
In search of a home they flee from war poor defenceless refugees.
Like those people interred in Woomera with numbers for their name
The Government of this great southern Land bring on their Country shame
They keep people behind barbed wire and their only crime is they
Have fled war lords and the bombs of foreign powers in their
Homelands far away.
The ex captain of the Kangaroos is back home in Wagga Wagga Town
And for his fall from grace he has himself to blame since he dragged himself down
And though I only wish him well my sympathies elsewhere
For my sympathies could never be with a disgraced football millionaire.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Young David The Under Fourteen
With the local football club he plays under fourteen
In their football colours the black, brown and green
He dreams in the A F L he will star one day
Against Australia's finest he will be picked to play.
Everytime I see young David he's with the egg shaped ball
Playing by himself or with other boys in the park for his age he is tall
His dream is to play as number one ruckman for his favourite team Geelong
Enjoying a great victory as he sings the Club song.
Most boys of his age have a wish or a dream
To win a gold medal or play with a top football team
But not all dreams do come true everyone can't know fame
Still it is nice to dream of great things just the same.
He is the top ruckboy in his football team
And as a player of promise he knows local esteem
But few good juvenile players into great players grow
And young David he still has a long way to go.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Out of Sight
They held a polo meeting at a little country town,
And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown.
There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid
They both belonged to what is called "the take-you-down brigade".
They said their horse could jump like fun, and asked an amateur
To ride him in the steeplechase, and told him they were sure
The last time round he'd sail away with such a swallow's flight
The rest would never see him go -- he's finish out of sight.
So out he went; and, when folk saw the amateur was up,
Some local genius called the race "the Dude-in-Danger Cup".
The horse was known as "Who's Afraid", by "Panic" from "The Fright" --
But still his owners told the jock he's finish out of sight.
And so he did; for Who's Afraid, without the least pretence,
Disposed of him by rushing through the very second fence;
And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right --
For he was in the ambulance, and safely "out of sight".
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Journey of an Assistant Manager: The past and the future
Its a lovely morning
the grasses wet with the morning rain
I am standing, here at the club grounds
watching, as my players train...
I am the Assistant Manager of Winslow Town F.C.
We are preparing for tomorrow's game
discussing about the tactics, set-pieces and all
At this moment, I couldn't help but recall memories
of how I've fared in my life and reached here after all...
'Sports' was the thing for me always
I regretted for the player in me, that I never found
Registering myself for the Sports Management course
I knew that I had stepped into the world, that I always loved!
A famous Swedish manager, I dont know what struck him
He joined an Indian club to steer it out of trouble
He was in need of a translator, I applied for it fast
and we both helped our club, for its first ever 'double'
We won the League and the National Cup that year!
During these two years that I stayed there
I learnt quickly, all the tricks-n-trades of the game
Tough I wasa a mere translator, soon I became his friend
and he became my mentor, taught me everything 'bout the game...
The third year, he started getting offers from England
and he packed his bags, asked me to come along
I would have been the foolest had I refused him
Saying yes, I started dreaming where my career was going to land!
And so, we both came to England, that very year
to this wonderful place, this Winslow Town Football Club!
promoted as a Youth Coach, thus begun my real career
and so began my hottest pursuit
to become the 'World's Best Manager of the Year'...
And today, after two more years...
Its a lovely morning
the grasses wet with the morning rain
I am standing, here at the club grounds
watching, as my players train...
From a simple student to a translator
to a youth coach at England, to being the Assistant Manager
Life's taken me places, that I am sure
I have definitely set my eyes someday,
on becoming the 'World's Best Manager of the Year'...
poem by Soumya Dash
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Another Football Season
Another Football Season has just commenced having said so just the same
A lot of hype and excitement about a field game
For many from their life problems a relief of sorts
Suppose that's why the establishments created sports.
Some things do seem to change little from year to year
Of football fans discussing football one often does hear
They talk of their Club as if the Club they did own
'Tis from people like them that Football Clubs are grown.
They talk of team ratings and player stats and of last weekend's best on ground
And of who their team are due to play in the next round
And the forward with a goal for the taking who kicked a behind
Next week with the seconds a place he may not find.
Another Football Season commencing the barracker's wife
She does feel neglected but then such is life
He knows about Football and the words of the Club song
And his heart to the Club it does surely belong.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Game Of Fame
'GOLF-THE GAME OF FAME'
I was watching this golf tournament through the visitor's window
The opening pairs were standing under a big tree's shadow
I had been waiting here to see
Who shall the winner ultimately be?
My two sons were participating, and were outside
There were competing against each other, side by side
First session ended, and the players are now in the second half
I was watching them through the window, including the club staff
Everyone was trying their very best and hard
Well it's not an easy game, just like playing cards
I saw some players taking a short nap
This was some relief time for them and for I, after a gap
The third session of the game goes worst
Till the end of the game, we didn't knows who will be first
The game has begun to ooze
I was still watching them through the window, "Who is go'na loose? "
My two sons were slowly picking on the game
My thoughts were, "Who will earn the coveted fame? "
Opponent players were also moving off at last
I saw my younger one ‘playing pretty fast'
My elder one was rushing down the lane
Why his game slowing down the lane
The competition has become intense and difficult to bear
So, the victory time is getting close and near
Now the game has become fast enough
Oh! My younger son has now found a fluff
Players have now quickened and have hurried by
They seem to be working fast, as if to fly
At last, someone has to be won
Nobody else, it's my younger son
I was watching this golf tournament through the visitor's window
The opening pairs were standing under a big tree's shadow
BY SAMRA HAQ
Ponies
This song appears on three albums, and was first released on the different directions album, and has also been released on the gift you are and the john denver collection - take me home, country
S albums.
Somewhere out on the prairie
Is the greatest cowboy thats ever been
And when he lays his hands upon the ponies
They shudder with an understanding skin
And he says ponies
Now ponies dont you worry
I have not come to steal your fire away
I want to fly with you across the sunrise
Discover what begins each shining day
When the storm clouds in the west
Are quickly gathering
The ponies they run wild there
Before it rains
Youll see their sleek dark bodies
Brightly gleaming
You know the fire is flying through
Their brains
And he says ponies
Now ponies dont you worry
I have not come to steal your fire away
I want to fly with you across the sunrise
Discover what begins each shining day
And he says ponies
Now ponies dont you worry
I have not come to steal your fire away
I want to fly with you across the sunrise
Discover what begins each shining day
And he says ponies
Ponies dont you worry
I have not come to steal your fire away
I want to fly with you across the sunrise
Discover what begins each shining day
I want to fly
Words and music by jeffrey bullock
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our Car Club
Ive been cruisin round the town now with the guys for quite a while
We been thinkin bout starting up a club that shows some class and style
And well get the finest cars
We got a deuce coupe, a stingray, a rail job and an xke
(well start a car club)
Well be the fastest at the drags, man, well really cut some low ets
(well start a car club)
And wipe out the other clubs
Well set a meet, and get a sponsor, and collect some dues
And you can bet that well have our jackets on wherever we cruise
Well get the roughest and the toughest initiation we can find
(well start a car club)
And if you want to try to get in well really put you through the grind
(well start a car club)
This clubs the very best
Well set a meet, and get a sponsor, and collect some dues
And you can bet that well have our jackets on wherever we cruise
Well get the roughest and the toughest initiation we can find
(well start a car club)
And if you want to try to get in well really send you through the grind
(well start a car club)
This clubs the very best
Start a club, a car club
(start a car club)
Start a club, a car club
(start a car club)
Start a club, a car club
(start a car club)
Start a club, a car club
(start a car club)
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He Is Such A Joyful Winner
He is such a joyful winner but he does not like to lose
His favourite team won at the weekend so he went on the booze
He could not go to work today he feels fuzzy in the head
And nursing his hangover he lay at home in bed.
A football mad young person he surely loves the game
To be the Club's best barracker is his great claim to fame
At every goal his team kicks he whoops aloud in joy
The man in his late twenties at heart remains a boy.
His beanie in his Club Football colours to bed he even wear
His Club as important to him as his wife and children his type no longer rare
In the pub with his drinking mates their main topic is football
The great players and the winners and the losers of the weekend games they recall.
His team won at the weekend but he is in bed today
For too much celebrating his price he has to pay
He proudly wears the Club colours of his favourite football team
And every victory that they have good for his self esteem.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Taking Dad to a Game
The Polo Grounds, when the Field’s first seen
are a most magical shade of green.
Hand in hand, me and my Dad
head for our seats in the right field stands.
It’s the Cincinnati Reds in town
to play the New York Mets.
There’s a double header scheduled,
How much better could it get?
Cincinnati took the first game
by a score of three to nil.
My hot dog was delicious
Dad had a beer to swill.
The nightcap was a wild affair
The Mets won thirteen- twelve.
You could look it up, as Casey said,
if you should care to delve.
We rode the subway home that night
side by side, me and my Dad.
We reminisced about the game
Like the most knowledgeable fans
The Q44 from Flushing took us
up Queensboro Hill, ,
past Carvel and Booth Memorial,
I remember it well still.
My father turned to look at me
as five decades creased my brow.
Making us the self same age
What he was then, so I am now.
Thirty years, about, its been
Since last I saw my Dad.
The dead don't get to baseball games,
Which I think is rather sad.
They can't enjoy a summer night
on the wrong side of the grass.
And an ice cold beer is greatly missed-
They can't pour themselves a glass
In memory, we still can walk
With those who came before.
So I took my Dad to a baseball game
What was I waiting for?
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Pony
the pony
is for little preza to play
the great ranch in her mind
the large patches of pastures
of her memories
the little white pony
with spots of brown
is for little preza
to hope for
something nice to erase
what sadness lies
on the surface
of the table without linen
on the plate
without food
on the floor without any
carpet
the little ponies of our minds
play for us
the game that are badly
needed
in these times
of utter adversities
come little preza
come
the grass is cool
the skies are blue
the ponies are
playful
ride on one of them
and be happy for once
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On The Passing Of Dave Sheehan
Dave Sheehan worked for the Cork County Council and I'd known him since I was a Primary school going boy
A gentle soul one who kept a low profile and one might say he would not harm a fly
All those he came in contact with seemed to like him and a bad word of him not one had to say
For a big family a good bread winner and he worked hard till his retirement day.
One of the founder members of the Slanan Rovers a Gaelic Football Club in the Parish of Millstreet
When Slanan won the day he felt so happy though he was one who too smiled in defeat
The Slanan Rovers as a Club now defunct but nothing lasts for forever so they say
Perhaps the Club lost out to emigration the migrant boats took the young men away.
I last spoke to Dave Sheehan in the mid eighties and that's going back some two decades ago
In mid November in the Town of Millstreet the weather it was cold enough to snow
We talked about the birth of Slanan Rovers in Cloghoula where the Finnow waters flow
He and Neil Lehane and Danny Healy and Frank Riordan founder members from their ideas a Football Club did grow.
From the green country side around Cloghoula the young men they went off to live elsewhere
And the Slanan Rovers Club for lack of numbers was quick to founder into disrepair
The older players had been getting older and the young men had their own dreams to pursue
And another Gaelic Club went from Duhallow that without players the Club won't survive seems so true.
Dave Sheehan from Carrigacooleen gone forever in quiet old St Mary's he now lay
But in Duhallow he won't be forgotten and his soul will live for forever and a day
A gentleman and liked by all who knew him in life he never made an enemy
And sad to think that when I return to Millstreet that he is one I never more will see.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Playing polo is like trying to play golf during an earthquake.
quote by Sylvester Stallone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The one game we all play
The one game we all play
We play games
To show our valour
And mainly to win
We do not mind going for coaching
If we feel we do not have the
Required strength to win
We play games
Either as a team or individual
The attempt is to demonstrate
That we are better talented
Than the team or member
Against whom we play
Nations enthuse people to play games
So that they add pride
Some games are played with
Gadgets and protective accessories
We have spectators to watch
The way we play
We have umpires and referees
Who ensure rules of the games
Are strictly adhered
And it is all a fair play
We play games indoor or outdoor
We play games in daylight
Or under artificial illumination
We score while playing
And the score achieved by a team or individual
In a specific time
Decides the winner
We telecast the games
We comment on the strengths and weaknesses
Of a team or individual
We conduct national and international
Tournaments to declare a team or individual
As champion
Irrespective of skills, race, gender
We all play a game
Which is played mainly to lose
It is an individual game
With no specific rules
With no umpire
With no spectator
With no commentator
With no TV coverage
With no scores
With no trophies
With no victory stands
With no top scorer
With no “player of the match”
But we play
Most of us like to play this game
Indoor and in closed doors
Decency and civilized ways
Do not allow this game being played in the open
There is no season for this game
It can be played any part of the day
And any part of the year
Summer, winter, monsoon seasons
Have no bearing on this game
The one requirement in this game is
Complete transparency and intimacy
Rules for this game
Vary from individual to individual
Rules also get refined
With the experience of the players
There are no restrictions to employ
Any method as both the players
Are determined to be the loser
Duration of play depends again
On the individuals
The game ends
Most often to the satisfaction
Of the both the players
In other games players declare
That they are retiring from playing
There is no retirement in this game
As players advance in age
They understand it is more a mind game
Outcome of this game
Are further more players
You guessed it right
It is the game of love
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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