Knights Of The Never Never
When I rode with young Sid Kidman out across the Yarrowie Plain
In that year the Long Drought ended, and the northlands smiled again
As we took the old Tarcowie track and on to Booleroo,
His keen eye scanned the country, and we yarned of men we knew:
Mal Murray and Jim Spicer, of Jasser and Judell,
Bill Mitchell and old stagers whom I still remember well;
And he told of chance-missed fortunes when the game was in his grasp,
Of life along The Barrier with German Charlie Rasp.
Now, back in Kidman country where the grizzled bushmen are,
In many a stark out-station, o'er many a shanty bar,
The drovers' drawling voices talk about 'Old Sid' today:
'Bushmen like him ain't raised no more,' the grizzled veterans say,
For o'er the furthest saltbush lands his questing mind went out
To glimpse high opportunity where others saw black drought.
Shrewd-eyed, yet greatly daring, laughing he ventured forth
To stake his luck, his judgment 'gainst swift treacheries 'up north.'
'I mind the time I rode with him,' a wizened stockman says.
'He knowed that country like a map, an' all the tricks an' ways.
'Aye, and he knowed the cattle game.' The voices drone and drawl,
Till, 'The time I rode for Kidman,' is the burden of them all.
'Deserved his luck? Too right he did, seein' how he began;
But times like them don't come again for us or any man.
Them meddlin' airyplans an' sich brings old days to an end.'
And so they mourn, no magnate, but a bushman and a friend.
So the best-known bushman passes in the fullness of his years;
And, with his passing, so an olden order disappears
Sid Kidman, Jimmy Tyson - rugged princes of Outback,
Who sought their fortunes far afield along the arid track;
Strong men who, taking heart of grace, unflinchingly rode forth
To play a rough, grim game, and win, against the stubborn North;
To become a land's tradition, future figures of romance,
Busmen who fought and loved their bush; the men who took a chance.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Ballad of the Black-Sheep
A black-sheep, from England, who worked on the run –
Riding where the stockmen ride –
He sat by the hut when the day’s work was done –
Lone huts where the black sheep bide.
“I’m tired of my life!” to his lone self said he,
“My girl and my country are both done with me!”
“I’m tired of my life!” to the wide scrubs said he –
“My girl and my country are long done with me!”
He took from a packet a portrait and curl –
Such things as the exiles keep –
And sadly he gazed at the face of the girl –
Lost girl of a lost black-sheep.
“I’ll go where there’s fighting and die there!” said he;
“My girl and my country are well rid of me.
“I’ll go where there’s fighting and die there,” said he;
“For heart-break and country that’s well rid of me!”
He rode with a thousand, he rode with the best –
Riding as bushmen ride –
Who’d ridden alone on the wastes of the West –
Wide wastes where the drought-fiends bide,
They rode as they’d ride to an up-country ball,
And the laugh of the black-sheep was lightest of all!
The road was a shambles, the hill was a hell –
Red rosed where the reckless ride –
And he with the foremost lay torn by a shell –
(Die hard where your father died!)
“the death of a rebel!” he laughed as he groaned –
“for the land that adoptee – the land that disowned!”
the death of a black-sheep! – they laugh as they groan –
for the lands that adopt and the lands that disown!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Ben Duggan
Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began,
And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man;
Jack Denver's wife bowed down her head -- her daughter's grief was wild,
And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child.
But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far,
To raise the longest funeral ever seen on Talbragar.
By station home
And shearing shed
Ben Duggan cried, `Jack Denver's dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!'
He borrowed horses here and there, and rode all Christmas Eve,
And scarcely paused a moment's time the mournful news to leave;
He rode by lonely huts and farms, and when the day was done
He turned his panting horse's head and rode to Ross's Run.
No bushman in a single day had ridden half so far
Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar.
By diggers' camps
Ben Duggan sped --
At each he cried, `Jack Denver's dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!'
That night he passed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge,
And roused the bullock-drivers camped at Belinfante's Bridge;
And as he climbed the ridge again the moon shone on the rise;
The soft white moonbeams glistened in the tears that filled his eyes;
He dashed the rebel drops away -- for blinding things they are --
But 'twas his best and truest friend who died on Talbragar.
At Blackman's Run
Before the dawn,
Ben Duggan cried, `Poor Denver's gone!
Roll up at Talbragar!'
At all the shanties round the place they'd heard his horse's tramp,
He took the track to Wilson's Luck, and told the diggers' camp;
But in the gorge by Deadman's Gap the mountain shades were black,
And there a newly-fallen tree was lying on the track --
He saw too late, and then he heard the swift hoof's sudden jar,
And big Ben Duggan ne'er again rode home to Talbragar.
`The wretch is drunk,
And Denver's dead --
A burning shame!' the people said
Next day at Talbragar.
For thirty miles round Talbragar the boys rolled up in strength,
And Denver had a funeral a good long mile in length;
Round Denver's grave that Christmas day rough bushmen's eyes were dim --
The western bushmen knew the way to bury dead like him;
But some returning homeward found, by light of moon and star,
Ben Duggan dying in the rocks, five miles from Talbragar.
They knelt around,
He raised his head
And faintly gasped, `Jack Denver's dead,
Roll up at Talbragar!'
But one short hour before he died he woke to understand,
They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was `grand';
And then there came into his eyes a strange victorious light,
He smiled on them in triumph, and his great soul took its flight.
And still the careless bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar
How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar.
And far and wide
When Duggan died,
The bushmen of the western side
Rode in to Talbragar.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Talbragar
Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began,
And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man;
Jack Denver’s wife bowed down her head—her daughter’s grief was wild,
And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child.
But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far,
To raise the biggest funeral ever seen on Talbragar.
By station home
And shearing shed
Ben Duggan cried, “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!”
He borrowed horses here and there, and rode all Christmas Eve,
And scarcely paused a moment’s time the mournful news to leave;
He rode by lonely huts and farms, until the day was done
And then he turned his horse’s head and made for Ross’s Run.
No Bushman in a single day had ridden half so far
Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar.
By diggers’ camps
Ben Duggan sped—
At each he cried, “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!”
That night he passed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge,
And roused the bullock-drivers camped at Belinfante’s Bridge;
And as he climbed the ridge again the moon shone on the rise;
The soft white moonbeams glistened in the tears that filled his eyes;
He dashed the rebel drops away—for blinding things they are—
But ’twas his best and truest friend who died on Talbragar.
At Blackman’s Run
Before the dawn,
Ben Duggan cried, “Jack Denver’s gone!
Roll up at Talbragar!”
At all the shanties round the place they‘d beard his horse’s tramp,
He took the track to Wilson’s Luck, and told the diggers’ camp;
But in the gorge by Deadman’s Gap the mountain shades were black,
And there a newly-fallen tree was lying on the track—
He saw too late, and then he heard the swift hoof ’s sudden jar,
And big Ben Duggan ne’er again rode home to Talbragar.
“The wretch is drunk,
And Denver’s dead—
A burning shame!” the people said
Next day at Talbragar.
For thirty miles round Talbragar the boys rolled up in strength,
And Denver had a funeral a good long mile in length;
Round Denver’s grave that Christmas day rough Bushmen’s eyes were dim—
The Western Bushmen knew the way to bury dead like him;
But some returning homeward found, by light of moon and star,
Ben Duggan dying in the rocks, ten miles from Talbragar.
They knelt around.
He raised his head
And faintly gasped, “Jack Denver’s dead,
Roll up at Talbragar!”
But one short hour before he died he woke and understood;
They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was good;
And then there came into his eyes a sad and softened light.
He said. “Poor Denver’s wife and kids—you’ll see that they’re all right?”
And still the careless Bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar
How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar.
And far and wide
When Duggan died.
The bushmen of the western side
Rode in to Talbragar.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Saltbush Bill
Now is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey --
A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day;
But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood,
They travel their stage where the grass is bad, but they camp where the grass is good;
They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains.
Then they drift away as the white clouds drift on the edge of the saltbush plains:
From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand
For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland.
For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, 'tis written in white and black --
The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track;
And the drovers keep to a half-mile track on the runs where the grass is dead,
But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run till they go with a two-mile spread.
So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night,
And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight.
Yet the squatters' men, thought they haunt the mob, are willing the peace to keep,
For the drovers learn how to use their hands when they go with the travelling sheep;
But this is the tale of a Jackaroo that came from a foreign strand,
And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland.
Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough as ever the country knew,
He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes from the sea to the big Barcoo;
He could tell when he came to a friendly run that gave him a chance to spread,
And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead;
He was drifting down in the Eighty drought with a mob that could scarcely creep
(When the kangaroos by the thousand starve, it is rough on the travelling sheep),
And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run;
"We must manage a feed for them here," he said, "or half of the mob are done!"
So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go,
Till he grew aware of a Jackaroo with a station-hand in tow.
They set to work on the straggling sheep, and with many a stockwhip crack
The forced them in where the grass was dead in the space of the half-mile track;
And William prayed that the hand of Fate might suddenly strike him blue
But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep in the teeth of that Jackaroo.
So he turned and cursed the Jackaroo; he cursed him, alive or dead,
From the soles of his great unwieldly feet to the crown of his ugly head,
With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran,
Till the Jackaroo from his horse got down and went for the drover-man;
With the station-hand for his picker-up, though the sheep ran loose the while,
They battled it out on the well-grassed plain in the regular prize-ring style.
Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake and the pride of the English race,
But the drover fought for his daily bread with a smile on his bearded face;
So he shifted ground, and he sparred for wind, and he made it a lengthy mill,
And from time to time as his scouts came in they whispered to Saltbush Bill --
"We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, and the grass it is something grand;
You must stick to him, Bill, for another round for the pride of the Overland."
The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home,
Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky and glared on the brick-red loam,
Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest;
Then the drover said he would fight no more, and gave his opponent best.
So the new chum rode to the homestead straight, and told them a story grand
Of the desperate fight that he fought that day with the King of the Overland;
And the tale went home to the Public Schools of the pluck of the English swell --
How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell.
But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep were boxed on the Old Man Plain;
'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again;
A week's good grass in their wretched hides, with a curse and a stockwhip crack
They hunted them off on the road once more to starve on the half-mile track.
And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite
How the best day's work that he ever did was the day that he lost the fight.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Brass Well
'Tis a legend of the bushmen from the days of Cunningham,
When he opened up the country and the early squatters came.
Tis the old tale of a fortune missed by men who did seek,
And, perhaps, you haven’t heard it—The Brass Well on Myall Creek.
They were north of running rivers, they were south of Queensland rains,
And a blazing drought was scorching every grass-blade from the plains;
So the stockmen drove the cattle to the range where there was grass,
And a couple sunk a well and found what they believed was brass.
‘Here’s some bloomin’ brass!’ they muttered when they found it in the clay,
And they thought no more about it and in time they went away;
But they heard of gold, and saw it, somewhere down by Inverell,
And they felt and weighed it, crying: ‘Why! we found it in the well!’
And they worked about the station and at times they took the track,
Always meaning to save money, always meaning to go back—
‘Always meanin’,’ like the bushmen, who go drifting round like wrecks,
And they’d get half way to Myall, strike a pub and blew their cheques.
Then they told two more about it and those other two grew old,
And they never found the brass well and they never found the gold.
For the scrub grows dense and quickly and, though many went to seek,
No one ever struck the lost track to the Well on Myall Creek.
And the story is forgotten and I’m sitting here, alas!
With a woeful load of trouble and a woeful lack of brass;
But I dream at times that I might find what many went to seek,
And my luck might lead my footsteps to the Well at Myall Creek.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Pioneers
They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide;
There were the sons of field and flock since e’er they learned to ride;
We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years
As those explorers of the bush – the brave old pioneers.
‘Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought;
‘Twas they that heard the master-word that called them further out;
‘Twas they that followed up the trail the mountain cattle made
And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid.
But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead
When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead
By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west,
And spied the far off promised land from off the ranges’ crest.
Oh! Ye, that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain,
We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again,
The men who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years –
The founders of our nation’s life, the brave old pioneers.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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To “Doc” Wylie
THOUGH doctors may your name discard
And say you physicked vilely,
I would I were as good a bard
As you a doctor, Wylie!
How often, when your skill subdued
The fever ranging highly,
You won a bushman’s gratitude,
Though little more, Doc Wylie!
How oft across the regions wide
Where scrub for many a mile lay
The bushman rode, as bushmen ride,
To seek your aid, Doc Wylie!
But now, when bushman’s wife or child
Lies ill and suffering direly,
He’ll need to ride a weary while
Before he finds Doc Wylie.
I hope where they have made your bed,
And where these verses I lay,
They’ll raise a board above your head—
And write your name—Doc Wylie!
poem by Henry Lawson
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My Wild Love
My wild love went ridin
She rode all the day
She wrote to the devil
And asked him to pay
The devil was wiser
Its time to repent
He asked her to give back
The money she spent
My wild love went ridin
She rode to the sea
She gathered together
Some shells for her head
She rode and she rode on
She rode for a while
Then stopped for an evenin
And lay her head down
She rode on to christmas
She rode to the farm
She rode to japan
And re-entered a town
By this time the weather
Had changed one degree
She asked for the people
To let her go free
My wild love is crazy
She screams like a bird
She moans like a cat
When she wants to be heard
My wild love went ridin
She rode for an hour
She stopped and she rested
And then she rode on
Ride, cmon
song performed by by Doors
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
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The Day that is Dead
Ah, Jack! Time finds us feeble men,
And all too swift our years have flown.
The days are different now to then -
In that time when we rode ten stone.
The minstrel when his mem'ry goes
To old times, tunes a doleful lay -
Comparing modern nags with those
Which Lee once bred down Bathurst way.
The type to-day's a woeful weed,
Which lacks the stoutness, strength and bone
Of horses they were wont to breed
In those days - when we rode ten stone.
But all of us remorseless Fate
O'ertakes, and as the years roll on
Our saddles carry extra weight,
And old age mourns the keenness gone.
The young ones, too - 'mong men, I mean -
Watch not the sires from whom they've sprung,
They nowadays are not so keen
As when we - and the world - were young.
They've neither nerve nor seat to suit
The back of Paddy Ryan's roar -
That wall-eyed, vicious, bucking brute
You rode - when you could ride ten stone.
But, Johnny, ere we 'go to grass' -
Ere angel wings are fledged to fly -
With wine we'll fill a bumper glass,
And drink to those good times gone by.
We've had our day - 'twill not come back!
But, comrade mine, this much you'll own,
'Tis something to have had it, Jack-
That time when we could ride ten stone!
poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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The Bushman
When the merchant lies down, he can scarce go to sleep
For thinking of his merchandise upon the fatal deep;
His ships may be cast away or taken in a war,
So him alone we'll envy not, who true bushmen are.
Who true bushmen are,
So him alone we'll envy not, who true bushmen are!
When the soldier lies down, his mind is full of thought
O'er seeking that promotion which so long he has sought;
He fain would gain repose for mortal wound or scar,
So him also we'll envy not, who true bushmen are.
When the sailor lies down, his mind he must prepare
To rouse out in a minute if the wind should prove unfair.
His voyage may be stopped for the want of a spar,
So him also we'll envy not, who true bushmen are.
When the bushman lies down, his mind is free from care,
He knows his stock will furnish him with meat, wear and tear.
Should all commerce be ended in the event of a war,
Then bread and beef won't fail us boys, who true bushmen are.
Then fill, fill your glasses, a toast I'll give you, then,
To you who call yourselves true-hearted men.
Here's a health to the soldier and e'en the jolly tar,
And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.
Who true bushmen are,
And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Isis
I married isis on the fifth day of may,
But I could not hold on to her very long.
So I cut off my hair and I rode straight away
For the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong.
I came to a high place of darkness and light.
The dividing line ran through the center of town.
I hitched up my pony to a post on the right,
Went in to a laundry to wash my clothes down.
A man in the corner approached me for a match.
I knew right away he was not ordinary.
He said, are you lookin for somethin easy to catch?
I said, I got no money. he said, that aint necessary.
We set out that night for the cold in the north.
I gave him my blanket, he gave me his word.
I said, where are we goin? he said wed be back by the fourth.
I said, thats the best news that Ive ever heard.
I was thinkin about turquoise, I was thinkin about gold,
I was thinkin about diamonds and the worlds biggest necklace.
As we rode through the canyons, through the devilish cold,
I was thinkin about isis, how she thought I was so reckless.
How she told me that one day we would meet up again,
And things would be different the next time we wed,
If I only could hang on and just be her friend.
I still cant remember all the best things she said.
We came to the pyramids all embedded in ice.
He said, theres a body Im tryin to find.
If I carry it out itll bring a good price.
twas then that I knew what he had on his mind.
The wind it was howlin and the snow was outrageous.
We chopped through the night and we chopped through the dawn.
When he died I was hopin that it wasnt contagious,
But I made up my mind that I had to go on.
I broke into the tomb, but the casket was empty.
There was no jewels, no nothin, I felt Id been had.
When I saw that my partner was just bein friendly,
When I took up his offer I must-a been mad.
I picked up his body and I dragged him inside,
Threw him down in the hole and I put back the cover.
I said a quick prayer and I felt satisfied.
Then I rode back to find isis just to tell her I love her.
She was there in the meadow where the creek used to rise.
Blinded by sleep and in need of a bed,
I came in from the east with the sun in my eyes.
I cursed her one time then I rode on ahead.
She said, where ya been? I said, no place special.
She said, you look different. I said, well, I guess.
She said, you been gone. I said, thats only natural.
She said, you gonna stay. I said, if you want me to, yes.
Isis, oh, isis, you mystical child.
What drives me to you is what drives me insane.
I still can remember the way that you smiled
On the fifth day of may in the drizzlin rain.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Years After the War In Australia
The Big rough boys from the runs out back were first where the balls flew free,
And yelled in the slang of the Outside Track: ‘By God, it’s a Christmas spree!’
‘It’s not too rusty’—and ‘Wool away!’—‘stand clear of the blazing shoots!’—
‘Sheep O! Sheep O!’—‘We’ll cut out to-day’—‘Look out for the boss’s boots!’
‘What price the tally in camp to-night!’—‘What price the boys Out Back!’
‘Go it, you tigers, for Right or Might and the pride of the Outside Track!’
‘Needle and thread!’—‘I have broke my comb!’—‘Now ride, you flour-bags, ride!’
‘Fight for your mates and the folk at home!’—‘Here’s for the Lachlan side!’
Those men of the West would sneer and scoff at the gates of hell ajar,
And oft the sight of a head cut off was hailed by a yell for ‘Tar!’
I heard the push in the Red Redoubt, irate at a luckless shot:
‘Look out for the blooming shell, look out!’—‘Gor’ bli’me, but that’s red-hot!’
‘It’s Bill the Slogger—poor bloke—he’s done. A chunk of the shell was his;
‘I wish the beggar that fired that gun could get within reach of Liz.’
‘Those foreign gunners will give us rats, but I wish it was Bill they missed.’
‘I’d like to get at their bleeding hats with a rock in my (something) fist.’
‘Hold up, Billy; I’ll stick to you; they’ve hit you under the belt;
‘If we get the waddle I’ll swag you through, if the blazing mountains melt;
‘You remember the night when the traps got me for stoushing a bleeding Chow,
‘And you went for ’em proper and laid out three, and I won’t forget it now.’
And, groaning and swearing, the pug replied: ‘I’m done . . . they’ve knocked me out!
‘I’d fight them all for a pound a-side, from the boss to the rouseabout.
‘My nut is cracked and my legs is broke, and it gives me worse than hell;
‘I trained for a scrap with a twelve-stone bloke, and not with a bursting shell.
‘You needn’t mag, for I knowed, old chum, I knowed, old pal, you’d stick;
‘But you can’t hold out till the reg’lars come, and you’d best be nowhere quick.
‘They’ve got a force and a gun ashore, both of our wings is broke;
‘They’ll storm the ridge in a minute more, and the best you can do is smoke.’
And Jim exclaimed: ‘You can smoke, you chaps, but me—Gor’ bli’me, no!
‘The push that ran from the George-street traps won’t run from a foreign foe.
‘I’ll stick to the gun while she makes them sick, and I’ll stick to what’s left of Bill.’
And they hiss through their blackened teeth: ‘We’ll stick! by the blazing flame, we will!’
And long years after the war was past, they told in the town and bush
How the ridge of death to the bloody last was held by a Sydney push;
How they fought to the end in a sheet of flame, how they fought with their rifle-stocks,
And earned, in a nobler sense, the name of their ancient weapons—‘rocks.’
In the western camps it was ever our boast, when ’twas bad for the kangaroo:
If the enemy’s forces take the coast, they must take the mountains, too;
‘They may force their way by the western line or round by a northern track,
But they won’t run short of a decent spree with the men who are left out back!’
When we burst the enemy’s ironclads and won by a run of luck,
We whooped as loudly as Nelson’s lads when a French three-decker struck—
And when the enemy’s troops prevailed the truth was never heard—
We lied like heroes who never failed explaining how that occurred.
You bushmen sneer in the old bush way at the new-chum jackeroo,
But ‘cuffs-’n’-collers’ were out that day, and they stuck to their posts like glue;
I never believed that a dude could fight till a Johnny led us then;
We buried his bits in the rear that night for the honour of George-street men.
And Jim the Ringer—he fought, he did. The regiment nicknamed Jim,
‘Old Heads a Caser’ and ‘Heads a Quid,’ but it never was ‘tails’ with him.
The way that he rode was a racing rhyme, and the way that he finished grand;
He backed the enemy every time, and died in a hand-to-hand!
I’ll never forget when the ringer and I were first in the Bush Brigade,
With Warrego Bill, from the Live-till-you-Die, in the last grand charge we made.
And Billy died—he was full of sand—he said, as I raised his head:
‘I’m full of love for my native land, but a lot too full of lead.
‘Tell ’em,’ said Billy, ‘and tell old dad, to look after the cattle pup;’
But his eyes grew bright, though his voice was sad, and he said, as I held him up:
‘I have been happy on western farms. And once, when I first went wrong,
‘Around my neck were the trembling arms of the girl I’d loved so long.
‘Far out on the southern seas I’ve sailed, and ridden where brumbies roam,
‘And oft, when all on the station failed, I’ve driven the outlaw home.
‘I’ve spent a cheque in a day and night, and I’ve made a cheque as quick;
‘I struck a nugget when times were tight, and the stores had stopped our tick.
‘I’ve led the field on the old bay mare, and I hear the cheering still,
‘When mother and sister and she were there, and the old man yelled for Bill;
‘But, save for her, could I live my while again in the old bush way,
‘I’d give it all for the last half-mile in the race we rode to-day!’
And he passed away as the stars came out—he died as old heroes die—
I heard the sound of the distant rout, and the Southern Cross was high.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bush Rangers
Four horseman rode out from the heart of the range,
Four horseman with aspects forbidding and strange.
They were booted and spurred, they were armed to the teeth,
And they frowned as they looked at the valley beneath,
As forward they rode through the rocks and the fern -
Ned Kelly, Dan Kelly, Steve Hart and Joe Byrne.
Ned Kelly drew rein and he shaded his eyes -
'The town's at our mercy! See yonder it lies!
To hell with the troopers!' - he shook his clenched fist -
'We will shoot them like dogs if they dare to resist!'
And all of them nodded, grim-visaged and stern -
Ned Kelly, Dan Kelly, Steve Hart and Joe Byrne.
Through the gullies and creeks they rode silently down;
They stuck-up the station and raided the town;
They opened the safe and they looted the bank;
They laughed and were merry, they ate and they drank.
Then off to the ranges they went with their gold -
Oh! never were bandits more reckless and bold.
But time brings its punishment, time travels fast -
And the outlaws were trapped in Glenrowan at last,
Where three of them died in the smoke and the flame,
And Ned Kelly came back - to the last he was game.
But the Law shot him down (he was fated to hang),
And that was the end of the bushranging gang.
Whatever their faults and whatever their crimes,
Their deeds lend romance to those faraway times.
They have gone from the gullies they haunted of old,
And nobody knows where they buried their gold.
To the ranges they loved they will never return -
Ned Kelly, Dan Kelly, Steve Hart and Joe Byrne.
But at times when I pass through that sleepy old town
Where the far-distant peaks of Strathbogie look down
I think of the days when those grim ranges rang
To the galloping hooves of the bushranging gang.
Though the years bring oblivion, time brings a change,
The ghosts of the Kellys still ride from the range.
poem by Edward Harrington
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The Bush Fire
Ah, better the thud of the deadly gun, and the crash of the bursting shell,
Than the terrible silence where drought is fought out there in the western hell;
And better the rattle of rifles near, or the thunder on deck at sea,
Than the sound—most hellish of all to hear—of a fire where it should not be.
On the runs to the west of the Dingo Scrubs there was drought, and ruin, and death,
And the sandstorm came from the dread north-east with the blast of a furnace-breath;
Till at last one day, at the fierce sunrise, a boundary-rider woke,
And saw, in the place of the distant haze, a curtain of light blue smoke.
There is saddling-up by the cockey’s hut, and out in the station yard,
And away to the north, north-east, north-west, the bushmen are riding hard.
The pickets are out and many a scout, and many a mulga wire,
While Bill and Jim, with their faces grim, are riding to meet the fire.
It roars for days in the hopeless scrubs, and across, where the ground seems bare,
With a cackle and hiss, like the hissing of snakes, the fire is travelling there;
Till at last, exhausted by sleeplessness, and the terrible toil and heat,
The squatter is crying, ‘My God! the wool!’ and the farmer, ‘My God! the wheat!’
But there comes a drunkard (who reels as he rides), with the news from the roadside pub:—
‘Pat Murphy—the cockey—cut off by the fire!—way back in the Dingo Scrub!’
‘Let the wheat and the woolshed go to——’ Well, they do as each great heart bids;
They are riding a race for the Dingo Scrub—for Pat and his wife and kids.
And who is leading the race with death? An ill-matched three, you’ll allow;
Flash Jim the breaker and Boozing Bill (who is riding steadily now),
And Constable Dunn, of the Mounted Police, is riding between the two
(He wants Flash Jim, but the job can wait till they get the Murphys through).
As they strike the track through the blazing scrub, the trooper is heard to shout:
‘We’ll take them on to the Two-mile Tank, if we cannot bring them out!’
A half-mile more, and the rest rein back, retreating, half-choked, halfblind;
And the three are gone from the sight of men, and the bush fire roars behind.
The Bushman wiped the tears of smoke, and like Bushmen wept and swore;
‘Poor Bill will be wanting his drink to-night as never he did before.
‘And Dunn was the best in the whole damned force!’ says a client of Dunn’s, with pride;
I reckon he’ll serve his summons on Jim—when they get to the other side.
It is daylight again, and the fire is past, and the black scrub silent and grim,
Except for the blaze of an old dead tree, or the crash of a falling limb;
And the Bushmen are riding again on the run, with hearts and with eyes that fill,
To look for the bodies of Constable Dunn, Flash Jim, and Boozing Bill.
They are found in the mud of the Two-mile Tank, where a fiend might scarce survive,
But the Bushmen gather from words they hear that the bodies are much alive.
There is Swearing Pat, with his grey beard singed, and his language of lurid hue,
And his tough old wife, and his half-baked kids, and the three who dragged them through.
Old Pat is deploring his burnt-out home, and his wife the climate warm;
And Jim the loss of his favourite horse, and Dunn his uniform;
And Boozing Bill, with a raging thirst, is cursing the Dingo Scrub—
He’ll only ask for the loan of a flask and a lift to the nearest pub.
Flash Jim the Breaker is lying low—blue-paper is after him,
And Dunn, the trooper, is riding his rounds with a blind eye out for Jim,
And Boozing Bill is fighting D.Ts. in the township of Sudden Jerk—
When they’re wanted again in the Dingo Scrubs, they’ll be there to do the work.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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He Rode On a Bus
Since he rode on a bus,
They believed him to be without powerful allies.
Since he rode on a bus,
They believed him to be limited in influence.
Since he rode on a bus,
And lived amongst the poor and not the rich...
He was disrespected more.
But only a few knew,
His worth was more than this.
Even though his funds were limited.
And since he chose to ride on a bus,
He knew he could do what he wished.
His life was not lived to acquire material possessions.
His life was lived for him...
To enjoy every bit of it.
Being there with the people,
As his experience.
And if he rode on a bus...
That was a piece of 'his' happiness.
No explanations did he have to make,
Since for him this was a perfect fit.
Unlike the others,
Who expressed pretentions...
Every chance they would get.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Isis
(words by bob dylan and jacques levy)
I married isis on the fifth day of may,
But I could not hold on to her very long.
So I cut off my hair and I rode straight away
For the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong.
I came to a high place of darkness and light.
The dividing line ran through the center of town.
I hitched up my pony to a post on the right,
Went in to a laundry to wash my clothes down.
A man in the corner approached me for a match.
I knew right away he was not ordinary.
He said, are you lookin for somethin easy to catch?
I said, I got no money. he said, that aint necessary.
We set out that night for the cold in the north.
I gave him my blanket, he gave me his word.
I said, where are we goin? he said wed be back by the fourth.
I said, thats the best news that Ive ever heard.
I was thinkin about turquoise, I was thinkin about gold,
I was thinkin about diamonds and the worlds biggest necklace.
As we rode through the canyons, through the devilish cold,
I was thinkin about isis, how she thought I was so reckless.
How she told me that one day we would meet up again,
And things would be different the next time we wed,
If I only could hang on and just be her friend.
I still cant remember all the best things she said.
We came to the pyramids all embedded in ice.
He said, theres a body Im tryin to find.
If I carry it out itll bring a good price.
twas then that I knew what he had on his mind.
The wind it was howlin and the snow was outrageous.
We chopped through the night and we chopped through the dawn.
When he died I was hopin that it wasnt contagious,
But I made up my mind that I had to go on.
I broke into the tomb, but the casket was empty.
There was no jewels, no nothin, I felt Id been had.
When I saw that my partner was just bein friendly,
When I took up his offer I must-a been mad.
I picked up his body and I dragged him inside,
Threw him down in the hole and I put back the cover.
I said a quick prayer but I felt dead inside
Then I rode back to find isis just to tell her I love her, to tell her
She was there in the meadow where the creek used to rise.
Blinded by sleep and in need of a bed,
I came in from the east with the sun in my eyes.
I cursed her one time then I rode on ahead.
She said, where ya been? I said, no place special.
She said, you look different. I said, well, not quite.
She said, you been gone. I said, thats only natural.
She said, you gonna stay? I said, yeah, I jes might.
Isis, oh, isis, you mystical child.
What drives me to you is what drives me insane.
I still can remember the way that you smiled
On the fifth day of may in the drizzlin rain.
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Sorta Fairytale
on my way up north
up on the ventura
i pulled back the hood
and i was talking to you
and i knew then it would be
a life long thing
but i didn't know that we
we could break a silver lining
and i'm so sad
like a good book
i can't put this day back
a sorta fairytale
with you
a sorta fairytale
with you
things you said that day
up on the 101
the girl had come undone
i tried to downplay it
with a bet about us
you said that-
you'd take it
as long as i could
i could not erase it
and i'm so sad
like a good book
i can't put this day back
a sorta fairytale
with you
a sorta fairytale
with you
and i ride along side
and i rode along side
you then
and i rode along side
till you lost me there
in the open road
and i rode along side
till the honey spread
itself so thin
for me to break your bread
for me to take your word
i had to steal it
and i'm so sad
like a good book
i can't put this day back
a sorta fairytale
with you
a sorta fairytale
with you
i could pick back up
whenever i feel
down new mexico way
something about
the open road
i knew that he was
looking for some indian blood and
find a little in you find a little
in me we may be
on this road but
we're just
impostors
in this country you know
so we go along and we said
we'd fake it
feel better with
oliver stone
till i
almost smacked him -
seemed right that night and
i don't know what
takes hold
out there in the
desert cold
these guys think they must
try and just get over on us
and i'm so sad
like a good book
i can't put this
day back
a sorta fairytale
with you
a sorta fairytale
with you
and i was ridin' by
ridin' along side
for a while till you lost me
and i was ridin' by
ridin' along till you lost me
till you lost
me in
the rear
view
you lost me
i said
way up north i took my day
all in all was a pretty nice
day and i put the hood
right back where
you could taste heaven
perfectly
feel out the summer breeze
didn't know when we'd be back
and i
song performed by by Tori Amos from Scarlet's Walk
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Swagless Swaggie
This happened many years ago
Before the bush was cleared,
When every man was six foot high
And wore a flowing beard.
One very hot and windy day,
Along the old coach road,
Towards Joe Murphy’s halfway house
A bearded bushman strode.
He was a huge and heavy man,
Well over six foot high,
An old slouch hat was on his head,
And murder in his eye.
No billy can was in his hand,
No heavy swag he bore,
But deep and awful were the oaths
That swagless swaggie swore.
At last he reached the shanty door,
Into the bar he burst,
He dumped his hat upon the floor,
And cursed and cursed and cursed.
A neighboring shed had just cut out;
The bar was nearly full
Of shearers and of bullockies
Who’d come to cart the wool.
They were a rough and ready lot,
The bushmen gathered there,
But every man was stricken dumb,
To hear the stranger swear.
He cursed the bush, he cursed mankind,
The whole wide universe.
It froze their very blood to hear
That swagless swaggie curse.
Joe Murphy seized an empty pot
And filled it brimming full.
The stranger raised it to his lips
And took a mighty pull.
This seemed to cool him down a bit;
He finished off the ale,
And to the crowd around the bar
He told his awful tale.
“I met the Ben Hall gang,” he said,
“The blankards stuck me up!
They pinched me billy, pinched me swag,
And pinched me flamin’ pup!
They turned me pockets inside out,
And took me only quid!
I never thought they’d pinch me pipe,
But swelp me gawd they did!
I spoke to ’em as man to man,
I said I’d fight ’em all;
I would have broke O’Mealleys neck,
And tanned the hide of Hall.
They only laughed, and said good-bye,
And rode away to brag
Of how they stuck a swaggie up
And robbed him of his swag.
“I never done ’em any harm,
I thought ’em decent chaps.
But now I wouldn’t raise a hand
To save ’em from the traps.
I’m finished with the bush for good,
I’m off to Wagga town
Where they won’t stick a swaggie up
Or take a swaggie down.
The bushmen were a decent lot,
As bushmen mostly are.
They filled the stranger up with beer;
The hat went round the bar.
The shearers threw some blankets in
To make another swag,
The rousers gave a billy can
And brand new tucker bag.
Joe Murphy gave a meerschaum pipe
He hadn’t smoked for years.
The stranger was too full of words,
His eyes were dim with tears.
The ringer shouted drinks all round
And then, to top it up,
The babbling brook, the shearers cook,
Gave him a kelpie pup.
Next day, an hour before the dawn,
The stranger took the track
Complete with pup and billy can,
His swag upon his back.
Along the most forsaken roads,
Intent on dodging graft,
He headed for the Great North West,
And laughed, and laughed and laughed.
poem by Edward Harrington
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'm a lonely cowboy part one
A LONELY COWBOY, PART ONE
I'm a lonely cowboy, riding all alone,
I'm a lonely cowboy, no love to call my own,
I ride the lonely canyons and the mountains all day long,
looking for the cattle, and singing my lonely song,
no matter where I wander, no matter where I roam,
no matter where I'm riding, I still have no home,
no one to care about me, no one to hold my hand,
I'm just a lonely cowboy, I'm just a lonely man,
I talk to my only companion, I tell him how I feel,
that I want a sweetheart, I want a love thats real,
then he lets out a nicker to say he understands,
that I'm a lonely cowboy, I'm a lonely man,
it's the kind of life I'm living, the kind of life I've had,
it's why the songs I'm singing always seem so sad,
one day she will find me, the one I'm looking for,
then my life of sadness will finally all be o'er.
someone to share the sorrow, someone to share the joy,
someone to fill the emptiness, in this lonely cowboy,
I rode up in Montana, down in Texas too,
I'm going to keep on drifting, till I find a love thats true,
I rode in Colorado, and in Kansas just as well,
I rode in Nebraska my life a lonely hell,
I rode in Arizona and in New Mexico,
then in Oklahoma till I finally had to go
I rode in Wyoming, I rode in old Utah,
I rode in Missouri, now I'll go to Arkansas,
maybe I'll find her in the mountains
or in the high plains,
the woman that I've been needing, to take away my pain,
there will be no other, in this heart of mine,
I know I'll love her only, until the end of time.
written by Harry Bryant
4/16/03 7: 30: 53 AM �
all rights reserved
poem by Harry Bryant
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