The Love that Binds
My father died of the cholera
In eighteen thirty-two,
There wasn't a place at the cemetery
To bury him, that we knew,
The signs were posted at Netherton,
‘Don't bring your bodies here! '
The Sexton spoke: ‘Try Gospel Oak,
Or maybe, Wednesbury.'
We loaded Pa back onto the cart
And whipped the old grey mare,
We'd not long buried our cousin Jack
At the turning of the year,
From Manchester to Birmingham
The epidemic spread,
From Liverpool to Leeds, to York,
With one in twenty dead!
I walked along with the horse and cart
And I passed so many more,
They thrust their relatives out, feet first
In front of the tradesman's door,
The fear had spread so rapidly
No family was safe,
So Grandma went in her winding sheet
Outside, with her Sister Kate!
They loaded bodies onto a cart
No dignity in death,
And piled them three and four feet high
As they took their final breath,
And pits were dug as the space grew less
The Churchyards all were full,
For years, the gardeners turned them up
Old bones, and a grinning skull!
We took our Pa on home at last
With nowhere else to go,
And sat him out in the potting shed
Where the seedlings used to grow,
Then Ma sat down beside him there
And died of a broken heart,
We knew it would be a waste of time
To break out the horse and cart.
For years they sat untouched out there
Through spring and the summertime,
I looked one day, they were overgrown
With a creeper, like a vine,
The vine had woven in and around
Through bones that were falling apart,
It tied and bound them together,
Wrapping a tendril round each heart.
‘When things calm down, we'll bury them, '
I said to my brother, Sid,
As time went on, we both forgot
And I guess we never did;
They're closer now than they were in life
She doesn't scold or moan,
While he clings fast to his silent wife,
And at least, they're both at home!
30 August 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Seldom Asked
A horse familiar with pulling a cart,
Doesn't have to be taught...
What that experience is like.
Or is in need to have details of scenes,
Described by those riding in the cart...
As the horse pulls.
A horse familiar with pulling a cart,
Doesn't have to be taught...
What that experience is like.
A horse familiar with pulling a cart...
Is seldom asked,
About anything the horse knows and has seen...
On a path that is daily traveled.
Those in the cart,
Seldom repeat the ride.
And few, if any...
Know what it is like to pull their own weight,
And others.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Last Week
Oh, the new-chum went to the backblock run,
But he should have gone there last week.
He tramped ten miles with a loaded gun,
But of turkey of duck saw never a one,
For he should have been there last week,
They said,
There were flocks of 'em there last week.
He wended his way to a waterfall,
And he should have gone there last week.
He carried a camera, legs and all,
But the day was hot and the stream was small,
For he should have gone there last week,
They said,
They drowned a man there last week.
He went for a drive, and he made a start,
Which should have been made last week,
For the old horse died of a broken heart;
So he footed it home and he dragged the cart --
But the horse was all right last week,
They said,
He trotted a match last week.
So he asked all the bushies who came from afar
To visit the town last week
If the'd dine with him, and they said "Hurrah!"
But there wasn't a drop in the whisky jar --
You should have been here last week,
He said,
I drank it all up last week!
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Sibling Children at Play
Two sibling children are at play;
The ‘horse’ is elder sister, Jill,
Whose younger brother ‘driver’ Bill
Sits on an ‘Umbrella-cart’, gay!
‘Giddap! ’ ‘Giddap! ’ shouts Bill to her;
‘Pull me, pull me, pull me faster! ’
The fuming, panting tired Jill,
Finds it hard pulling Bill ‘uphill’?
The ‘Umbrella-cart’ moves with speed;
Poor Jill is pulling fast indeed;
Her brother giggles, laughs aloud;
The cart-drive makes him truly proud!
But, Jill is only five-years’ old;
Her baby brother is quite bold;
She does not have the strength to pull;
But give a joy-ride for Bill, she’ll!
The wheels of th’ cart wobble along;
Bill insists her to sing a song;
‘Neigh like a horse! ’ he commands her;
If she does not, Bill will holler.
Her little brother loves the ride;
The cart stops often by road-side;
The ‘driver’ shouts, ‘Pull on farther! ’
Or I will cry and call mother.
Poor Jill cannot pull on and on;
But she must do: she is first-born;
Jill loves her little brother, Bill;
Do anything for him, she will.
Yes, children love to play all day;
They do not know dangers en way;
They copy elders, come what may;
They never like the word called ‘nay’.
But children love a simple ride;
They do it on their own with pride;
They love to learn and enjoy too;
You never know what they can do.
To children, work is also play;
They love to learn in playful way;
At times, they fight as though by right;
They sleep like angels small, at night!
Their innocence is worth watching;
Their childish ways befit smiling;
Their scuffles are worth too, prying;
But sad ’tis to see them sobbing.
And adults dream of childhood years-
The loveliest in life with dears!
That was the time they knew not fears,
While parents never allowed tears.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 11-21-2007
poem by John Celes
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I was not great behind the counter. I had a week off without asking for it. Another time, we had a cart go up in flames, and we went out on another cart, which we wrecked by running it into the cart that was on fire.
Advice To The Kings And Administrators
The axle of the cart, loaded
with light-weighted peacock feathers
too, may break if the cart is overloaded.
ThirukkuRaL 475
This is the advice
given to the Kings and administrators
to know their strength,
their opponents' strength
and act accordingly.
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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Give Way
I know a man from Lancashire
who had a horse and cart for hire.
The horse was old but the cart is strong,
somehow together they didn't belong.
When they became one there was a change,
Ears went up, whip in the tail, snap the riegns.
They came to a bridge, it looked a little weak
As they crossed, it hobbled, tapped and creaked.
The wooden bridge was small and norrow
not to long, but only room for one to pass.
Towards them flapped a little brown sparrow,
horse thinks, no way he's makin me into an ass.
The old horse snorted and put his head down,
nothing would stop them getting to town.
Said the horse: ' no one's gettin in my way'
Then the little sparrow flew up, got out the way.
Hovering above watching everything,
just like a slow motion scene.
The sparrow saw the horse
fly through the trucks screen.
P.S. We used a proffessional stunt horse, he is Ok.
poem by David Darbyshire
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Unity Or Not
What is one accomplishing,
By chasing behind a horse drawn cart...
That is going uphill.
Yelling, 'Unity! '
All out of breath and sweating.
As the horse glances back every now and then,
Thinking...
~Why is that fool running behind me like that?
Yelling 'Unity? '
My name is Raymond.
And I've got all I can handle.
Unity or not,
He's not getting on here.
I'm pulling this cart.
And it will come to a stop...
IF he tries.
Late comers are not welcomed.~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Demigod and a Demi-Monde
She always looks for the status
and re-examined her blueprint lover.
He doesn't like her disdain
and tawdry damsel's illusive world.
They put the cart before the horse,
Still holding the cart load
and deprived unnecessarily.
To the blushing lovers.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Genius Of Being A Dumb Animal (like a horse for instance)
The precocious interrupted patterns
of his thick tongued speech
are a direct result of the broken dialects
he had been learned at home.(the master not the horse)
His loving mother and laboring father,
both of whom were legal immigrants,
had walked out of eastern Europe,
and yet only briefly had stepped outside
of their existentialist dreams,
when they conceived the likes of him.
'Son, we want you to hurt like we do.'
they both would radically repeat
to their impressionable boy.....over and over,
as they washed behind his balls and ears.
And so it was that at a very young age
these austere expressions would become
very systematic in his writings.
Poetry became his enemy and his best friend.
Throwing himself into books full
of someone else's distorted
thoughts and equations,
he promised himself that one day soon
he would save the world. (from itself)
Even if it resisted such help, he thought
he would never see it his parent's way.
In a time when most boys
still played with all their marbles
he kept his glass eyes in a tin,
which also doubled as his head.
Thereby,
an early indicator
of the duplicitous manner,
in which he intended to prove
to the myopic world
that he was smarter than one might think
Hence.....*this is where the horse comes in...*
The man bought a horse to help
him in the cluttered junk business
he had built from the ground up
The horse just as all else in the man's life
was always placed before the cart
and the cart was routinely overfilled,
while still bridled to the hard working horse.
The horse, after all was said and done
remained completely convinced
despite his Master's verbose claims,
that there was no possible reason,
or need to reinvent a better wheel
for his overloaded cart
as was suggested by the horse
when the horse had on one day developed
a noticeable shortness in his gate
Alas.....poor......horse
All the genius which the horse displayed
in both compensating for his limp despite the load.....
still completing his daily grind without complaint
would prove to count for nothing
when he broke his leg tripping over his master
in the stampede to get the 'Hell out of Dodge'____
and his master's utopia......
poem by Ted Sheridan
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Alive And Killing
I once knew this boy
Who was in his teens,
A dog tag around his neck
A pair of low waist jeans
A ragged shirt, streaked hair
Branded shoes, the thuggish stare
It all fitted him very well
Yet his darkest secret he would never tell.
There was one little piece
The jigsaw was missing
That one thing that seemed out of place
That one thing that didn't fit in.
He had everything,
Yet he seemed depressed
'Is it your marks? Your studies? '
'Why are you looking so stressed? '
His parents would give him
Everything he needed and more
Yet his wasn’t as bright
As the clothes he wore
He was always missing from class and home alike
No one knew where he went
Except his little brother
He had followed him that day
To see where he went alone
He followed him to a house
He followed him back home
He saw what his brother did
He saw his brothers near death
He knew he had to stop him
He would fight till his final breath
Seven years of mystery
Was uncovered that day
But only his brother knew
When his motionless brother lay
His brother was dead
Dead of drugs
That seventeen year old
Had been dealing with thugs
The brother didn’t reveal
The information he had
He knew his brother wasn’t the only one
What he knew was driving him mad
He was going to do something
About these killing things
Going to take action
Going to spread out his wings
He was only thirteen
What could he do?
Nothing was in his hands
That he knew
Then he decided to take his stand
For his brothers sake and all like him
He knew what power lay in his hands
He knew how he could inspire a change
He knew precisely what he had to do
He walked to his brother’s room
And picked up his pen
And with a firm mind
And an urge to make a difference
He began to write....
Alive and killing.
poem by Abhishek Vishwanathan
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The Horse and Cart Ferry
It was old Jerry Brown,
Who’d an office in town,
And he used to get jocular, very;
And he’d go to the Shore
When they’d serve him no more,
And, of course, by the passenger ferry,
A sight on the passenger ferry.
Now this is a song of the ferry,
And a lay of the juice of the berry;
’Tis the ballad of Brown,
Who’d a business in town,
And commenced to go down
Very slow,
Don’t you know?
By coming home just a bit merry.
By the Drunks’ Boat—that’s right—
On a Saturday night
He would often be past being merry;
With his back teeth afloat,
On the twelve o’clock boat,
And a spectacle there on the ferry
(A picture to all on the ferry).
In the mornings, ashamed—
’Twas the last drink he blamed,
Though the first was the matter with Jerry,
With his nerve out of joint,
He’d sneak down to Blue’s Point,
And he’d cross by the horse-and-cart ferry,
Like a thief—by the horse-and-cart ferry.
But long before night
He’d most likely be tight,
And a subject and theme for George Perry;
And he’d cross to the Shore,
Somewhat worse than before,
And a nuisance to all on the ferry;
Singing-drunk on the passenger ferry.
And so it went on
Till his reason seemed gone,
And the Law, so it seemed, got a derry
On Brown. He went down,
And they sent him to town
One day, by “the trap,” on the ferry—
The Government trap on the ferry.
He was sober and sane
When he came back again,
And the past he’d determined to bury—
Or, I mean, live it down—
And he crossed from the town
Like a man, on the passenger ferry.
(There were sceptical souls on that ferry.)
They say ’twas the jaw
Of his mother-in-law
Drove him back to the juice of the berry;
But he soon got afloat
On the passenger boat
Or adrift on the horse-and-cart ferry
(Wrongly called the ve-hic-ular ferry).
The drink had him fast,
And he drank till at last
He dried up—a withered old cherry;
And they thought him no loss
When they sent him across
In a box, on the cart-and-horse ferry—
In a low, covered trap on the ferry.
Which I rise to explain—
If the moral ain’t plain,
And if you’re a cove that gets merry—
Always stick, when “afloat,”
To the passenger boat;
Or else to the cart-and-horse ferry,
Or you’ll make matters worse, like old Jerry.
But this is the song of the ferry,
And the lay of the juice of the berry;
And you will not deny—
If you read by-and-bye—
That the casual eye
Of the Tight
At first sight
Misses much in the song of the ferry.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Odd musings of an impatient heart
A shopping cart sits alongside the road
Its taunts me as its stands there alone
Just a piece of metal to passers by
But I see that metal and swallow a sigh
And now I've had more than I can take
Its eating me up and I begin to wish
That I could leave this place for a while
Or maybe forever that would be even better
Maybe I could meet someone who is new
And his words would be only the truth
Not lies compared to the thoughts in his head
But I see this shopping cart stranded alone
Just waiting for someone to come take it home
And i wonder of all the things that could make me sad
How a lone shopping cart had the effect that it had
poem by Kamryn Chew
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The Cab Horses' Story
Now, you wouldn't imagine, to look at me,
That I was a racehorse once.
I have done my mile in - let me see
No matter. I was no dunce.
But you'd not believe me if I told
Of gallops I did in days of old.
I was first in - ah, well! What's the good?
It hurts to recall those days
When I drew from men, as a proud horse should,
Nothing but words of praise:
Oh, the waving hats, and the cheering crowd!
How could a horse help being proud?
My owner was just as proud as I;
I was cuddled and petted and praised.
My fame was great and my price was high,
And every year 'twas raised.
Then I strained a sinew in ninety-nine,
And that's when started my swift decline.
I was turned to grass for a year or so;
Then dragged to an auction sale;
And a country sport gave me a go;
But how could I hope but fail?
'A crock,' said he. And I here began
To learn of the ways of cruel man.
A year I spent as a lady's hack
I was growing old and spent
But she said that the riding hurt her back;
So we parted; and I went
For a while - and it nearly broke my heart
Dragging a greasy butcher's cart.
Then my stifle went. And I, proud horse,
Son of the nobly born,
The haughty king of a city course,
Knew even a butcher's scorn!
So down the ladder I quickly ran;
Till I came to be owned by a bottle man.
And my bed was hard and my food was poor,
And my work was harder still
Dragging a cart from door to door
The slave of Bottle-oh Bill.
Till even he, for a few mean bob,
Sold me into this hateful job.
As I dozed and dreamed in the ranks one day,
Thinking of good days past,
I heard a voice that I knew cry, 'Hey!
Say, cabby, is this horse fast?'
And he looked at me in a way I know.
'Twas the man I'd loved in the long ago.
'Twas my dear, old master of ninety-nine,
And I waited, fair surprised.
But ne'er by a look and ne'er by sign
Did he show he recognised.
Then I heard his words ('twas my last hard knock):
'Why don't you pole-axe the poor old crock?'
And he turned aside to a low-bred mare
That was foaled on some cockie's farm,
And he drove away. What do I care?
I can come to no more harm.
In a knacker's yard I am worth at least
Some pence for a hungry lion's feast.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Her Blessings At Death (story)
(STORY) (5/22/12)
She was laying in her hospice bed
She knew in a short time she would be dead
She had no fear of death you see
She waited for it patiently.
She knew she lived a good long life
She was a daughter, a sister, a mother, a wife.
Regrets- she knew she had none
GOD had blessed her with a wonderful son
A faith so strong in GOD above
And she showered family and friends with tenderness and love.
She was loved by everyone around
In her spirit and heart true love they found.
The most gentlest person you'd ever want to meet
Knowing her was such a treat.
When she went for her physical that year
The doctors found what they feared
A cancer cell growing so rapidly
It was something they did not foresee.
She showed no signs as many do
But they knew her life was through.
Her family was with her 24/7
They knew soon she'd be in heaven.
The hospital corridors were filled with people
And bells were ringing from all the steeples.
She was not a woman of fortune and fame
And of nothing in her life did she feel ashamed.
Just a loving heart so pure and true
That she shared it with everyone she knew.
They say she died in her sleep, as everyone began to weep.
But before she died - she had told her son
"tell the world- LOVES JUST BEGUN'.
poem by Louis Rams
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Fidele's Grassy Tomb
The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair,
His eyes were alive and clear of care,
But well he knew that the hour was come
To bid good-bye to his ancient home.
He looked on garden, wood, and hill,
He looked on the lake, sunny and still:
The last of earth that his eyes could see
Was the island church of Orchardleigh.
The last that his heart could understand
Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand:
'Bury the dog at my feet,' he said,
And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead.
Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed,
Staunch to love and strong at need:
He had dragged his master safe to shore
When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore.
From that day forth, as reason would,
He was named 'Fidele,' and made it good:
When the last of the mourners left the door
Fidele was dead on the chantry floor.
They buried him there at his master's feet,
And all that heard of it deemed it meet:
The story went the round for years,
Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears.
Bishop of Bath and Wells was he,
Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh;
And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screed
That Bishop may write or Parson read.
The sum of it was that a soulless hound
Was known to be buried in hallowed ground:
From scandal sore the Church to save
They must take the dog from his masters grave.
The heir was far in a foreign land,
The Parson was wax to my Lord's command:
He sent for the Sexton and bade him make
A lonely grave by the shore of the lake.
The Sexton sat by the water's brink
Where he used to sit when he used to think:
He reasoned slow, but he reasoned it out,
And his argument left him free from doubt.
'A Bishop,' he said, 'is the top of his trade:
But there's others can give him a start with the spade:
Yon dog, he carried the Squire ashore,
And a Christian couldn't ha' done no more.
The grave was dug; the mason came
And carved on stone Fidele's name;
But the dog that the Sexton laid inside
Was a dog that never had lived or died.
So the Parson was praised,and the scandal stayed,
Till, a long time after, the church decayed,
And, laying the floor anew, they found
In the tomb of the Squire the bones of a hound.
As for the Bishop of Bath and Wells
No more of him the story tells;
Doubtless he lived as a Prelate and Prince,
And died and was buried a century since.
And whether his view was right or wrong
Has little to do with this my song;
Something we owe him, you must allow;
And perhaps he has changed his mind by now.
The Squire in the family chantry sleeps,
The marble still his memory keeps:
Remember, when the name you spell,
There rest Fidele's bones as well.
For the Sexton's grave you need not search,
'Tis a nameless mound by the island church:
An ignorant fellow, of humble lot---
But. he knew one thing that a Bishop did not.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Fire Maple Song
Turn away from the pain you dont want
Turning down to avoid them when they call
Strange words I heard a long long time ago
I wish I could go back to a summer time I knew more than twenty years ago=
Cant lay beneath the sheets we lie underneath the maple tree
Now I cant smile
Lying in the grass with the wind around us as we smile and talk
Listen to your grandma sing those country songs
Shed tell us how the maple turns to fire every four years
Wed sit in the grass all summer just to watch the autumn come around
I cant smile now
I live alone and youre so far away
I call you once a year just around the holiday
I still see you in the night lying above me in the grass
I cant smile
Turn away from the pain you dont want
Turning down to avoid them when they call
I cant believe this letter that says you died
I think Im gonna go back to the old house in north carolina and lay in the backyard
Get drunk and let the leaves just bury me
Bury me
I cant smile
song performed by by Everclear
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ox Cart Man
In October of the year,
he counts potatoes dug from the brown field,
counting the seed, counting
the cellar's portion out,
and bags the rest on the cart's floor.
He packs wool sheared in April, honey
in combs, linen, leather
tanned from deerhide,
and vinegar in a barrel
hoped by hand at the forge's fire.
He walks by his ox's head, ten days
to Portsmouth Market, and sells potatoes,
and the bag that carried potatoes,
flaxseed, birch brooms, maple sugar, goose
feathers, yarn.
When the cart is empty he sells the cart.
When the cart is sold he sells the ox,
harness and yoke, and walks
home, his pockets heavy
with the year's coin for salt and taxes,
and at home by fire's light in November cold
stitches new harness
for next year's ox in the barn,
and carves the yoke, and saws planks
building the cart again.
poem by Donald Hall
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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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Jack's Confession Sonnet
Jack O'reilly:
Father I think you can guess why I left
I was only fifteen years old that time
nobody knew me, it wasn't for theft
I had to leave Manchester, for my crime
was exactly what you are thinking now
it was no coincidence, Lucas died
and it is clear to me your thinking how
Lucas had to go, all true to us tried
but nobody knew me I was a boy
my father never wanted me to fight
I took his gun and used it like a toy
I killed Lucas and I did what was right
because he killed my dad, I moved away
four years ago, I confess death that day.
poem by Daniel McCann
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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