Brigalow Mick
A dandy old horsernan is Brigalow Mick-
Which his name, sir, is Michael O'Dowd -
Whatever he's riding, when timber is thick,
He is always in front of the crowd.
A few tangled locks that are fast turning white
Crown a physog. the colour of brick,
But as keen as a kestrel's-as bold and as bright -
Is the blue eye of Brigalow Mick.
He is Martin's head-stockman, on Black-Cattle Creek -
All the boys there are rare ones to ride -
But Mick is the 'daddy'; and far you may seek
Ere you find such an artist in hide.
He'll turn out a halter, or stockwhip can make,
As you've seldom cast eyes on before;
And never the 'nugget' was calved that could break
Michael's whips, which he plaits by the score.
All the lads on the station are handy enough,
Nor are frightened of grafting too hard,
But Mick, if the cattle are rowdy and rough,
Is the pick of 'em all in a yard.
A bad colt to tackle - a mad one to steer
Through thick timber - you'll hear Martin boast -
Mick yet is unrivalled, there isn't his peer
Right from Camooweal in to the coast.
Ay! long may it be ere the scrubs are bereft
Of the clearskins that give us the sport,
And long may the station have stock-riders left,
Of the build of old Brigalow's sort.
poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
No Expectations
(mick jagger)
Take me to the station,
And put me on a train
I've got no expectations,
To pass through here again
(lenny kravitz)
Once i was a rich man,
And now i am so poor
But never in my sweet short life
Have i felt so like this before
(mick jagger)
Your heart is like a diamond,
You throw your pearls at swine
And as i watch you leaving me,
You pack my peace of mind
(lenny kravitz)
Our love was like the water
That splashes on a stone
Our love is like our music,
It's here and then it's gone
(mick jagger)
So take me to the airport,
And put me on a plane
I've got no expectations
To pass through here again
(lenny kravitz & mick jagger)
To pass through here again
song performed by by Lenny Kravitz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who's Riding Old Harlequin Now?
They are mustering cattle on Brigalow Vale
Where the stock-horses whinny and stamp,
And where long Andy Ferguson, you may go bail,
Is yet boss on a cutting-out camp.
Half the duffers I met would not know a fat steer
From a blessed old Alderney cow.
Whilst they're mustering there I am wondering here -
Who is riding brown Harlequin now?
Are the pikers as wild and the scrubs just as dense
In the brigalow country as when
There was never a homestead and never a fence
Between Brigalow Vale and The Glen?
Do they yard the big micks 'neath the light of the moon?
Do the yard-wings re-echo the row
Of stockwhips and hoof-beats? And what sort of coon
Is there riding old Harlequin now?
There was buckjumping blood in the brown gelding's veins,
But, lean-headed, with iron-like pins,
Of Pyrrhus and Panic he'd plentiful strains,
All their virtues, and some of their sins.
'Twas the pity, some said, that so shapely a colt
Fate should with such temper endow;
He would kick and would strike, he would buck and would bolt -
Ah! who's riding brown Harlequin now?
A demon to handle! a devil to ride!
Small wonder the surcingle burst;
You'd have thought that he'd buck himself out of his hide
On the morning we saddled him first.
I can mind how he cow-kicked the spur on my boot,
And though that's long ago, still I vow
If they're wheeling a piker no new-chum galoot
Is a-riding old Harlequin now!
I remember the boss - how he chuckled and laughed
When they yarded the brown colt for me:
"He'll be steady enough when we finish the graft
And have cleaned up the scrubs of Glen Leigh!'
I am wondering today if the brown horse yet live,
For the fellow who broke him, I trow,
A long lease of soul-ease would willingly give
To be riding brown Harlequin now!
'Do you think you can hold him?' old Ferguson said -
He was mounted on Homet, the grey;
I think Harlequin heard him - he shook his lean head,
And he needed no holding that day.
Not a prick from a spur, nor a sting from a whip
As he raced among deadwood and bough
While I sat fairly quiet and just let him rip -
But who's riding old Harlequin now?
I could hear 'em a-crashing the gidgee in front
As the Bryan colt streaked to the lead
Whilst the boss and the niggers were out of the hunt.
For their horses lacked Harlequin's speed;
The pikers were yarded and skies growing dim
When old Fergie was fain to allow:
'The colt's track through the scrub was a knocker' to him -
But who's riding brown Harlequin now?
From starlight to starlight - all day in between
The foam-flakes might fly from his bit,
But whatever the pace of the day's work had been,
The brown gelding was eager and fit.
On the packhorse's back they are fixing a load
Where the path climbs the hill's gloomy brow;
They are mustering bullocks to send on the road,
But - who's riding old Harlequin now?
poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mick
Mick loves sports deep in his heart
Of his whole life; footy and soccer play a major part
Playing and watching gives him a high
Especially when his team kicks a goal or scores a try
In AFL the Sydney Swans or the Red and White
Are forever the favourites in his sight
Mick has loved Middlesbrough English soccer team or Boro as they are known
Since from a child; he has grown
In NRL Mick is happy to see West Tigers roar
As this is the side that he barracks for
Total satisfaction Mick always finds
Through Sports of all kinds
poem by Rose Angel H
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If it wasn't for Mick, the group would've fallen apart a long time ago.
quote by Mick Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crafting Poems
'Yeah, it's a craft that you learn on the job,
don't you think? Like a carpenter learns
the ins and the outs of his trade.
It's not just puking up your guts,
spewing feelings left and right
like some demented jamoke! '
Mick said, holding the magazine
open so that Celia could read
what he was pointing to.
'Oates says here that writing
is a craft, it's not an experience
like an emotion, ' Celia said.
'You know, Mick, some folks
think that you're the author
of these poems that Malone
has been writing using you and me
as characters in an ongoing epic
poem. They identify you the character
with the same name as the author
as one and the same person -
Have you noticed, Mick? '
'That's my thought too, though we are
the very lifeblood of that narrowback's
epic poem in the making, as it were -
like a fancy cabinet handcrafted by
an expert woodworker in his shop!
Neat simile that, eh? ' Mick quipped.
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Mick says, Would you join the band? I say to him, Mick, you know I'd be there in a New York minute.
People often get the wrong impression of Mick. The clever businessman is just one side of Mick. The other side is the same as the rest of us, a true rocker!
Ahane's Own Mick Mackey
In his Limerick had a name to celebrate
Ahane's own Mick Mackey was a hurling great
Assured of his place in Hurling's Hall of Fame
In death as in life his a legendary name.
So many great hurlers the way of time have gone
But the legend of Mackey destined to live on
He is proclaimed to be the best of his time
And he must have been great when he was in his prime.
Mick Mackey the hurler broad shouldered and strong
The man who was honoured in story and song
He inspired Limerick to many a marvellous victory
And very few hurlers were as great as he.
He was never found wanting when put to the test
Ahane's own Mick Mackey he was Limerick's best
One of the famed Mackeys the legendary Mick
He weaved hurling magic with his caman stick.
Of his prowess of a great scoring forward he left none in doubt
And when hurling people talk of great hurlers his name is never left out
And though from the land of the living he may be long gone
As a hurling legend his name will live on.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Armistice: To His Dead Cobber From The Sentimental Bloke
I'm sittin' 'ere, Mick - sittin' 'ere today,
Feelin' 'arf glum, 'arf sorter - reverent,
Thinkin' strange, crooked thorts of 'ow they say:
'The 'eads is bowed thro' all a continent';
An' wond'rin - wond'rin 'in a kind of doubt
If other coves is feelin' like I do,
Tryin' to figure wot it's all about,
An' - if it's meanin' anythin' to you.
Silence... The hour strikes soon thro' all the land
An 'eads bend low. Old mate, give me your 'and.
Silence - for you, Mick, an' for blokes like you
To mark the Day - the Day you never knoo.
The Day you never knoo, nor we forget...
I can't tell why I'm sittin' 'ere this way,
Scrawlin' a message that you'll never get -
Or will you? I dunno. It's 'ard to say.
P'raps you'll know all about it, where you are,
An' think, 'Ah, well, they ain't too bad a lot.'
An' tell them other digs up on your star
That now, or nevermore, they ain't fergot.
Silence... Not ere alone, Mick - everywhere -
In city an' in country 'eads are bare.
An', in this room, it seems as if l knoo
Some friend 'oo came - Ole cobber! Is it you?
Me 'eart is full,
Mick... 'Struth! I ain't the bloke,
As you well know, to go all soft an' wet.
Fair's fair, lad. Times I've known when you 'ave spoke
Like you was tough an' 'ard as 'ell - an' yet
Somethin' be'ind your bluff an' swagger bold
Showed all them narsty sentiments was kid.
It was that thing inside yeh, lad, wot told.
It made you go an' do the thing you did.
Silence... There's mothers, Mick. You never knoo
No mother. But they're prayin' for you too.
In every heart - The Boys! The Boys are there,
The Boys... That very name, lad, is a pray'r.
The Boys! Old cobber, I can see 'em still:
The drums are rollin' an' the sunlight gleams
On bay'nits. Men are marchin' with a will
On to the glory of their boy'ood's dreams.
Glory? You never found it that, too much.
But, lad, you stuck it - stuck it with the rest,
An' if your bearin' 'ad no soulful touch,
'Twas for OUR souls that you went marchin' - West.
Silence... The children too, Mick - little kids,
Are standin'. Not becos their teacher bids:
They've knoo no war; but they 'ave stopped their play
Becos they know, they feel it is The Day.
So may it be thro' all the comin' years.
But sorrow's gone, lad. It's not that we know.
The sobbin's passed, 'ole cobber, an' the tears,
An' well we un'erstand you'd 'ave it so.
But somethin' deeper far than that 'as come,
Somethin' a mind can't get within its bound,
Somethin' l can't explain. A man is dumb
When 'e thinks... Listen! 'Ear the bugles sound!
Silence!
* * * *
Well, Mick, ole cock, I dunno why I've wrote,
It's just to ease a thing inside wot says
'Sit down, you sloppy coot, an' write a note
To that ole cobber of the olden days.
'E'll know - for sure 'e'll know'. 'So, lad, it's done,
Work's waitin', an' a man can't get in wrong:
Our goal is still ahead. But yours is won:
That's the one thing we know, lad, an - So long.
Silence... It's over, Mick; so there you are.
I know you're 'appy up there on yer star.
Believe us, lad; that star shall never fall
While one is left to say, 'Gawd keep 'em all!'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You wake up in the morning and you look at your old spoon, and you say to yourself, 'Mick, it's time to get yourself a new spoon.' And you do.
quote by Mick Jagger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Boyhood Sporting Hero
Most boys have their sporting heroes and mine played Gaelic Football
The mighty Mick O Connell the greatest I recall
But Mick O played for Kerry and Cork my favourite team
And to play football good as him was many school boy's dream
The finest Gaelic Footballer that I have ever seen
Not rough or hard in any way but classical and clean
And though that was many years ago and far so far away
Of great player from Valentia the memory with me stay.
When Mick O's playing days were over he faded from the scene
But memories of his playing feats will remain evergreen
His high fielding and kicking and his passing of the ball
The complete Gaelic Footballer the greatest of them all.
He never hogged the limelight he seemed so quiet and shy
But he was sporting hero to many school going boy
And even many who did not support Kerry will still tell you today
That Valentia's Mick O Connell was the best they had seen play.
My hero played for Kerry and Cork my favourite team
And to be good a player as him an early teenage dream
But as a Gaelic Footballer I never made the grade
And I won't be remembered for any game I played.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Mick takes it seriously!
'Hell, i read in bed, on the train, or walking
down the hall, don't you? ' Mick said.
We were sitting in his kitchen.
Celia was on the barcalounger
in the den watching a soap on TV -
Days of Our Lives sounded like.
'Books of Tennyson and Keats not my cup
of tea exactly, nor do I fancy them circling
overhead either - bleeding dangerous, that!
Sure, I puzzle over rhyme and meter, simile
and metaphor - shit! I went to college, too!
Can't hardly get that stuff out of my head!
I've bayed at the moon when I drink enough -
the curse of the Irish, right? But no dancing,
please! not in this neighborhood!
Celia is my idea of beauty, though a bit long
in the tooth, like the old Lab sitting with her -
they both shine with the patina of age,
know what I mean? They're the poetry
of my life, and I write about them both
in many guises! Say, is this Valentine's Day,
or am I sappier than usual! '
I agree with Mick all the way.
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Vote for Obama!
'Vote Obama! The past is history! Vote Obama! '
Mick applauded as he reached for the drink.
We waited for Mick's acerbic comment on
the heroic figure of our time.
'No, I'm serious. Read some of the opinions
expressed by other poets on this site about
poetry! Gush and emote, let it all hang out!
If you disagree, they ask if Chicago is still in
America? I suppose that means that in our
republic of drivel and pychobabble,
anything and everything goes, right?
That killer in DeKalb on St Valentine's Day
might have been a gentler, milder man
if only he had scribbled his drivel on
reams of paper, like you and me, right? '
Right you are, you Irish dinosauer!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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The Straight Griffin
''Eroes? Orright. You 'ave it 'ow yeh like.
Throw up yer little 'at an' come the glad;
But not too much 'Three-'Earty-Cheers' fer Mike;
There's other things that 'e'll be wantin' bad.
The boys won't 'ave them kid-stakes on their mind
Wivout there's somethin' solider be'ind.'
Now that's the dinkum oil frum Ginger Mick,
In 'orspital, somew'ere be'ind the front;
Plugged in the neck, an' lately pretty sick,
But now right on the converlescent stunt.
'I'm on the mend,' 'e writes, 'an' nearly doo
To come the 'ero act agen - Scene two.'
I'd sent some papers, knowin' 'ow time drags
Wiv blokes in blankits, waitin' fer a cure.
'An' 'Struth!' Mick writes, 'the way they et them rags
Yeh'd think that they'd bin weaned on litrachure.
They wrestled thro' frum 'Births' to 'Lost and Found';
They even give the Leaders 'arf a round.'
Mick spent a bonzer day propped up in bed,
Soothin' 'is soul wiv ev'ry sportin' page;
But in the football noos the things 'e read
Near sent 'im orf 'is top wiv 'oly rage;
The way 'is team 'as mucked it earned 'is curse;
But 'e jist swallered it - becos uv nurse.
An' then this 'eadline 'it 'im wiv bokays;
'Australian Heroes!' is the song it makes.
Mick reads the boys them ringin' words o' praise;
But they jist grins a bit an' sez 'Kid stakes!'
Sez Mick to nurse, 'You tumble wot I am?
A bloomin' little 'ero. Pass the jam!'
Mick don't say much uv nurse; but 'tween the lines -
('Im bein' not too strong on gushin' speech)
I seem to see some tell-tale sort o' signs.
Sez 'e, 'Me nurse-girl is a bonzer peach,'
An' then 'e 'as a line: ''Er sad, sweet look.'
'Struth! Ginger must 'a' got it frum a book.
Say, I can see ole Ginger, plain as plain,
Purrin' to feel the touch u'v 'er cool 'and,
Grinnin' a bit to kid 'is wound don't pain,
An' yappin' tork she don't 'arf understand,
That makes 'er wonder if, back where she lives,
They're all reel men be'ind them ugly chivs.
But that's orright. Ole Ginger ain't no flirt.
'You tell my Rose,' 'e writes, 'she's still the sweet.
An' if Long Jim gits rnessin' round that skirt,
When I come back I'll do 'im up a treat.
Tell 'im, if all me arms an' legs is lame
I'll bite the blighter if 'e comes that game!'
There's jealousy! But Ginger needn't fret.
Rose is fer 'im, an' Jim ain't on 'er card;
An' since she spragged 'im last time that they met
I im ain't inlisted - but 'e's thinkin' 'ard.
Mick wus 'er 'ero long before the war,
An' now 'e's sort o' chalked a double score.
That's all Sir Garneo. But Mick, 'e's vowed
This ''Ail the 'Ero' stunt gits on 'is nerves,
An' makes 'im peevish; tho' 'e owns 'is crowd
Can mop up all the praises they deserves.
'But don't yeh spread the 'ero on too thick
If it's exhaustin' yeh,' sez Ginger Mick.
'We ain't got no objections to the cheers;
We're good an' tough, an' we can stand the noise,
But three 'oorays and five or six long beers
An' loud remarks about 'Our Gallant Boys'
Sounds kind o' weak - if you'll ixcuse the word
Beside the fightin' sounds we've lately 'eard.
'If you'll fergive our blushes, we can stand
The 'earty cheerin' an' the songs o' praise.
The loud 'Osannas uv our native land
Makes us feel good an' glad in many ways.
An' later, when we land back in a mob,
Per'aps we might be arstin' fer a job.
'I'd 'ate,' sez Mick, 'to 'ave you think us rude,
Or take these few remarks as reel bad taste;
'Twould 'urt to 'ave it seem ingratichude,
Wiv all them 'earty praises gone to waste.
We'll take yer word fer it, an' jist remark
This 'ero racket is a reel good lark.
'Once, when they caught me toppin' off a John,
The Bench wus stern, an' torked uv dirty work;
But, 'Struth! it's bonzer 'ow me fame's come on
Since when I took to toppin' off the Turk.
So, if it pleases, shout yer loud 'Bravoes,'
An' later - don't fergit there's me, an' Rose.'
So Ginger writes. I gives it word fer word;
An' if it ain't the nice perlite reply
That nice, perlite old gents would like to've 'eard
'0o've been 'ip-'ippin' 'im up to the sky
Well, I dunno, I s'pose 'e's gotter learn
It's rude fer 'im to speak out uv 'is turn.
'Eroes. It sounds a bit uv reel orl-right
'Our Gallant 'Eroes uv Gallipoli.'
But Ginger, when 'e's thinkin' there at night,
Uv Rose, an' wot their luck is like to bbe
After the echo dies uv all this praise,
Well - 'e ain't dazzled wiv three loud 'oorays.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ginger's Cobber
''E wears perjarmer soots an' cleans 'is teeth,'
That's wot I reads. It fairly knocked me flat,
'Me soljer cobber, be the name o' Keith.'
Well, if that ain't the limit, strike me fat!
The sort that Ginger Mick would think beneath
'Is notice once. Perjarmers! Cleans 'is teeth?
Ole Ginger Mick 'as sent a billy-doo
Frum somew'ere on the earth where fightin' thick.
The Censor wus a sport to let it thro',
Considerin' the choice remarks o' Mick.
It wus that 'ot, I'm wond'rin' since it came
It didn't set the bloomin' mail aflame.
I'd love to let yeh 'ave it word fer word;
But, strickly, it's a bit above the odds;
An' there's remarks that's 'ardly ever 'eard
Amongst the company to w'ich we nods.
It seems they use the style in Ginger's trench
Wot's written out an' 'anded to the Bench.
I tones the langwidge down to soot the ears
Of sich as me an' you resorts wiv now.
If I should give it jist as it appears
Partic'lar folk might want ter make a row.
But say, yeh'd think ole Ginger wus a pote
If yeh could read some juicy bits 'e's wrote.
It's this noo pal uv 'is that tickles me;
'E's got a mumma, an' 'is name is Keith.
A knut upon the Block le used to be,
'Ome 'ere; the sort that flashes golden teeth,
An' wears 'or socks, an' torks a lot o' guff;
But Ginger sez they're cobbers till they snuff.
It come about like this: Mick spragged 'im first
Fer swankin' it too much abroad the ship.
'E 'ad nice manners an' 'e never cursed;
Which set Mick's teeth on edge, as you may tip.
Likewise, 'e 'ad two silver brushes, w'ich
'Is mumma give 'im, 'cos 'e fancied sich.
Mick pinched 'em. Not, as you will understand,
Becos uv any base desire fer loot,
But jist becos, in that rough soljer band,
Them silver-backed arrangements didn't soot:
An' etiket must be observed always.
(They fetched ten drinks in Cairo, Ginger says.)
That satisfied Mick's honour fer a bit,
But still 'e picks at Keith fer exercise,
An' all the other blokes near 'as a fit
To see Mick squirm at Keith's perlite replies,
Till one day Keith 'owls back 'You flamin' cow!'
Then Mick permotes 'im, an' they 'as a row.
I sez 'permotes 'im,' fer, yeh'll understand
Ole Ginger 'as 'is pride o' class orl right;
'E's not the bloke to go an' soil 'is 'and
Be stoushin' any coot that wants to fight.
'Im, that 'as 'ad 'is chances more'n once
Up at the Stajum, ain't no bloomin' dunce.
Yeh'll 'ave to guess wot sort o' fight took place.
Keith learnt 'is boxin' at a 'culcher' school.
The first three rounds, to save 'im frum disgrace,
Mick kids 'im on an' plays the gentle fool.
An' then 'e outs 'im wiv a little tap,
An' tells 'im 'e's a reg'lar plucky chap.
They likes each other better after that,
Fer Ginger alwus 'ad a reel soft spot
Fer blokes 'oo 'ad some man beneath their 'at,
An' never whined about the jolts they got.
Still, pride o' class kept 'em frum gettin' thick.
It's 'ard to git right next to Ginger Mick.
Then comes Gallipoli an' wot Mick calls
'An orl-in push fight multerplied be ten,'
An' one be one the orfficers they falls,
Until there's no one left to lead the men.
Fer 'arf a mo' they 'esitates stock still;
Fer 'oo's to lead 'em up the flamin' 'ill?
'Oo is to lead 'em if it ain't the bloke
'0o's 'eaded pushes down in Spadger's Lane,
Since 'e first learnt to walk an' swear an' smoke,
An' mixed it willin' both fer fun an' gain -
That narsty, ugly, vi'lent man, 'oo's got
Grip on the minds uv men when blood runs 'ot?
Mick led 'em; an' be'ind 'im up the rise,
'Owlin' an' cursin', comes that mumma's boy,
'Is cobber, Keith, with that look in 'is eyes
To give the 'cart uv any leader joy.
An' langwidge! If 'is mar at 'ome 'ad 'eard
She would 'a' threw a fit at ev'ry word.
Mick dunno much about wot 'appened then,
Excep' 'e felt 'is Dream uv Stoush come true;
Fer 'im an' Keith they fought like fifty men,
An' felt like gawds wiv ev'ry breath they drew.
Then Ginger gits it solid in the neck,
An' flops; an' counts on passin' in 'is check.
When 'e come to, the light wus gettin' dim,
The ground wus cold an' sodden underneath,
Someone is lyin' right 'longside uv 'im.
Groanin' wiv pain, 'e turns, an' sees it's Keith
Keith, wiv 'is rifle cocked, an' starin' 'ard
Ahead. An' now 'e sez ''Ow is it, pard?'
Mick gently lifts 'is 'ead an' looks around.
There ain't another flamin' soul in sight,
They're covered be a bit o' risin' ground,
An' rifle-fire is cracklin' to the right.
'Down!' sez the mumma's joy. 'Don't show yer 'ead!
Unless yeh want it loaded full o' lead.'
Then, bit be bit, Mick gits the strength uv it.
They wus so occupied wiv privit scraps,
They never noticed 'ow they come to git
Right out ahead uv orl the other chaps.
They've bin cut orf, wiv jist one little chance
Uv gittin' back. Mick seen it at a glance.
''Ere, Kid,' 'e sez, 'you sneak around that 'ill.
I'm down an' out; an' you kin tell the boys;'
Keith don't reply to 'im but jist lies still,
An' signs to Ginger not to make a noise.
''Ere, you!' sez Mick, 'I ain't the man to funk
I won't feel 'ome-sick. Imshee! Do a bunk!'
Keith bites 'is lips; 'e never turns 'is 'ead.
'Wot in the 'ell;' sez Mick, ''ere, wot's yer game?'
'I'm an Australian,' that wus all 'e said,
An' pride took 'old o' Mick to 'ear that name
A noo, glad pride that ain't the pride o' class -
An' Mick's contempt, it took the count at lars'!
All night they stayed there, Mick near mad wiv pain,
An' Keith jist lettin' up 'is watchful eye
To ease Mick's wounds an' bind 'em up again,
An' give 'im water, w'ile 'imself went dry.
Brothers they wus, 'oo found their brotherhood
That night on Sari Bair, an' found it good.
Brothers they wus. I'm wond'rin', as I read
This scrawl uv Mick's, an' git its meanin' plain,
If you, 'oo never give these things no 'eed,
Ain't got some brothers down in Spadger's Lane
Brothers you never 'ad the chance to meet
Becos they got no time fer Collins Street.
'I'm an Australian.' Well, it takes the bun!
It's got that soft spot in the 'eart o' Mick.
But don't make no mistake; 'e don't gush none,
Or come them 'brother'ood' remarks too thick.
'E only writes, 'This Keith's a decent coot,
Cobber o' mine, an' white from cap to boot.'
''E wears perjarmers an' 'e cleans 'is teeth,'
The sort o' bloke that Ginger once dispised!
But once a man shows metal underneath,
Cobbers is found, an' brothers reckernised.
Fer, when a bloke's soul-clobber's shed in war,
'E looks the sort o' man Gawd meant 'im for.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Anchor to Windward
Lakeboat mariners look forward to winter lay-up all summer long. The last voyage north from the steel mills in South Chicago begins before dawn with autumn winds and a cup of hot black coffee from the galley to ward off the chill. Guys congregate on the wind-swept decks, stomping feet and talking of this and that - wives and kids and days spent lounging before the new TV and drinking Budweiser.
'See you next spring, Mick? '
'Not on the Mighty Fitz, you won't! '
His shipmates laugh. They all know Mick's final paycheck is all but spent as soon as he signs off the boat. His wife and three kids live in a four room flat in Canaryville on Chicago's south side. Mick's not ready to swallow the anchor yet. He'll be back with the rest of us eager to sail another season on the Lakes. We keep an anchor to windward.
first day of November
raw winds astern-
lake is dark and deep
life ashore-
rent due
first of the month
morning till night
chores to do-
house in disarray
bar tab
eats up the bonus-
wife in a snit
first day of April
seabag packed-
Mighty Fitz welcomes us
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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A Wet Day In July
Such wild and chilly weather with heavy showers of sleety rain
That flood the spouting and the creek and the storm water drain
And the paddocks around the Powlett river seem like an inland sea
And water everywhere about as far as the eyes can see.
The old bloke Mick scratches his head as he looks up at the sky
Saying more rain clouds o'er the ocean 'twill make a wet
July
On either side of the highway from Bass into Wonthaggi there's water everywhere
The paddock by our house is waterlogged 'tis like a quagmire there.
In July in south west Gippsland the weather often wild and cold and wet
But according to Mick from Bass this one the wettest yet
In more than sixty years of life he has known big rainfall
But yesterday is the wettest day he ever can recall.
In the paddocks between Kilcunda and Dalyston water everywhere about
And the Powlett river is overflowing it's banks and it's surplus water is flooding out
Making the land look like an inland sea and cattle on the hill bellow for hay
And in the coastal lands of south west Gippsland another rainy July day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Message: Armistice Day 1936
I got dreamin' that a message come in some mysterious way
From one ole pal of mine, gone West this many an' many a day,
A bloke the name of Ginger Mick, a fightin' cove I knoo.
(But 'e's Digger Corporal Mick Esquire, late A.I.F., to you)
'E got 'is on Gallipoli, an' sleeps there with the best,
Not leavin' very much be'ind, excep' one small request.
'Look after things,' was all 'e said, when 'e was mortal 'urt.
Dead sure 'is mates - that's me an' you - would never do 'im dirt.
(Think of it in the Silence, with yer 'eads bowed low:
Do we keep the unspoke compact with the men we used to know?)
For I dreams it in the silence of a dark Remembrance Eve;
An' the message seems to tell me it is gettin' late to grieve.
'But if you seem to miss us still, then get the sob-stuff o'er,
An' think about the things wot we went an' fought a war.
Send up a pray`r an' dropp a tear an' bend a reverent knee -
(Says Digger Corporal Ginger Mick, A.I.F., says 'e)
But is them things we fought for still the things most dear to you:
The honor an' the glory an' the mateship that we knew?'
(Think of it in the Silence, when the Last Post plays -
The splendid glimpse of Truth we 'ad, once, in the bitter days)
'Grief is a passin' compliment,' the message seems to say;
But tears don't carry on the job for men that drift away.
We 'ad small time or taste for such where guns was raisin' 'ell,
When we got busy plantin' blokes an' wishin' 'em farewell.
We blowed sad music over 'em - plain Digs, or Brass 'at Knuts -
But we played a quick-step comin' back, to show we 'ad the guts.
Our speech was rough, our ways was tough - tough as our bloody game.
Are the rough, tough, lads still honored, like when the Terror came?'
(Think of it, in the Silence, when their spirits hover near:
The vision and the vows that held while still the land knew fear.)
'E's sleepin' on Gallipoli. At least, 'is bones is there:
Bones worth a ton of livin' flesh that won't play fair -
Not till the Terror comes again. 'An' when it does,' says 'e,
If gods you've worshipped let you down, well, don't blame me.'
'E's seen a lot, an' learned a lot most like, where 'e 'as gone;
An' 'eaven 'elp us when we meet if we ain't carried on.
A vulgar person, Ginger Mick, a fightin' cove I knoo -
(But Digger Corporal Ginger Mick, if you please, to you.)
(Think of it in the Silence; an', if you pray, pray deep
That all we 'ave an' all we are old loyalties shall keep.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Letter to the Front
I 'ave written Mick a letter in reply to one uv 'is,
Where 'e arsts 'ow things is goin' where the gums an' wattles is -
So I tries to buck 'im up a bit; to go fer Abdul's fez;
An' I ain't no nob at litrachure; but this is wot I sez:
I suppose you fellers dream, Mick, in between the scraps out them
Uv the land yeh left be'ind yeh when yeh sailed to do yer share:
Uv Collins Street, or Rundle Street, or Pitt, or George, or Hay,
Uv the land beyond the Murray or along the Castlereagh.
An' I guess yeh dream of old days an' the things yeh used to do,
An' yeh wonder 'ow 'twill strike yeh when yeh've seen this business thro';
An' yeh try to count yer chances when yeh've finished wiv the Turk
An' swap the gaudy war game fer a spell o' plain, drab work.
Well, Mick, yeh know jist 'ow it is these early days o' Spring,
When the gildin' o' the wattle chucks a glow on everything.
Them olden days, the golden days that you remember well,
In spite o' war an' worry, Mick, are wiv us fer a spell.
Fer the green is on the paddicks, an' the sap is in the trees,
An' the bush birds in the gullies sing the ole, sweet melerdies;
An' we're 'opin', as we 'ear 'em, that, when next the Springtime comes,
You'll be wiv us 'ere to listen to that bird tork in the gums.
It's much the same ole Springtime, Mick, yeh reckerlect uv yore;
Boronier an' dafferdils and wattle blooms once more
Sling sweetness over city streets, an' seem to put to shame
The rotten greed an' butchery that got you on this game -
The same ole sweet September days, an' much the same ole place;
Yet, there's a sort o' somethin', Mick, upon each passin' face,
A sort o' look that's got me beat; a look that you put there,
The day yeh lobbed upon the beach an' charged at Sari Bair.
It isn't that we're boastin', lad; we've done wiv most o' that -
The froth, the cheers, the flappin' flags, the giddy wavin' 'at.
Sich things is childish memories; we blush to 'ave 'em told,
Fer we 'ave seen our wounded, Mick, an' it 'as made us old.
We ain't growed soggy wiv regret, we ain't swelled out wiv pride;
But we 'ave seen it's up to us to lay our toys aside.
An' it wus you that taught us, Mick, we've growed too old fer play,
An' everlastin' picter shows, an' going' down the Bay.
An', as grown man dreams at times uv boy'ood days gone by,
So, when we're feelin' crook, I s'pose, we'll sometimes sit an' sigh.
But as a clean lad takes the ring wiv mind an' 'eart serene,
So I am 'opin' we will fight to make our man'ood clean.
When orl the stoushin's over, Mick, there's 'eaps o' work to do:
An' in the peaceful scraps to come we'll still be needin' you.
We will be needin' you the more fer wot yeh've seen an' done;
Fer you were born a Builder, lad, an' we 'ave jist begun.
There's bin a lot o' tork, ole mate, uv wot we owe to you,
An' wot yeh've braved an' done fer us, an' wot we mean to do.
We've 'ailed you boys as 'eroes, Mick, an' torked uv just reward
When you 'ave done the job yer at an' slung aside the sword.
I guess it makes yeh think a bit, an' weigh this gaudy praise;
Fer even 'eroes 'ave to eat, an' - there is other days:
The days to come when we don't need no bonzer boys to fight:
When the flamin' picnic's over an' the Leeuwin looms in sight.
Then there's another fight to fight, an' you will find it tough
To sling the Kharki clobber fer the plain civilian stuff.
When orl the cheerin' dies away, an' 'ero-worship flops,
Yeh'll 'ave to face the ole tame life - 'ard yakker or 'ard cops.
But, lad, yer land is wantin' yeh, an' wantin' each strong son
To fight the fight that never knows the firin' uv a gun:
The steady fight, when orl you boys will show wot you are worth,
An' punch a cow on Yarra Flats or drive a quill in Perth.
The gilt is on the wattle, Mick, young leaves is on the trees,
An' the bush birds in the gullies swap the ole sweet melerdies;
There's a good, green land awaitin' you when you come 'ome again
To swing a pick at Ballarat or ride Yarrowie Plain.
The streets is gay wiv dafferdils - but, haggard in the sun,
A wounded soljer passes; an' we know ole days is done;
Fer somew'ere down inside us, lad, is somethin' you put there
The day yeh swung a dirty left, fer us, at Sari Bair.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Since the Country Carried Sheep
We trucked the cows to Homebush, saw the girls, and started back,
Went West through Cunnamulla, and got to the Eulo track.
Camped a while at Gonybibil - but, Lord! you wouldn't know
It for the place where you and Mick were stockmen long ago.
Young Merino bought the station, fenced the run and built a 'shed',
Sacked the stockmen, sold the cattle, and put on sheep instead,
But he wasn't built for Queensland. and every blessed year
One hears of 'labour troubles' when Merino starts to shear.
There are ructions with the rouseabouts, and shearers' strikes galore!
The likes were never thought of in the cattle days of yore.
And slowly, round small paddocks now, the 'sleeping lizards' creep,
And Gonybibil's beggared since the country carried sheep.
Time was we had the horses up ere starlight waned away,
The billy would be boiling by the breaking of the day;
And our horses - by Protection - were aye in decent nick,
When we rode up the 'Bidgee where the clearskins mustered thick.
They've built brush-yards on Wild Horse Creek, where in the morning's hush
We've sat silent in the saddle, and listened for the rush
Of the scrubbers - when we heard 'em, 'twas wheel 'em if you can,
While gidgee, pine and mulga tried the nerve of horse and man.
The mickies that we've branded there! the colts we had to ride!
In Gonybibil's palmy days - before the old boss died.
Could Yorkie Hawkins see his run, I guess his ghost would weep,
For Gonybibil's beggared since the country carried sheep.
From sunrise until sunset through the summer days we'd ride,
But stockyard rails were up and pegged, with cattle safe inside,
When 'twixt the gloamin' and the murk, we heard the well-known note -
The peal of boisterous laughter from the kookaburra's throat.
Camped out beneath the starlit skies, the tree-tops overhead,
A saddle for a pillow, and a blanket for a bed,
'Twas pleasant, mate, to listen to the soughing of the breeze,
And learn the lilting lullabies which stirred the mulga-trees.
Our sleep was sound in those times, for the mustering days were hard,
The morrows might be harder, with the branding in the yard.
But did yu see the station now! the men - and mokes - they keep!
You'd own the place was beggared - since the country carred sheep.
poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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