For all those who have had anything to do with sheep.I am sure you can relate to this .
Well some of it anyway


An Australian poem.

The sun was hot already - it was only 8 o'clock
The cocky took off in his Ute, to go and check his stock.
He drove around the paddocks checking wethers, ewes and lambs,
The float valves in the water troughs, the windmills on the dams.

He stopped and turned a windmill on to fill a water tank
And saw a ewe down in the dam, a few yards from the bank.
"Typical bloody sheep," he thought, "they've got no common sense,
"They won't go through a gateway but they'll jump a bloody fence."

The ewe was stuck down in the mud, he knew without a doubt
She'd stay there 'til she carked it if he didn't get her out.
But when he reached the water's edge, the startled ewe broke free
And in her haste to get away, began a swimming spree.

He reckoned once her fleece was wet, the weight would drag her down
If he didn't rescue her, the stupid sod would drown.
Her style was unimpressive, her survival chances slim
He saw no other option, he would have to take a swim.

He peeled his shirt and singlet off, his trousers, boots and socks
And as he couldn't stand wet clothes, he also shed his jocks.
He jumped into the water and away that cocky swam
He caught up with her, somewhere near the middle of the dam.

The ewe was quite evasive, she kept giving him the slip
He tried to grab her sodden fleece but couldn't get a grip.
At last he got her to the bank and stopped to catch his breath
She showed him little gratitude for saving her from death.

She took off like a Bondi tram around the other side
He swore next time he caught that ewe he'd hang her bloody hide.
Then round and round the dam they ran, although he felt quite puffed
He still thought he could run her down, she must be nearly stuffed.

The local stock rep came along, to pay a call that day.
He knew this bloke was on his own, his wife had gone away
He didn't really think he'd get fresh scones for morning tea
But nor was he prepared for what he was about to see.

He rubbed his eyes in disbelief at what came into view
For running down the catchment came this frantic-looking ewe.
And on her heels in hot pursuit and wearing not a stitch
The farmer yelling wildly "Come back here, you lousy bitch!"

The stock rep didn't hang around, he took off in his car
The cocky's reputation has been damaged near and far
So bear in mind the Work Safe rule when next you check your flocks
Spot the hazard, assess the risk, and always wear your jocks!

Hi Bushy,

Loved your poem ...It is just fantastic ! Laughed reading it some of the way through. I have done just this in the past but stayed dressed. Mind you I have some expensive White Dorper Sheep now I am breeding so I would do it without hesitation in the jocks for sure if I had to.

I know it is a sad thing to think about but I feel someone with a poetic talent should record in verse what is happening now to our farming people. I think this aspect of your talents Bushy is calling !
I will try myself here as I have thoughts of this swimming in my mind.

Well done !
Happy trails

Fantastic stuff! Reminds me of an old timer (Jim Hunter) who came knocking at my door a few years back selling books of his own poems and stories he had written about life as a "bushman" in central QLD. I yarned with him for ages and bought all three books. here is a sample of his poetry:

Jim Hunter: "Uncle Charlie (Butcher")

Uncle Charlie, a butcher now,
Feeds the town on stolen cow,
His customers say his beef is fine -
Sweet and succulent - it's divine

He steals a heifer, a bullock or sheep
And that is the reason he sells meat cheap.
No over-heads, and no expenses -
He rolls the poddy calves under the fences.

That snippet doesn't really do it justice - here was a guy who had been there done that, and through the three little photo-copied books I bought from him really told it like it was - no bull*&^t. A true Aussie - hats off :cheers:

That's hilarious! I love it, and can relate to it with my Alpacas, dogs, ducks, cows and horse...they all have a pact to share info on the worst places to get stuck and where all the fencing 'weak spots' are! Did you write that poem?

Thanks for the kind words but alas I didn't write that poem .
It was a great laugh though

Loved the poem Do you know who wrote it?
How about some more poems of the great Australian bush folk lore?

SAID HANRAHAN
by John O'Brien


"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
One frosty Sunday morn.

The congregation stood about,
Coat-collars to the ears,
And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,
As it had done for years.

"It's lookin' crook," said Daniel Croke;
"Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad."

"It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil,
With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.

And so around the chorus ran
"It's keepin' dry, no doubt."
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out.

"The crops are done; ye'll have your work
To save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-o'-Bourke
They're singin' out for rain.

"They're singin' out for rain," he said,
"And all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head,
And gazed around the sky.

"There won't be grass, in any case,
Enough to feed an ass;
There's not a blade on Casey's place
As I came down to Mass."

"If rain don't come this month," said Dan,
And cleared his throat to speak--
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If rain don't come this week."

A heavy silence seemed to steal
On all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.

"We want a inch of rain, we do,"
O'Neil observed at last;
But Croke "maintained" we wanted two
To put the danger past.

"If we don't get three inches, man,
Or four to break this drought,
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."

In God's good time down came the rain;
And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane
It drummed a homely tune.

And through the night it pattered still,
And lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill
Kept talking to themselves.

It pelted, pelted all day long,
A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song
Way out to Back-o'Bourke.

And every creek a banker ran,
And dams filled overtop;
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If this rain doesn't stop."

And stop it did, in God's good time;
And spring came in to fold
A mantle o'er the hills sublime
Of green and pink and gold.

And days went by on dancing feet,
With harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat
Nid-nodding o'er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face,
As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey's place
Went riding down to Mass.

While round the church in clothes genteel
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed his piece of bark.

"There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man,
There will, without a doubt;
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."

John O'Brien

Hi folks, Murray Hartin is one of my favourite Aussie poets, he has a nice way of capturing the essence of the Australian way of life. Murray was asked to pen something by the Salvos to highlight rural suicide. He has somehow hit the nail on the head. For anyone living on the farm, this poem is a must read.

RAIN FROM NOWHERE
Murray Hartin
February 21, 2007


His cattle didn't get a bid, they were fairly bloody poor,
What was he going to do? He couldn't feed them anymore,
The dams were all but dry, hay was thirteen bucks a bale,
Last month's talk of rain was just a fairytale,
His credit had run out, no chance to pay what's owed,
Bad thoughts ran through his head as he drove down Gully Road
"Geez, great grandad bought the place back in 1898,
"Now I'm such a useless bastard, I'll have to shut the gate.
"Can't support my wife and kids, not like dad and those before,
"Christ, Grandma kept it going while Pop fought in the war."
With depression now his master, he abandoned what was right,
There's no place in life for failures, he'd end it all tonight.


There were still some things to do, he'd have to shoot the cattle
first,
Of all the jobs he'd ever done, that would be the worst.
He'd have a shower, watch the news, then they'd all sit down for tea
Read his kids a bedtime story, watch some more TV,
Kiss his wife goodnight, say he was off to shoot some roos
Then in a paddock far away he'd blow away the blues.
But he drove in the gate and stopped - as he always had
To check the roadside mailbox - and found a letter from his Dad.
Now his dad was not a writer, Mum did all the cards and mail
But he knew the style from the notebooks that he used at cattle sales,
He sensed the nature of its contents, felt moisture in his eyes,
Just the fact his dad had written was enough to make him cry.


"Son, I know it's bloody tough, it's a cruel and twisted game,
"This life upon the land when you're screaming out for rain,
"There's no candle in the darkness, not a single speck of light
"But don't let the demon get you, you have to do what's right,
"I don't know what's in your head but push the bad thoughts well away
"See, you'll always have your family at the back end of the day
"You have to talk to someone, and yes I know I rarely did
"But you have to think about Fiona and think about the kids.
"I'm worried about you son, you haven't rung for quite a while,
"I know the road you're on 'cause I've walked every bloody mile.
"The date? December 7 back in 1983,
"Behind the shed I had the shotgun rested in the brigalow tree.


"See, I'd borrowed way too much to buy the Johnson place
"Then it didn't rain for years and we got bombed by interest rates,
"The bank was at the door, I didn't think I had a choice,
"I began to squeeze the trigger - that's when I heard your voice.
"You said 'Where are you Daddy? It's time to play our game'
"' I've got Squatter all set up, you might get General Rain.'
"It really was that close, you're the one that stopped me son,
"And you're the one that taught me there's no answer in a gun.
"Just remember people love you, good friends won't let you down.
"Look, you might have to swallow pride and get a job in town,
"Just 'til things come good, son, you've always got a choice
"And when you get this letter ring me, 'cause I'd love to hear your
voice."


Well he cried and laughed and shook his head then put the truck in
gear,
Shut his eyes and hugged his dad in a vision that was clear,
Dropped the cattle at the yards, put the truck away
Filled the troughs the best he could and fed his last ten bales of hay.
Then he strode towards the homestead, shoulders back and head held
high,
He still knew the road was tough but there was purpose in his eye.
He called for his wife and children, who'd lived through all his pain,
Hugs said more than words - he'd come back to them again,
They talked of silver linings, how good times always follow bad,
Then he walked towards the phone, picked it up and rang his Dad.
And while the kids set up the Squatter, he hugged his wife again,
Then they heard the roll of thunder and they smelt the smell of rain.


Murray Hartin
February 21, 2007


Cheers, Adam

I understand what you mean, but to be pedantic, if you were to go by numbers, the Australian way of life is to get on a Tangara train in the Western Suburbs of Sydney and travel to one's job closer to the centre of Sydney, buying a coffee in a throwaway cup on the way, at lunch buy a plastic container of asian food, and on weekends drive to Bing Lee/Ikea/Harvey Normans to plan the next aspirational purchase!

Not my way of life, thank god, but if you really want to scare yourself, have a look at an electoral map of Australia (there's on on the AEC website) and see how many electorates are in Sydney, then look at Western NSW or WA.

Anyway, now I've rooned your day, back to the pomes.

That's a great poem Adam...very emotive.

Thanks for sharing it.

Good to read some more Aussie poems. Hanrahan is an old favorite and "Rain from Nowhere" is a look at what farmers are going through today. certainly brings a tear to the eye. How about some more funny ones?

Here's another Murray Hartin classic poem.

Turbulence
Here's a tale of Billy Hays from out near Alice Springs
A wild young fellow, he'd done some crazy things
He'd bucked bulls over fences, rode a colt up Ayres Rock
See his legs weren't made for walking they were made for riding stock

A legend round the rodeo from Allaroon to Broome
An untried horse at 6am was saddle broke by noon
No form of equine foolery he wasn't game to try
Only one thing ever spooked him,
He was so scared to fly.

Well if I was meant to fly he said
I'd have feathers and a beak,
You fly and waste a day and I'll drive and waste a week
I hear they're safe as houses and mechanically they're sound
But I don't see no rope or bridle so I'm staying on the ground

One day Bill got a call from his mate in Adelaide,
He'd got his girl in trouble and the wedding cards were played
He said, Mate I don't care how you do it you can beg or steel or borrow
But Mate you're gunna have to catch the plane, coz the big day is tomorrow.

Billy cursed and spat it "That dopey bloody coot!
He knows I'll jump on anything that's coming out a chute
I've caught stallions that'd kill you, caught bulls gone off their brain
But I never thought there'd come a day I'd have to catch a plane!"

Bill legged it to the airport and thought "Well this is it"
The lady at the counter asked "Where would you like to sit?"
He said "You know that black box thing they always seem to find
"Well you can stick me right in side it if you wouldn't bloody mind"

She gave a friendly smile and "Sir I'll just take your bag"
He said "I don't bloody think so, 'n by the way it's called a swag."
Bill was sweatin' buckets when they finally cleared the strip
He had his seatbelt on that tight he was bleedin' from the hip

But then they levelled out he stopped shakin at the knees
Looked around , relaxed 'n thought "This flyin' game's a breeze"
We clipped his belt undone, stretched out in his seat
Well he couldn't stretch that much 'cause his swag was at his feet.

Then the captain crackled something, Bill asked the hostess what was said
"Sir you'd better buckle up there's some turbulence ahead:
Turbulence - what's that?" "Sir it's pockets caused by heat
"And when it gets severe it can throw you from your seat."

"Throw me, I'll be buggered," Bill pushed his seat right back,
Wrapped his legs around his swag and stuck his left hand through the strap
He jammed down his Akubra, he was ready now to ride
Then things got pretty bumpy and Billy yelled "Outside!"

The plane she dropped a thousand feet, bounced up five hundred more
When his head hit the roof, his backside hit the floor!
"I've rode all through the Territory and never come unstuck
So give me all you've got big bird - buck you bastard buck!"

And while the passengers were screaming in fear of certain death
Billy whooped and hollered 'til he near ran out of breath
You would' thought that canvas swag was welded to his ass
And before the ringer knew it he's bucked up to business class

There seemed no way to tame this creature, it had ten gears and reverse
But that didn't worry Billy, he just bucked on through to first
He did somersaults with twists on this mongrel mount from hell
He yelled out to the pilot "for Christ sake ring the bell!"

Bill was bleeding from the bugle, he had cuts above both eyes
If you weren't there on the spot ya probably think I'm tellin' lies
He'd been upside down and inside out, done flips and triple spins
Ya might a' seen some great rides in your time but hands down Billy wins

The flight returned to normal, Bill was flat out on the deck
Still stuck to his swag but he looked a bloody wreck
He pulled himself together, stood up straight and raised his hat
He said "I've had some tough trips in me day but never one like that."

"an eight-second spin in Alice proves your made of sturdy stuff
But I was on there a near a minute and I reckon that's enough."
The first class folk were dumbstruck at this crazy ringer's feat
but Bill just grabbed a XXXX beer and walked back to his seat.

Now years have passed and Bill's long give the buckin' game away
Too many breaks and dusty miles for far too little pay
Now plane's are not a worry, in fact he'd rather fly than ride
"N when you talk about his maiden voyage his chest puffs out with pride

"You can talk about your Rocky Neds or that old Chainsaw bloke
I'd ride 'em both without a rope and roll a bloody smoke
There's cowboys 'round who think they're hot, well they aint tasted heat
"Til they've ridden time on Turbulence at 30,000 feet."

Murray Hartin sure writes well!

He is a great entertainer as well as a gifted poet.
Here is a great poem by Graham Jenkin.
The Ballad of the Bushmans Club
Now theres a joint across in Sydney, I suppose you jokers know,
Where the hardest-riding stockmen and the great gun shearers go,
And its something of a lovers den and something of a pub,
And its known to Sydneysiders as "That flamin’ bushmans club".
Its the most tremendous place on which I’ve ever cast me eye,
Including Mac’s at Broken Hill where we used to spin the swy,
For the grog flows by the bucketful, and the women - strike me blue -
They’re all of ’em dressed like Cloey, and they’re twice as pretty too,
For this is a place of worship of that noble little push,
Who comprise the famous Brotherhood of Bludgers from the bush,
Their noble, high and lofty aim to fight for all things freer,
And strive for the Two Great Freedoms: free women and free beer.
And valiantly they carry on their noble cause to fight;
They start right at the crack o’ dawn and rollick on through the night,
With revelry and sport galore and girls and grog and song -
No wonder that the waiting list is half a mile long.

So to keep the place exclusive, so they only get the best,
Each budding, would-be brother has to pass a little test.
You have to shear three hundred sheep a day with either hand,
Ans duff a thousand bullocks on your own and change the brand,
And drove ’em down the Birdsville when the Cooper’s on her way,
Then sink a well through granite rock at fifty feet a day;
And cut a mile of mulga posts and sink the bludgers down,
And break a dozen killer-colts and ride ’em into town,
And live for a year on damper which you make from weevil flour,
Then drink a keg of Bundaberg - in just a half an hour,
And many another little skill that only the best can do –
I passed them all with credit and a top distinction too.
But the last examination is some yarns you have to tell –
They must be lies, original, and you have to spin ’em well.

Well, I stood before the Panel, in a highly nervous state
And began to tell my story from a very early date:
I told ’em how, at the age of twelve, I dug that excavation,
For the Government, which is now called the Great Artesian Basin;
How, when I’d dug the mullock out, I carted it aside,
And nowadays people call that heap o’ dirt The Great Divide.
I told ’em how I swum the old Pacific in a gale,
And made the homeward journey in a bath-tub with a sail;
How I used to work the windmills in a calm, for my old man,
By running like a lumber-jack on top o’ the flamin fan;
But I fell from a Southern Cross one day with a tin in me pocket here -
I’ve still got "Capstan Fine Cut" printed firmly on my rear!
’Twas me alone who finally rode Old Curio and her brother
While I done the flash with one hand, rolled a querlie in the other.
And once I won the Melbourne Cup on an untamed brumby mare,
But they went and took it orf me - ridin’ backwards wasn’t fair!
And I was the bloke who tried to ride to Tassie on a bike,
Lost me bearings, got a puncture on a ruddy coral spike,
Missed the Apple Isle completely, so I almost met me death,
But I surfaced in New Zealand - very nearly out of breath!

And I once flew to Canberra when me mate the P. M. wired,
And I would have flowen back here, but me flamin’ arms were tired;
I lost Victoria River in a crooked two-up school
And I boozed me other stations in a fortnight - what a fool!
But ’twas me who floored Carruthers in the fifty-second round,
Of a private little battle for half a million pound,
And I ran the mile, two minutes flat, but I never staked me claim,
"Cause I’m not the sort of bloke who likes to brag and climb to fame.
And I could have gone forever reminiscing to the Board,
But at last they yelled, "No more! Shut up! You’re in!" - And I was floored.

You can just imagine the tears of joy one sheds at a time like this,
When you’ve passed the test to paradise - and near-eternal bliss -
Then think what an awful shock it was, when I’d been there just a week,
And one of the Elder Brothers comes and grabs me by the cheek
And says to me, "The Panel rules that you will have to go;
You bluffed us on that final test." And what he said was so.
For though at other bushy skills no stockman e’er ranked higher,
I never was or will be worth a cracker as a liar.
I dunno how they done it, ’less one of the panel knew,
But somehow they discovered that all of me yarns were true!

© Graham Jenkin

This is great keep them coming :cheers:


The Plains
A land, as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow
Or the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go
Like shifting symbols of hope deferred - land where you never know.

Land of the plenty or land of want, where the grey Companions dance,
Feast or famine, or hope or fear, and in all things land of chance,
Where Nature pampers or Nature slays, in her ruthless, red, romance.

And we catch a sound of a fairy's song, as the wind goes whipping by,
Or a scent like incense drifts along from the herbage ripe and dry
- Or the dust storms dance on their ballroom floor, where the bones of the cattle lie.
A B PATERSON

Keep them coming, I love an Aussie ballad or yarn, great stuff!

I found this site which includes several poems by Banjo Paterson, Henry Lawson and others, written during 'The Bush Controversy'. Apparently the poets orchestrated the "fued" between themselves in order to get more space in The Bulletin newspaper and thereby earning more money.
http://www.uq.edu.au/~mlwham/banjo/bush_controversy.html

The Swagman's Rest
by A. B. "Banjo" Paterson


We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave
At the foot of the Eaglehawk;
We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave
For fear that his ghost might walk;
We carved his name on a bloodwood tree
With the date of his sad decease
And in place of "Died from effects of spree"
We wrote "May he rest in peace".

For Bob was known on the Overland,
A regular old bush wag,
Tramping along in the dust and sand,
Humping his well-worn swag.
He would camp for days in the river-bed,
And loiter and "fish for whales".
"I'm into the swagman's yard," he said.
"And I never shall find the rails."

But he found the rails on that summer night
For a better place -- or worse,
As we watched by turns in the flickering light
With an old black gin for nurse.
The breeze came in with the scent of pine,
The river sounded clear,
When a change came on, and we saw the sign
That told us the end was near.

He spoke in a cultured voice and low --
"I fancy they've 'sent the route';
I once was an army man, you know,
Though now I'm a drunken brute;
But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave,
And, if ever you're fairly stuck,
Just take and shovel me out of the grave
And, maybe, I'll bring you luck.

"For I've always heard --" here his voice grew weak,
His strength was wellnigh sped,
He gasped and struggled and tried to speak,
Then fell in a moment -- dead.
Thus ended a wasted life and hard,
Of energies misapplied --
Old Bob was out of the "swagman's yard"
And over the Great Divide.

The drought came down on the field and flock,
And never a raindrop fell,
Though the tortured moans of the starving stock
Might soften a fiend from hell.
And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave
When he went to the Great Unseen --
We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave
To see what his hint might mean.

We dug where the cross and the grave posts were,
We shovelled away the mould,
When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare
All gleaming with yellow gold.
'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk
That ran from the range's crest,
And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk
Is known as "The Swagman's Rest".

Great thread guys!

Where can I get a copy of a collection of Murray Hartin? His poems are awesome!

Look at his website www.murrayhartin.com
There's a few poems there and probably has CD's for sale.
He comes up this way occasionally Tan. I heard he had a show in Charters Towers this year and has been to Richmond a couple of times.

Bulls of Speewah - RC Pearce

This talk of wild bulls of the Dawson scrubs, says old Joe, leaves me cold.
But I tells you bulls were dinkum cows in them Speewah days of old,
More fiercer than the fiercest cat – more cunning than the blacks,
You’d see ’em drag branches on their tails to cover up their tracks.
You must put right out on leaving camp the fire you’ve had at night,
For them bulls would carry firesticks in their teeth and set your yards alight,
To bellow they had the bower-birds squared to coax you off your course,
Why they even had the dingoes trained to heel your blanky horse.

I mind one day there’s six of us to muster back to Jackass yard,
There was never better ringers in the land, used we was to riding fast and hard;
The boss was there on a raking bay, his pet camp-horse, Swift Desire,
While I kids meself I looks a treat on my black mare, Opal Fire.

Soon we sights a score or so of bulls, they’re as contented as you please,
Some is sharpening horns on sandstone rocks while some is skewering trees;
Well, we makes them blooming cattle go as hard as they can lick,
Though every time I looks behind seems to me they’re gaining quick.

There’s a big roan bloke about a yard behind when down comes me mare and me,
So just to see the other blokes is right I starts up the nearest tree;
That old bull ain’t a bloomin’ snob, he helps me with a whack,
Perhaps I goes up a little fast, I grabs a good limb coming back.

Well, I’m up here and he’s down there, seems as if he’d like to stay,
Then as I have no use for him I lets him mooch away,
Down I comes and grabs me mare (her foot’s caught in the rein),
And I’m as keen as mustard now to help me mates again.

I circles round and cuts their tracks but stares hard at the trail,
All them blokes has still been in the lead, there’s been none on wing and tail;
They’re heading straight for Jackass yard, it’s plain the way they went
They’ve torn two-foot trees out by the roots, even the hills seem bent.

But when I gets in sight of that there yard I just stops goggle-eyed,
For them blarmed bulls is camping by the gate, it’s the ringers wot’s inside.
So now when I hears them talk of Dawson days my thoughts fly back to when
The wild bulls of the Speewah scrubs would muster up the men.

Thanks DNO! Good to know that he gets up this way every now and then too!
LOL at the Bulls of Speewah!

:cheers:
Tan

Andy's Gone With Cattle


Henry Lawson


1888


Our Andy's gone to battle now
'Gainst Drought, the red marauder;
Our Andy's gone with cattle now
Across the Queensland border.

He's left us in dejection now;
Our hearts with him are roving.
It's dull on this selection now,
Since Andy went a-droving.

Who now shall wear the cheerful face
In times when things are slackest?
And who shall whistle round the place
When Fortune frowns her blackest?

Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now
When he comes round us snarling?
His tongue is growing hotter now
Since Andy cross'd the Darling.

The gates are out of order now,
In storms the "riders" rattle;
For far across the border now
Our Andy's gone with cattle.

Poor Aunty's looking thin and white;
And Uncle's cross with worry;
And poor old Blucher howls all night
Since Andy left Macquarie.

Oh, may the showers in torrents fall,
And all the tanks run over;
And may the grass grow green and tall
In pathways of the drover;

And may good angels send the rain
On desert stretches sandy;
And when the summer comes again
God grant 'twill bring us Andy.

BLACKLISTED

Through the course of my life I've rode many strange things,
like the time on old Chainsaw out near Alice Springs
and that camel at Boulia called Topupmebeer,
but my craziest ride was November last year.

Neil McArthur had purchased Thong Classic, you see,
and he gave me the ride. I was proud as can be.
It was true that my weight was a flamin' disgrace,
but with Jenny Craig's help I'd be right for the race.

When the big day arrived I was on a great high,
till they gave me pink silks and a purple bow tie.
Still I swallowed my pride with a green and blue pill,
just to help me erase how I looked like a dill.

Then I strode on outside to the mounting yard there
and controlled my emotions by saying a prayer,
but it's hard to control the adrenalin flow
when your mongrel bred mount goes and stands on your toe.

Still my focus returned at the barrier gates
and despite the cat calls from my smart jockey mates;
When the starter cried “Racing!” what went through my mind,
was when Thong Classic jumped, would he leave me behind?

Midst the thunder of hooves and the riders’ wild screams
I was jammed in the pack, but was wise to their schemes,
so I dropped back a little and let the mob pass,
but I'd prove in the straight they were up against class.

I moved up on the outside to pass Bold Eclipse
when this poncy young jockey bloke puckered his lips.
Well I kicked well away and I picked up the pace
and a divot of turf hit him smack in the face.

With the straight just ahead it was now time to move
and Thong Classic sensed too he had something to prove.
When I went for the whip the horse lengthened his stride
and I knew I was in for one hell of a ride.

From the stands the crowd screamed and were going berserk
while McArthur cried, "Ride, pinkie ride you great berk."
Then I stood in the stirrups, applying the whip,
but a length from the finish ... I felt my foot slip.

As I crashed to the ground I lay writhing in pain
when a voice from the dark cried, "You're flamin' insane!"
To my horror I saw from my back on the floor
my poor wife on the bed looking terribly sore.

She'd a cord in her mouth from my old dressing gown
and was bowed in the back lying tummy side down.
She had marks on her thigh from the welts from my belt
while the screams I had heard were from pain she had felt.

It took months to live down what took place on that night
and to stave off divorce proved a flamin’ tough fight.
I'm blacklisted from races and all TABs
and I sleep with darn hobbles strapped round both me knees.


©Bush Poet and Balladeer
Merv Webster


Conversing with Neil McArthur at Bobby Millers Wake, we all realized we were there to celebrate Bobby's life, so one could not help but indulge in the larrikin spirit he was so famous for. Know for his comical verses, Neil has a thing about thongs and many titles in his books and albums contain a thong theme. He also loves the horses and he has shares in one. We were rather amused to find one of the starters in the Melbourne Cup was Thong Classic. The rest is poetic licence.