by Cheng
The Bulletin
(Christmas edition), 1889
11
The Days of Cobb & Co.
GM Smith (Steele Grey)
We have Telephones and Cables
And Electric Telegraph,
To flash the news to any point
In a minute and a half.
To sum it up what way you will,
It’s anything but slow;
It seems a vast improvement
On the days of Cobb & Co.
We have Electric trams and Cable trams
The Motor and the Bike;
You can get about the country now
At any speed you like.
We have railways to the backblocks,
Where the iron horses go;
And yet the times were better
In the days of Cobb & Co.
There was enterprise and money,
And any amount of work;
There was wool and fat stock rolling in
From the Mitchell Plains and
Bourke.
There was merchandise and
passengers
To carry to and fro:
There was life too,
in Australia,
In the days of
Cobb & Co.
To travel out a thousand miles
You’d book yourself in town;
They’d guarantee to pull you through,
When you paid your money down.
They travelled then by rough bush tracks,
Through mountains, bog and snow;
And deliver you well up to time
Would good old Cobb & Co.
They had some splendid drivers,
Who could handle horses neat,
To see them work their ribbons on
Those bush tracks was a treat.
And they’d get a change of coaches
Every twenty miles or so;
And they drove some slashing cattle,
In the days of Cobb & Co.
Our progress has been rapid,
But the days are poorer now,
Than the days of Jimmy Tyson, and
Good old Jacky Dow.
I remember well the sixties,
And transit then was slow:
But give to me the golden days,
The days of Cobb & Co.
The Days of Cobb & Co. and other verses, 1906
12
The Digger’s Song
Barcroft Henry Boake
Scrape the bottom of the hole, gather up the stuff,
Fossick in the crannies, lest you leave a grain behind.
Just another shovelful and that’ll be enough,
Now we’ll take it to the bank and see what we can find,
Give the dish a twirl around,
Let the water swirl around,
Gently let it circulate, there’s music in the swish,
And the tinkle of the gravel,
As the pebbles quickly travel
Around in merry circles on the bottom of the dish.
Ah, if man could only wash his life, if he only could,
Panning off the evil deeds, keeping but the good,
What a mighty lot of digger’s dishes would be sold,
Tho’ I fear the heap of tailings would be greater than the gold,
Give the dish a twirl around,
Let the water swirl around,
Man’s the sport of circumstance however he may wish,
Fortune, are you there now?
Answer to my prayer now,
Drop a half-ounce nugget in the bottom of the dish.
Gently let the water lap, keep the corners dry,
That’s about the place the gold’ll generally stay,
What was that bright particle that just then caught my eye?
I fear me by the look of things ’twas only yellow clay,
Just another twirl around,
Let the water swirl around,
That’s the way we rob the river of its golden fish,
What’s that? can’t we snare a one?
Don’t say that there’s ne’er a one,
Bah, there’s not a colour in the bottom of the dish!
The Bulletin, 1891
13
An Exile’s Farewell
Adam Lindsay Gordon
The ocean heaves around us still
With long and measured swell,
The autumn gales our canvas fill,
Our ship rides smooth and well.
The broad Atlantic’s bed of foam
Still breaks against our prow;
I shed no tears at quitting home,
Nor will I shed them now!
Against the bulwarks on the poop
I lean, and watch the sun
Behind the red horizon stoop—
His race is nearly run.
Those waves will never quench his light,
O’er which they seem to close,
To-morrow he will rise as bright
As he this morning rose.
How brightly gleams the orb of day
Across the trackless sea!
How lightly dance the waves that play
Like dolphins in our lee!
The restless waters seem to say,
In smothered tones to me,
How many thousand miles away
My native land must be!
Speak, Ocean! is my Home the same,
Now all is new to me?—
The tropic sky’s resplendent flame,
The vast expanse of sea?
Does all around her, yet unchanged,
The well-known aspect wear?
Oh! can the leagues that I have ranged
Have made no difference there?
* * *
This version notes that this poem was written ‘in a lady’s album’ by ALG while he was sailing to Australia.
* * *
How vivid Recollection’s hand
Recalls the scene once more!
I see the same tall poplars stand
Beside the garden door;
I see the bird-cage hanging still;
And where my sister set
The flowers in the window-sill—
Can they be living yet?
Let woman’s nature cherish grief,
I rarely heave a sigh
Before emotion takes relief
In listless apathy;
While from my pipe the vapours curl
Towards the evening sky,
And ’neath my feet the billows whirl
In dull monotony!
The sky still wears the crimson streak
Of Sol’s departing ray,
Some briny drops are on my cheek,
’Tis but the salt sea spray!
Then let our barque the ocean roam,
Our keel the billows plough;
I shed no tears at quitting home,
Nor will I shed them now!
Poems of Adam Lindsay Gordon, 1913
14
Freedom on the Wallaby
Henry Lawson
Australia’s a big country
An’ Freedom’s humping bluey,
An’ Freedom’s on the wallaby
Oh! don’t you hear ’er cooey?
She’s just begun to boomerang,
She’ll knock the tyrants silly,
She’s goin’ to light another fire
And boil another billy.
Our fathers toiled for bitter bread
While loafers thrived beside ’em,
But food to eat and clothes to wear,
Their native land denied ’em.
An’ so they left their native land
In spite of their devotion,
An’ so they come, or if they stole,
Were sent across the ocean.
Then Freedom couldn’t stand the glare
O’ Royalty’s regalia,
She left the loafers where they were,
An’ came out to Australia.
But
now across the mighty main
The chains have come ter bind her,
She little thought to see again
The wrongs she left behind her.
Our parents toiled to make a home,
Hard grubbin’ ’twas an’ clearin’,
They wasn’t crowded much with lords
When they was pioneerin’.
But now that we have made the land
A garden full of promise,
Old Greed must crook ’is dirty hand
And come ter take it from us.
* * *
This poem was written for The Worker, the monthly official journal of the Federated Workers of Queensland.
* * *
So we must fly a rebel flag,
As others did before us,
And we must sing a rebel song
And join in rebel chorus.
We’ll make the tyrants feel the sting
O’ those that they would throttle;
They needn’t say the fault is ours
If blood should stain the wattle!
The Worker, 1891
15
Fur and Feathers
Banjo Paterson
The Emus formed a football team
Up Walgett way;
Their dark-brown sweaters were a dream
But kangaroos would sit and scream
To watch them play.
‘Now, butterfingers,’ they would call,
And such-like names;
The emus couldn’t hold the ball
—They had no hands—but hands aren’t all
In football games.
A match against the kangaroos
They played one day.
The kangaroos were forced to choose
Some wallabies and wallaroos
That played in grey.
The rules that in the West prevail
Would shock the town;
For when a kangaroo set sail
An emu jumped upon his tail
And fetched him down.
A whistler duck as referee
Was not admired.
He whistled so incessantly
The teams rebelled, and up a tree
He soon retired.
The old marsupial captain said,
‘It’s do or die!’
So down the ground like fire he fled
And leaped above an emu’s head
And scored a try.
Then shouting, ‘Keep it on the toes!’
The emus came.
Fierce as the flooded Bogan flows
They laid their foemen out in rows
And saved the game.
On native pear and Darling pea
They dined that night:
But one man was an absentee:
The whistler duck—their referee—
Had taken flight.
The Animals Noah Forgot, 1933
16
The Geebung Polo Club
Banjo Paterson
It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side,
And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn’t ride;
But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash—
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long.
And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub,
They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.
It was somewhere down the country, in a city’s smoke and steam,
That a polo club existed, called ‘The Cuff and Collar Team’.
As a social institution ’twas a marvellous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners only rode ’em once a week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets with them—just to give their boots a rub
Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.
Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road;
And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
A spectator’s leg was broken—just from merely looking on.
For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die,
Was the last surviving player—so the game was called a tie.
Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him—all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck at goal—and missed it—then he tumbled off and died.
By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,
There’s a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a crude inscription saying, ‘Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here.’
And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies’ feet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub—
He’s been haunted by the spectres of the
Geebung Polo Club.
The Antipodean, 1893
17
Going to School
CJ Dennis
Did you see them pass to-day, Billy, Kate and Robin,
All astride upon the back of old grey Dobbin?
Jigging, jogging off to school, down the dusty track—
What must Dobbin think of it—three upon his back?
Robin at the bridle-rein, in the middle Kate,
Billy holding on behind, his legs out straight.
Now they’re coming back from school, jig, jog, jig.
See them at the corner where the gums grow big;
Dobbin flicking off the flies and blinking at the sun—
Having three upon his back he thinks is splendid fun:
Robin at the bridle-rein, in the middle Kate,
Little Billy up behind, his legs out straight.
A Book for Kids, 1921
18
Hist!
CJ Dennis
Hist! ……. Hark!
The night is very dark,
And we’ve to go a mile or so
Across the Possum Park.
Step ……. light,
Keeping to the right;
If we delay, and lose our way,
We’ll be out half the night.
The clouds are low and gloomy. Oh!
It’s just begun to mist!
We haven’t any overcoats
And—Hist! ……. Hist!
(Mo ……. poke!)
Who was that that spoke?
This is not a fitting spot
To make a silly joke.
Dear ……. me!
A mopoke in a tree!
It jarred me so, I didn’t know
Whatever it could be.
But come along; c
reep along;
Soon we shall be missed.
They’ll get a scare and wonder where
We—Hush! ……. Hist!
Ssh! ……. Soft!
I’ve told you oft and oft
We should not stray so far away
Without a moon aloft.
Oo! ……. Scat!
Goodness! What was that?
Upon my word, it’s quite absurd,
It’s only just a cat.
But come along; haste along;
Soon we’ll have to rush,
Or we’ll be late and find the gate
Is—Hist! ……. Hush!
(Kok! ……. Korrock!)
Oh! I’ve had a shock!
I hope and trust it’s only just
A frog behind a rock.
Shoo! ……. Shoo!
We’ve had enough of you;
Scaring folk just for a joke
Is not the thing to do.
But come along, slip along—
Isn’t it a lark
Just to roam so far from home
On—Hist! ……. Hark!
Look! ……. See!
Shining through the tree,
The window-light is glowing bright
To welcome you and me.
Shout! ……. Shout!
There’s someone round about,
And through the door I see some more
And supper all laid out.
Now, run! Run! Run! …
Oh, we’ve had such splendid fun—
Through the park in the dark,
As brave as anyone.
Laughed, we did, and chaffed, we did,
And whistled all the way,
And we’re home again! Home again!