The Great Australian Adjective
(W.T.Goode)
The sunburnt "bloody" stockman stood
And, in a dismal "bloody" mood
Apostrophized his "bloody" cuddy
The "bloody" nag's no "bloody" good
He could'nt earn his "bloody" food
A regular "bloody" brumby,
"Bloody!!"
He jumped across the " bloody" horse
And cantered off, of "bloody" course!
The roads were bad and "bloody" muddy
Said he, Well spare me "bloody" days
The "bloody" government's "bloody" way's
"Bloody!!"
He rode up hill, down "bloody" dale
The wind it blew a "bloody" gale
The creek was high and "bloody" floody
Said he, The "bloody" horse must swim
The same for "bloody" me and him
Is something "bloody" sickening
"Bloody!!"
He plunged into the "bloody" creek
The "bloody" horse was "bloody" weak
The stockman's face a "bloody" study
And though the "bloody" horse was drowned
The "bloody" rider reached high ground
Ejaculating,"Bloody?"
"Bloody!!!
Out Back Henry Lawson
The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of
drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few,
and the publican's looks were black --
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp you must,
where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track --
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet,
they carry their swags Out Back.
He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.
He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,
And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore;
But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack --
The traveller never got hands in wool,
though he tramped for a year Out Back.
In stifling noons when his back was wrung
by its load, and the air seemed dead,
And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead,
Or in times of flood, when plains were seas,
and the scrubs were cold and black,
He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.
He blamed himself in the year `Too Late' --
in the heaviest hours of life --
'Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and
wife;
There are times when wrongs from your kindred come,
and treacherous tongues attack --
When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.
And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;
He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.
As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,
With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.
It chanced one day, when the north wind blew
in his face like a furnace-breath,
He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death;
For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack,
And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.
A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile;
He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while.
The tanks are full and the grass is high in the mulga off the track,
Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie
by his mouldering swag Out Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp they must,
where the plains and scrubs are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet
must carry their swags Out Back.
Farewell To The Bushmen
(Henry Lawson)
Some carry their swags in the Great North-west,
Where the bravest battle and die,
And a few have gone to their last long rest,
And a few have said "Good-bye!"
The Coast grows dim, and it may be long
Ere the Gums again I see;
So I put my soul in a farewell song
To the chaps who barracked for me.
Their days are hard at the best of times,
And their dreams are dreams of care--
God bless them all for their big soft hearts,
And the brave, brave grins they wear!
God keep me straight as a man can go,
And true as a man may be,
For the sake of the hearts that were always so,
Of the men who had faith in me!
And a ship-side word I would say, you chaps
Of the blood of the Don't-give-in!
The world will call it a boast, perhaps--
But I'll win, if a man can win!
And not for gold or the world's applause--
Though ways to an end they be--
I'll win, if a man might win, because
Of the men who believe in me.
The Man From Ironbark
(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
It was the man from Ironbark, who struck the Sydney town.
He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.
He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop.
Until at last in sheer despair, he sought a Barbers shop.
"ere shave me head and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark
I'll go and do the Sydney toff, up home in Ironbark
The Barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are
He wore a strike-your-fancy-sash, he smoked a huge cigar
he was a humourist of note, and keen on repartee
He laid the odds, and kept a 'tote' whatever that may be
And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered 'here's a lark'
Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark
There were some gilded youths, that sat along the barber's wall
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all
To them the barber passed a wink, a dexter eyelid shut
I'll make this blooming yokel think, his blooming throat is cut
And as he soaped and rubbed it in, he passed a rude remark
I s'pose the flats are pretty green, up there in Ironbark
A grunt was all reply he got, he shaved the bushman's chin
Then made the water boiling hot, and dipped the razor in
He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused a while to gloat
Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victims throat
Upon the newly-shaven skin, it left a livid mark
No doubt it fairly took him in, the man from Ironbark
He fetched a wild up-country yell, might wake the dead to hear
And though his throat he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear
He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced his murderous foe
'You've done for me, you dog, I'm beat, one hit before I go
I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark
But you'll remember all your life, the man from Ironbark'
He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
He landed on the barbers chin, and knocked the barber out
He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck
He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck
And all the while his throat he held, to save his vital spark
And 'Murder, Bloody Murder' yelled the man from Ironbark
A Peeler man who heard the din, came in to see the show
He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go
And when at last the barber spoke, and said 'Twas all in fun'
'Twas just a little harmless joke. a trifle overdone
'A joke' he cried 'by George, that's fine, a lively sort of lark
I'd like to catch that murdering swine, some night in Ironbark
And now while round the shearing-floor, the listening shearers gape
As he tells his story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape
'Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, by George, I've had enough
One tried to cut my blooming throat, but thank the lord it's tough
And whether he's believed or not, there's one thing to remark
That flowing beards are all the go, way up in Ironbark
- Australian Story
I’m The Man. I’m the man they talk about, "The Man From Snowy River".
The one who did those daring deeds that made old Clancy shiver.
It’s true I had a skinny horse an he wasn’t all that hot,
But in times gone by one had to do with what he’d got.
I came fro Snowy River down Kosciusko’s side.
As a lad I had no saddle and that’s how I learnt to ride.
I heard about the escapee, the colt from old Regret,
And always one for a bit of fun, I joined up for a bet.
I turned up at the homestead with that wild and woolly lot,
And the old man said I’d never do - couldn’t keep up at a trot.
So then my old friend Clancy stood up for me with a grin.
And the old man never argued ‘cause he knew he’d never win.
We galloped off into those hills, my horse was pulling madly,
Whenever we had company that horse would go so badly.
We found a mob of brumbies and the colt was with them too.
As the old man gave his orders off into the scrub they flew.
The stockmen rode to wheel them, Clancy raced along their wing,
And my young heart beat so rapidly as I heard the stockwhips sing.
When we reached the mountain’s summit even Clancy pulled his steed,
But the yang that I was riding had no mouth and would not heed.
They say I swung my stockwhip ‘round. They say I gave a cheer,
But I was struggling with my nag, Those cheers were yells of fear!
It was only fear that saved me, fear had glued me to my seat,
And I never ever dared deny my confidence in that feat.
When I finally reached the bottom of that terrible decent,
I saw a whisp of dust to tell which way the brumbies went.
I found them in a dead-ender in a gully walled with stone,
And that’s how I came to turn them back, how I did it on my own.
I know I haven’t got the right to stake my claim to fame,
So, having set the record straight - I’ll just leave out my name….
…………. Anon ……………..
My Country
by Dorothea McKellar
The love of field and coppice,
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins.
Strong love of grey-blue distance,
Brown streams and soft, dim skies -
I know but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror
The wide brown land for me!
The stark white ring-barked forests,
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon,
Green tangle of the brushes
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops,
And ferns the warm dark soil.
Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When, sick at heart, around us
We see the cattle die
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady soaking rain.
Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the rainbow gold,
For flood and fire and famine
She pays us back threefold.
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze.
An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.
