Through my Eyes

School days.

Gotta love the 70s

Here is a link to the poem I have written for tomorrow's Centenary Celebrations at my childhood home. I have scrapped it, very simply, with photographs and made a nice little book for the occasion.

Through My Eyes

My very dear grandparents, just three weeks before
 Grandad passed away.
My 18th birthday.
1980

Jooro means road in the aboriginal language.
My Grandfather pronounced it Jew-row
but ever after it has been pronounced Jew-roo, thus the
rhymn in the poem.

You may say I'm a dreamer...

The rollicking barefoot kids!

Over the years as I have written posts about My Golden Childhood I have wondered whether I seemed to you, my readers, as one who lives in LaLa Land!  I know I have tended to see things in a shiny light and have at times down played the hard times.  But truly, my childhood was golden.  It was pure and clean and filled with love and the very special people that God bonded into our family.

You know we have this celebration in September to mark the 100 hundred years since my grandfather's arrival at Jooro.(Once a railway siding and district name, now one of my brothers property names)  One hundred years of blood, sweat and tears.  One hundred years of joyful births and marriages and welcoming new members into the fold.  One hundred years........

On the day of the Reunion we will be planting a grove of Moreton Bay Ash in the place where once stood the original little shack that Grandad and Grandma lived in and brought their babies home to. The trees will represent Michael and Lily and the ten children (one stillborn) and hence our families.  One of my cousins has penned a beautiful verse entitled "Our Song" which will be erected on a plaque in the grove.

She warmed my heart when replying to my recent email about the Reunion and I thought "I'm not the only one!"  I have quoted from her return email:

"I am very relieved to hear that you and S......  both wept tears of love when you read 'Our Song'.  When writing it I felt myself being emotionally propelled back into that wonderfully loving and warm place known as childhood, with Grandma and Grandad there, and their boys toiling away, the wives creating a domestic haven whilst we, the barefooted kids, all rollicked our way through imagined wondrous worlds created in the gullies and bauhinia scrubs.  I am looking forward to being with the family for this momentous occasion. "

Oh those wondrous worlds!  

Here it is:

Our Song

May these "Guarding Gums"

Represent us all

Dear ones who've passed

And dear ones yet to come.

May these Graceful Gums

Flourish on this black soil plain

Proudly bending and bowing

To life's burdens and strain.

May their leaves whisper on gentle breeze

Words of love, tears and yes-ter-year

May their branches span through time

And bind us together, one family, one kind.

Grow, O Silver Gum grow!

Stand tall and stout and strong

And may forever God bless the Clair descendants

Many voices......Michael and Lily's Song.

(To commemorate the 100th Anniversary of the Clair Family of Jooro 1912-2012)

The guarding gums is a reference to a poem written by this cousin's father who passed away about eight years ago.  He was a deep thinker and poet and many of his poems were too lofty for most of us to comprehend. :-)

You may grow weary of hearing about my family and all our doings over the next month or two.  Don't give up on me! Okay?

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 looking 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 an 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."

ooOOoo

John O'Brien was the nom de plume of Patrick Joseph Hartigan (1878-1952), born in Yass, New South Wales. He was a Roman Catholic priest in the Goulburn diocese and later parish priest at Narrandera -- also rural towns in New South Wales.

'Said Hanrahan' paints a wonderful portrait of Australian-Irish bush culture, together with its church, the land, the climate and the seasons which constitute its core. Hanrahan (a quintessentially Irish name) expresses unconquerable Irish pessimism about the prospects down on the farm. Hanrahan has a point however: the lush growth from spring rain can indeed dry out into fuel which poses a serious fire risk in summer.

'Said Hanrahan', I think, is readily accessible to non-Australians but here are a couple of notes: 'rooned' is Australian-Irish pronunciation of 'ruined'; 'never since the banks went broke' refers to the turbulent 1890s which were bad drought years and also when, in the absence of a central bank, nearly all the land banks and building societies, and 12 of the 22 trading banks went broke, following the collapse of an intense property boom. 'Back-o'-Bourke' is an Australian colloquialism for being just about anywhere in the vast and sparsely populated heartland of bush Australia; 'every creek a banker ran' means that the rivers overflowed.

'Said Hanrahan' was published in Around the Boree Log and Other Verses (1921)

William Grey.

I love most of the poety of  John O'Brien!  I posted "Around the Boree Log"  here.  Being brought up in any Irish Roman Catholic family, though I no longer hold the doctrines of that denomination, his poetry brings back many childhood memories for me. 
I thought to post "Said Hanrahan" because I was thinking about the many long years of drought we have been through and now it is just raining, raining, raining, day after day, week after week and we find ourselves wishing that "this 'ere rain would stop" even after praying for rain for so long! Hope you enjoy!

A Simple Philosophy

Do What You Do Do Well
 by Sonny James

He couldn't move a mountain
Or pull down a big oak tree
But my daddy became a mighty big man
With a simply philosophy

 chorus
Do what you do do well boy
Do what you do do well
Give your love and all your of heart
And do what you do do well

Now sometimes he'd kissed my mama
and hold her so tenderly
When he'd look across the top of her head
Then he'd wink and say to me

 chorus

Now he was a man of laughter
But if tragedy came by
The tears ran free and he'd say to me

 Never be afraid to cry .
chorus

Today I still remember
Just like it was yesterday
About a mighty big man
with a mighty big heart
And a mighty few words to say

repeat chorus

Babies Don't Keep

This lovely poem reflects my own thoughts about my children as babies. I try to pass this on to my daughters, especially on those days when everything seems very chaotic. Our precious babies grow up VERY fast. It is so important  not only to enjoy them but to create pleasant childhood memories as well as the discipline and the hard grind of training them. The house will still be there and need cleaning in eighteen years time!!!

Babies Don’t Keep

by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton


Mother, O Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.


Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.


Oh, I’ve grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,
Lullabye, rockabye, lullabye loo.
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo


The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo
Look! Aren’t his eyes the most wonderful hue?
Lullabye, rockaby lullabye loo.


The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow
But children grow up as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

Around the Boree Log

by John O'Brien

Oh, stick me in the old caboose this night of wind and rain,
And let the doves of fancy loose to bill and coo again.
I want to feel the pulse of love that warmed the blood like wine;
I want to see the smile above this kind old land of mine.

So come you by your parted ways that wind the wide world through,
And make a ring around the blaze the way we used to do;
The "fountain" on the sooted crane will sing the old, old song
Of common joys in homely vein forgotten, ah, too long.

The years have turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog,
Yet spend another night with me around the boree log.

Now someone driving through the rain will happen in, I bet;
So fill the fountain up again, and leave the table set.
For this was ours with pride to say - and all the world defy -
No stranger ever turned away, no neighbour passed us by.

Bedad, he'll have to stay the night; the rain is going to pour -
So make the rattling windows tight, and close the kitchen door,
And bring the old lopsided chair, the tattered cushion, too -
We'll make the stranger happy there, the way we used to do.

The years have turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog,
Yet spend another night with me around the boree log.

He'll fill his pipe, and good and well, and all aglow within
We'll hear the news he has to tell, the yarns he has to spin;
Yarns - yes, and super-yarns, forsooth, to set the eyes agog,
And freeze the blood of trusting youth around the boree log.

Then stir it up and make it burn; the poker's next to you;
Come, let us poke it all in turn, the way we used to do.
There's many a memory bright and fair will tingle at a name -
But leave unstirred the embers there we cannot fan to flame.

The years have turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog;
Still, spend this fleeting night with me around the boree log.



Boree (sometimes accented on the last syllable) is the aboriginal name for the Weeping Myall - the best firewood in Australia except Gidgee.


John O'Brien AKA  JP Hartigan

Little Boys

Posted By Jamie V Marino on June 28, 2010
at Ladies Against Feminism


Little Boys-How I Adore Them

Sticky fingers dirty faces
always running competitive races
Cars and tractors, blocks and boats
adventurous feats and mud-stained coats
Riding bikes and trikes down bumpy roads
in search of bugs and frogs and toads
Guns and swords and broken britches
bloodied knees and endearing kisses
Rough and tough yet caring and loving

exploring and conquering, exhausted cuddling
Wanting to marry their mommy one day
idolizing daddy in so
many ways.
Little boys, who can resist
a weed bouquet in a chubby fist?

In Defence of the Bush

by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

So you're back from up the country, Mister Lawson, where you went,
And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent;
Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear
That it wasn't cool and shady -- and there wasn't plenty beer,
And the loony bullock snorted when you first came into view;
Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you;

Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson

And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown,
And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town.

Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went
In a month or two at furthest you would wonder what it meant,
Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain
You would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain,
And the miles of thirsty gutters blocked with sand and choked with mud,
You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood;
For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street,
In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet;
But the bush hath moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall,
And the men who know the bush-land -- they are loyal through it all.

But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight,
Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers' huts at night?
Did they "rise up, William Riley" by the camp-fire's cheery blaze?
Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days?
And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet --
Were their faces sour and saddened like the "faces in the street",
And the "shy selector children" -- were they better now or worse
Than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse?
Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and square
Where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare,
Where the sempstress plies her sewing till her eyes are sore and red
In a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread?
Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush
Than the roar of trams and 'buses, and the war-whoop of "the push"?
Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange?
Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range?
But, perchance, the wild birds' music by your senses was despised,
For you say you'll stay in townships till the bush is civilised.
Would you make it a tea-garden and on Sundays have a band
Where the "blokes" might take their "donahs", with a "public" close at hand?
You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the "push",
For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush.

by Pro Hart

Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson were  the "duelling poets" in these poems (Up the Country and In Defence of the Bush) pitting the Australian Bush against the City Life! I have always enjoyed the works of both poets and love this little spar between them. It is amazing that two of our greatest poets wrote at around the same time and give us an wonderful glimpse into our country at this time. These poems were published in 1892.

While "The Banjo" portrays quite a romantic view of pioneering Australia,(Waltzing Matilda, The Man from Snowy River) Henry was more of a realist (The Drover's Wife, Andy's Gone with Cattle) and wrote his poetry just as he saw things.

The painting "In Defence of the Bush" is by Pro Hart from the anthology I have of Banjo's poems illustrated by Pro! (Yep, first name terms. They are all my good friends :-)

Up the Country

by Henry Lawson

I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went --

Henry Lawson

Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent;
I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track --
Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back.
Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast,
But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast --
Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.

Sunny plains! Great Scot! -- those burning wastes of barren soil and sand
With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land!
Desolation where the crow is! Desert! where the eagle flies,
Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes;
Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep
Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep.
Stunted "peak" of granite gleaming, glaring! like a molten mass
Turned, from some infernal furnace, on a plain devoid of grass.

Miles and miles of thirsty gutters -- strings of muddy waterholes
In the place of "shining rivers" (walled by cliffs and forest boles).
"Range!" of ridgs, gullies, ridges, barren! where the madden'd flies --
Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt -- swarm about your blighted eyes!
Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees
Nothing. Nothing! but the maddening sameness of the stunted trees!
Lonely hut where drought's eternal -- suffocating atmosphere --
Where the God forgottcn hatter dreams of city-life and beer.

Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, endless roads that gleam and glare,
Dark and evil-looking gullies -- hiding secrets here and there!
Dull, dumb flats and stony "rises," where the bullocks sweat and bake,
And the sinister "gohanna," and the lizard, and the snake.
Land of day and night -- no morning freshness, and no afternoon,
For the great, white sun in rising brings with him the heat of noon.
Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall
From the sad, heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum, worst of all.

Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift
O'er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift --
Dismal land when it is raining -- growl of floods and oh! the "woosh"
Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush --
Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are pil'd
On the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild.

Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men,
Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again --
Homes of men! if homes had ever such a God-forgotten place,
Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face.
Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell,
Heaven of the shanty-keeper -- fitting fiend for such a hell --
And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the "curlew's call" --
And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward thro' it all!

I am back from up the country -- up the country where I went
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent;
I have left a lot of broken idols out along the track,
Burnt a lot of fancy verses -- and I'm glad that I am back --
I believe the Southern poet's dream will not be realised
Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised.
I intend to stay at present -- as I said before -- in town
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes -- taking baths and cooling down.

Dueling Poets

WORDLESS    WEDNESDAY

My Mother

Thankyou Lord for my mother,
I always loved her
but not until I married,
bore and lost a child,
fed babies through the night,
washed endless nappies,
wiped bottoms and runny noses,
mended wounds,
watched anxiously over little sick ones,
experiencd the great joys
and the desperate lows of motherhood,


that I really appreciated her.

Golden Memories

Here is a link to the original post from yesterdays picture.

That was the view from my bedroom window for about the first twelve years of my life. This is the front of the house as it looked in my childhood. It looks very different now.

The brilliant red soil is quite stark in that photograph. It was taken over twenty years ago. Apparently after the Summer rain which fell this year the grass is knee deep and every thing is just gorgeous though they didn't get enough to run water in the creeks and dams. There is something stunning about the vividness of the Aussie colours. As Jeanne commented yesterday, quoting the Dorethea Mckellar poem, we love our sun burnt country.

I love where I am in life at the moment but I have to say that I still refer to this piece of the country as my home! There's no place like it. I loved the comments readers left yesterday expressing their appreciation for the beauty of it as well.

For the Fallen

Here is a link to another of last year's ANZAC Day posts.

The Ode comes from For the Fallen, a poem by the English poet and writer Laurence Binyon and was published in London in the Winnowing Fan; Poems of the Great War in 1914. The verse, which became the League Ode was already used in association with commemoration services in Australia in 1921.

FOR THE FALLEN

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children

England mourns for her dead across the sea,

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,

Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal

Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,

There is music in the midst of desolation

And glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow,

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again,

They sit no more at familiar tables of home,

They have no lot in our labour of the daytime,

They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires and hopes profound,

Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,

To the innermost heart of their own land they are known

As the stars are known to the night.

As the stars shall be bright when we are dust,

Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,

As the stars that are stary in the time of our darkness,

To the end, to the end, they remain.

"LEST WE FORGET"

Me un Craig uv Queensland

Last year on Anzac Day I posted a little about my Grandad here.

Below is the poem Sari Bair by C.J. Dennis which is taken from The Moods of Ginger Mick. "Craig uv Queensland" refers to Bob Craig whose family were locals in my home town. Craig served with the author C/J. Dennis in the 26th Battalion, training in Egypt and serving on Gallipoli. Craig is mentioned also in Dennis's poem The Push from the same collection.

SARI BAIR

So, they've struck their streak o' trouble, an' they got it in the neck,
An' there's more than one ole pal o' mine 'as 'anded in 'is check;
But Ginger still takes nourishment; 'e's well, but breathin' 'ard.
An' so 'e sends the strength uv it scrawled on a chunk uv card.

"On the day we 'it the transport there wus cheerin' on the pier,
An' the girls wus wavin' hankies as they dropped a partin' tear,
An' we felt like little 'eroes as we watched the crowd recede,
Fer we sailed to prove Australia, an' our boastin' uv the breed.

"There wus Trent, ex~toff, uv England; there wus Green, ex-pug, uv 'Loo;
There wus me, an' Craig uv Queensland, wiv 'is 'ulkin' six-foot-two:
An' little Smith uv Collin'wood, 'oo 'owled a rag-time air.
On the day we left the Leeuwin, bound nor'-west for .........-knows-where.

"On the day we come to Cairo wiv its niggers an' its din,
To fill our eyes wiv desert sand, our souls wiv Eastern sin,
There wus cursin' an' complainin'; we wus 'ungerin' fer fight
Little imertation soljers full uv vanity an' skite.

"Then they worked us - ......... they worked us, till we knoo wot drillin' meant;
Till men begun to feel like men, an' wasters to repent,
Till we grew to 'ate all Egyp', an' its desert, an' its stinks:
On the days we drilled at Mena in the shadder uv the Sphinx.

"Then Green uv Sydney swore an oath they meant to 'old us tight,
A crowd uv flarnin' ornaments wivout a chance to fight;
But little Smith uv Collin'wood, he whistled 'im a toon,An' sez,
'Aw, take a pull. lad, there'll be whips o' stoushin' soom.

"Then the waitin', weary waitin', while we itched to meet the foe!
But we'd done wiv fancy skitin' an' the comic op'ra show.
We wus soljers - finished soljers, an' we felt it in our veins
On the day we trod the desert on ole Egyp's sandy plains.

"An' Trent 'e said it wus a bore, an' all uv us wus blue,
An' Craig, the giant, never joked the way 'e used to do.
But little Smith uv Collin'wood 'e 'ummed a little song,
An' said, 'You leave it to the 'eads. O now we sha'n't be long!'

"Then Sari Bair, O Sari Bair, 'twus you wot seen it done,
The day the transports rode yer bay beneath a smilin' sun.
We boasted much, an' toasted much; but where yer tide line creeps,
'Twus you, me dainty Sari Bair, that seen us play fer keeps.

"We wus full uv savage skitin' while they kep' us on the shelf
(Now I tell yeh, square an' 'onest, I wus doubtin' us meself);
But we proved it, good an' plenty, that our lads can do an' dare,
On the day we walloped Abdul o'er the sands o' Sari Bair.

"Luck wus out wiv Green uv Sydney, where 'e stood at my right 'and,
Fer they plunked 'im on the transport 'fore 'e got a chance to land.
Then I saw 'em kill a feller wot I knoo in Camberwell,
Somethin' sort o' went inside me - an' the rest wus bloody 'ell.

"Thro' the smoke I seen 'im strivin', Craig uv Queensland, tall an' strong,
Like an 'arvester at 'ay-time singin', swingin' to the song.
An' little Smith uv Collin'wood, 'e 'owled a fightin' tune,
On the day we chased Mahomet over Sari's sandy dune.

"An' Sari Bair, O Sari Bair, you seen 'ow it wus done,
The transports dancin' in yer bay beneath the bonzer sun;
An' speckled o'er yer gleamin' shore the little 'uddled 'eaps
That showed at last the Southern breed could play the game fer keeps.

"We found 'im, Craig uv Queensland, stark, 'is 'and still on 'is gun.
We found too many more besides, when that fierce scrap wus done.
An' little Smith uv Collin'wood, he crooned a mournful air,
The night we planted 'em beneath the sands uv Sari Bair.

"On the day we took the transport there wus cheerin' on the pier,
An' we wus little chiner gawds; an' now we're sittin' 'ere,
Wiv the taste uv blood an' battle on the lips uv ev'ry man
An' ev'ry man jist 'opin' fer to end as we began.

"Fer Green is gone, an' Craig is gone, an' ....... 'ow many more!
Who sleep the sleep at Sari Bair beside that sunny shore!
An' little Smith uv Collin'wood, a bandage 'round 'is 'ead,
He 'ums a savage song an' vows quick vengeance fer the dead.

"But Sari Bair, me Sari Bair, the secrets that you 'old
Will shake the 'earts uv Southern men when all the tale is told;
An' when they git the strength uv it, there'll never be the need
To call too loud fer fightin' men among the Southern breed."

This poem was originally published in The Bulletin, 20 May 1915, p6.

"Lest we forget"

The Geebung Polo Club

by A.B. "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 of the rugged mountainside,
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

Illustrated by Pro Hart

A Treasured Book

One of my most treasured poetry anthologies. Given as a birthday gift by a friend almost 30 years ago.

Poems of BANJO PATERSON

Illustrated by Pro Hart

Front Cover

Back Cover

I intend to post one of Banjo's poems and Pro's interesting paintings from time to time.

Communion Meditation

Jesus, my Prophet, my Priest and my King.

Lord, you are my everything.

My teacher by your Word and Spirit,

Open my heart that I might hear it.

My intercessor in Melchizedek's line,

Who satisfies justice divine.

Sovereign who rules me and defends,

The One on whom my life depends.

Redeemer, Savior of my soul,

Lord, keep me safely in your fold.

I bow before you brokenly,

For you my every sin can see.

Create a clean heart Lord in me,

Fill me with your Spirit free.

Then will my soul rejoice and sing,

Jesus, my Prophet, Priest and King.

Cinquain

Beyond Blue Stockings posted on the cinquain form of poetry and asked for some examples. This is not my style of poetry but never one to shirk a challenge, here is my feeble attempt. Pop over and join in. (I have posted this beautiful sunset photograph before. It is taken just out of town and I love the look and feel of it with the wind mill and power pole.)

Sunset

glorious, painted

glowing, inspiring, magnifying

declaring the glory of God

Creation

Rusty, it's Goodbye

By a lonely railroad station a dog sits patiently,
And as each train rolls down the track he watches eagerly,
But the one that he is waitin' for does not come off the train,
And when the crowds have gone their way, he drops his head again.

But he doesn't know his master lay,
On the battle field to die;
He didn't hear the soldier say,
"Rusty it's goodbye."

It's many months now since the day he saw his master go,
A figure clad in khaki is one he'll always know,
But the lonely dog keeps waiting for each long day's the same,
He longs to see his masters face and hear him call his name.

But he doesn't know his master lay,
On the battle field to die;
He didn't hear the soldier say,
"Rusty it's goodbye."

Rusty he'll not see again the pal he's waiting for,
Their happy days together, are gone forever more,
The station master sees him there and knows why he's alone,
Although he can't replace his loss he treats him as his own.

But he doesn't know his master lay,
On the battle field to die;
He didn't hear the soldier say,
"Rusty it's goodbye."

Lyrics by Slim Dusty

A little tribute for our faithful Bella, who waited for us on the third step whenever we were out.

The Highest End

Here is a link to a beautiful meditation on the first catechism. (Westminster Confession of Faith, Larger Catechism) by Reverend Matthew Winzer.

What is the chief and highest end of man?

Man's chief and highest end is to glorify God, and fully to enjoy him for ever.