An Ode to Two Pioneers

This poem was written with respect for two pioneers of the North at the request of their daughter Anna.  I sincerely hope this clip passes inspection.

          An ODE to TWO PIONEERS-Pat &Peg Underwood

In the centre of a northern station racetrack, east of the Nicholson Plain,

The old boss and his wife have come back to their home once again.

In the shade of the Bohemia’s they now spend there time at ease,

As tales of the past are told by the leaves, that whisper in the breeze.

Although now at rest they watch the running of what was once their home,

And hear again the galloping horses, their sides flecked with foam.

See Mark Richards at the racetrack putting the horses through their paces,

Kingdom Come, Laura Doll and Lawless, ready for the Halls Creek races.

Bush Law might take the double again with the Cup and Bracelet prize,

There will be celebrations at the station camp beneath the northern skies.

The ghosts of these great horses and more are out working on the track,

Putting in that extra effort because they know their boss is back.

They can hear the crack of a stockwhip, the sound of a rattling hobble,

The yackies and the cooee’s of the natives as they begin to squabble.

Hear again old Lee Graham cursing and yelling at the milking cow,

Ringers laughing in the yards, as they wipe the sweat from their brow.

The creak of saddle leather and the jingle of a Condamine bell,

All the station sights and sounds that Pat and Peg know so well.

Calves are bellowing for their mother, an eagle soars in the sky,

Dust rises from a stockman’s trousers as he tiredly slaps his thigh.

The branding iron’s glowing red set to burn the Inverway mark on a hide,

Unmarked clean-skin cattle were anybody’s until the brand was applied.

Brood mares with tails in the air gallop past closely followed by their foals,

With the setting sun there is the smell of rib bones cooking on the coals.

When this country needed pioneers Pat and Peg raised their hand,

In nineteen fifty-six Inverway country came under Pat’s command.

While he was away mustering and droving, maintaining order on the run,

Peg made a home and raised a family beneath the Territory’s blazing sun.

From droving with pack horses onto road trains, this couple saw it all,

When it came to Brahman cattle Inverway quickly answered the call.

Another who led the way rests beside them, Farquharson is his name,

Along with the Underwood’s, this wild northern land he helped tame.

Inverway will see both good times and bad; wet seasons come and go,

The old boss and his wife have returned, to watch the daily show.

Both are now at peace, overseeing things from ‘neath the Bohemia tree,

They are back home where they belong…… their spirits are flying free.

© Corin Linch 22/4/10

 

In Memory of the Drovers

IN MEMORY OF THE DROVERS

Out by the Conkleberry bushes, where the big buck Spinifex grows,

Over breakaway country and ridges; where Kimberley Rivers flow.

Where wild donkeys gather and the frill neck lizards run,

And the dingoes stay in hiding till day is nearly done.

By secluded waterholes, where the brumbies come to drink,

In the full moon's eerie glow, you'll see a hundred ghosts I think.

Perhaps of old Tom Quilty or others who came before,

Men who loved the bush and never heard the slamming of a door.

You might see the drover's herds as they feed across the plain;

Heading north and west; never to see New South Wales again.

Maybe led by Patsy Durack, or others of his kind,

Men with a new land's vision, men who were not blind.

And if you look real careful, you'll see packs upon their mules,

Packed by men of substance, who won't tolerate the fools.

And if you listen hard you might hear their whips begin to crack,

Used by men who go forward, seldom turning back.

You might even hear them singing as they ride night watch on the herd;

But when the cattle rush, they'll ride hard, saying not a word.

Men who tamed the outback; who reaped just what they sowed,

Who put the herds together and with pride they fairly glowed.

Then the images fade, as the moon goes behind a cloud,

And the wild horses run into nights' darkened shroud.

And left behind I wonder, if the past is really gone,

For I'm sure there are men today who show the spirit of old Tom.

This poem is dedicated to the memory of

Charles Torrance MacMicking (22.07.28 - 20.06.95).

The last of the true Kimberley drovers.

© Corin Linch 29th June 1995 - Rewrite 16/1/07

    Old Mac was my wife’s step father, when I first went to Moola Bulla he had a contract mustering plant, in the earlier years he had walked fat bullocks from the stations in the Halls Creek area up to the Wyndham meat-works. His reputation as a drover was second to none, he was the last of the Kimberley drovers. Tom Quilty and Patsy Durack should need no introduction to anyone familiar with Australian bush history.

The Good Life or Changing Places

This is a slightly different film to the one entitled The Good Life and I think a bit better.  The sound track is the same though.

The Good Life

Well I just couldn't help myself because today I figured out how to take clips from a DVD and put them onto Movie Maker so had to do another clip for this poem ..... this film was originally Super 8 which was then put onto VHS and then I put it onto a DVD and now I've done this for the poem as an experiment.
I have no idea if I've been successful in doing this or not but guess I'll find out the hard way ... any constructive criticism is very welcome.


      THE GOOD LIFE or Changing Places

By gee you have a good life people say to me,

Living in the bush and seeing the things you see.

Well yeah, I suppose I got a good life, it’s not often I complain,

But have you ever rolled your swag out when it’s pissin’ down with rain?

And the ground you put your canvas on is just a sea of mud,

Your blankets are cold and wet an’ the wind it chills your blood.

The fire woods all wet and you can’t make a drink of tea,

Oh what a romantic lifestyle, there’s nowhere you’d rather be.

Next day the ground is boggy and you’ve only a young colt to ride,

The storms have scattered the cattle, now they’ve gone far and wide.

Your gear was left out in the rain now your saddle is soaking wet,

If you have to sit in that all day, you know piles you’re gunna get.

But its no use worrying about these things, they happen time and again,

And you’ve lost count of the times you’ve had to sleep out in the rain.

The rain bought the blowies and they’re laying eggs upon your meat,

And now you wont be sure if it’s rice or maggots that you’re about to eat.

Like I said it’s no use worrying, not much else can go wrong,

You can always use hot sauce to stop the beef tasting strong.

Or the cook might use curry powder, just to mask the taste,

‘Cos you still got half a killer an’ that’s far too much beef to waste.

When the bait layer makes a Brownie an’ you can’t believe your eyes,

‘Cos it’s hard to tell the difference between the currants and the flies.

You’re gunna get the scours an’ dehydrate, but no-one gives a stuff,

But I tell yer this is living, even if at times the going gets a little tough.

And still so many people say they’d love to change places with you,

For in their imagination the skies are always blue.

But I wouldn’t change me lifestyle I’m sorta happy where I am,

At least when it’s raining I know it’s putting water in the dam.

A full dam means less pumping you can sit back and relax,

Get out the pen and paper to work out the governments tax.

So thanks for your thoughts and the offer to change places with me,

But give up this romantic lifestyle; huh there’s nowhere I’d rather be.

© Corin Linch 11/8/04

Reflections

 I must apologize as it has been over 12 months since I added anything to this blog .......... a lot has happened in that time including a trip overseas to visit friends in Europe and family in the UK.  My stallion broke his leg and had to be put down ............ and at the moment I'm still doing rehabilitation after a shoulder operation.  Hopefully now I will keep a regular update going until I run out of audio to do YouTube clips .
Once again a big thank you to Nick Hopkins for cleaning up the audio and then mixing the sound.



         REFLECTIONS

  

I roll out of my swag and put my boots upon my feet,

I straighten up my blankets and roll up my old ground sheet.

I stagger to the fire and I fill the billy up,

Make a drink of tea and then I have a cup.

I sip my tea and fill my pipe as I sit in quiet reflection,

Of what I done before and doing now I give my life careful inspection.

I think of my daughter in the city, my son away at school,

Here’s me sitting in the bush and I wonder am I fool.

I think about my fifty acres and my wife back there at home,

And I wonder if I’m stupid for being here alone.

You know I love them dearly they mean the world to me,

But I’m a country bloke and I love the bush you see.

I like being in the bush gazing at the stars at night,

For tis a vision splendid, oh Lord what a sight.

To see the morning star as it begins to rise,

Then up comes the sun and dazzles these old eyes.

Well I don’t miss the towns with people everywhere,

Or all the flaming bullshit that goes on in the city square.

Some men are born to ride horses, some to sit at a desk,

Thank God I’m one of the former; thank God that I was blessed.

Some are born to work in a factory, some to push an ink pen,

But I was born to work cattle but I don’t mind a change now and then.

As a babe I might have slept in a cradle or it might have been a cot,

But now I’ve got me old swag and I thank heaven for what I’ve got.

I’ve got the beauty of the bush, I’ve got miles of open space,

I don’t have to live in the city with its never ending rat race.

And in the morning peak hour when there’s cars backed up for miles,

There’s grim faced commuters every where no-ones got a smile.

When the cars clog up the roadways as every one tries to get to work,

I’m saddled up before the sun and my duties I don’t shirk.

City peoples work is just a job; their existence full of strife,

They have everything they want but still they’re bored with life.

They have their newspaper, television and of course the electric light,

They can light their gas to put the billy on in the middle of the night.

But I don’t yearn for what they have; I don’t think they’re very lucky,

In fact I think the life they lead, to me would be pretty mucky.

I have the beauty of the night time sky when the stars are in my eyes,

And all those brilliant changing colours as the sun begins to rise.

My horse steps out quite freely, for I look after him real well,

It’s a pity you can’t understand him; he has so many stories he could tell.

I look after my stock whip carefully, for ‘tis the tool of my trade,

And my home is the saddle and my swag where ere’ it’s laid.

© Corin Linch    May-June 2001

Rewrite-February 2007