Farewell the Son

Introduction

All those well versed in Shakespeare, will probably be able to draw some comparisons between this poem and Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 3. There is a fairly well known soliloquy by a father (Polonius), offering some parting advice to his son (Laertes). It has given birth to several common sayings, “the apparel oft proclaims the man”, “neither a borrower nor a lender be”, etc. Hully thought it all seemed like pretty good bush logic.

Bush poetry by Andrew Hull

The razors edge horizon is cutting through the sun,
And the land is scarlet as it bleeds to death.
This sunset seems more beautiful than any other one,
Tomorrow, Dad is sending me on my first cattle run,
And tonight he says good-bye through rum soaked breath.

He doesn’t look me in the eye, he never has before,
His pupils glaze upon the amber glow.
He says, “Could be some time until you walk back through our door,
I reckon you’ll be right, but a man can’t be too sure,
So a quick word of advice before you go.

“There’s a lot of time for thinking when you’re out there on the trail,
But don’t be quick to speak your thoughts out loud.
And don’t rush into anything or you are bound to fail,
Make sure you work out in your mind every small detail,
Then every thing you do will make you proud.

“The blokes you meet will like you all the more if you are straight,
They’re hard men, but most of them are true.
Don’t waste your time with each new face until they prove their weight,
But when their worth is proven, don’t be scared to call them mate,
Sometimes mates are all you’ve got to get you through.

“Keep hold of your temper, don’t get pushed into a fight,
You don’t know what the other bloke can do.
It’s no good in a droving’ camp if you can’t sleep at night
When a bloke says that he’ll murder you, you best believe he might,
But remember, he might think the same of you.

“Now every bloke out there will have a word or two to tell,
And you best listen if you know what’s good.
There’s good advice and bad advice, and both will serve you well,
But don’t make every word you hear, the same as what you tell,
And only tell the few you think you should.

Make sure you keep your gear top nick before you blow your wage,
No drover ever had to look a dag.
But try not to follow fashion even though it’s all the rage,
That fancy gear gets out of date before it comes of age,
You can tell a lot about a bloke from his swag.

“No matter what you’re earning, be careful what you spend,
An open wallet is no way to boast.
But try hard not to get in debt, and don’t be quick to lend,
And remember this before you borrow money from a friend,
Think carefully which one you need the most.

“But do an honest hard days work is the best advice I’ve got,
And know that you did all that you could do.
‘Cause if you’re square with yourself it doesn’t matter what,
It follows that you must be square with all the other lot,
And it follows that they must be square with you.

“Then for a punctuation mark he had another drink,
Stood slowly up and looked me in the eye.
He held my hand a while and then gave a steady wink,
Then sat back down and settled in to watch the old sun sink.
And I knew that this was how he said good-bye.

Then staring west he spoke so soft, he scarcely made a sound,
“Keep your head up boy, no matter what you do,
You won’t learn nothing special by looking at the ground,
You might miss all the snakes and potholes scattered all around,
But sure as hell, you’ll miss the sunsets too.”

The Darling Dream

Introduction

Ron started this poem at the age of 19 and then twelve years later wrote the second verse. The inspiration to finish being triggered by a painting done by Hully with the theme of “Dreaming on the Darling”

Bush poetry by Ronnie Wilson

On the edge of the blue bush plains where the “Darling” banks are steep
And the black soil when it rains is around about waist deep
Where the ghost gums lean and sway 
Home and shelter for the Western Grey
And the Black Cocky’s laugh and act the loon 
And the billabongs shimmer to a blood red moon
This land is alive you can feel its pulse 
With the silouheting sunset on the Brolga’s waltz
And wherever I go and wherever I’ve been 
My mind carries me back on a “Darling Dream”

From the winters frosty mornings to the summers searing glare
And the wild flowers in between them and the Gidgee scented air
And the curling red sand ridges, like waves upon a shore
Break on black soil beaches before pulling back for more
And all along the shoreline when long shadows tend to cast
The present and the future blend with an ancient past
Then history repeats all over in the rising of the sun
But each millennia in its coming is just another one
And if time was just a measure of what a man has seen
Then I have lived forever, from seeing a “Darling Dream”

© Ron Wilson

Old Ted The Dog

Introduction

For graziers and sheep handlers, “the dog” often is their best friend, and they usually know the bloodline right back to Noah. Look out, however if the parents and grandparents were all perfect dogs and the end product isn’t. You have an animal that is too valuable to get rid of and too expensive to keep.

 

Because this story could end up true,
And I’d hate to be the one to blame.
I think the best thing I can do,
To protect the innocent is change the names.
And so this tale is not a prediction,
But has its foundation firmly in fiction.

The scene is the most romantic of places,
A country house with a wide verandah.
It could be the day after the Louth races,
And we’ll call this fictional property ‘Yanda’.
And we need two hosts of reputed good will,
So we’ll call this couple, Marissa and Bill.

Now Yanda, as far as bush venues go,
Was the partygoers dream discovery.
So everyone who was in the know,
Had gathered there for a races recovery.
To drink and talk the time away 
And face their hangover another day.

Bill was a well-respected grazier,
And a hard worker (by most peoples thinking).
But the truth was he couldn’t be lazier,
And was extremely fond of drinking.
And so at the party their roles were quite clear,
Marissa got organised, Bill drank beer.

The party was going exceptionally well,
Though Marissa was pregnant, as everyone knew.
But the secret that she didn’t tell,
Was that she was three weeks overdue!
But Bill kept doing what he thought he should,
Drinking as much as he possibly could.
Now at country affairs it is widely known,
After consuming the correct amount of grog.
The ladies will speak of the things they have sown,
While the men will argue the best working dog.
So this was the line of conversation,
That accompanied Bill’s inebriation.

And every bloke present said they had the most,
And the best ‘country canine cavaliers’.
But it seemed as though Bill was reluctant to boast,
And they found him nearly reduced to tears
‘I’ve made a horrible mistake’ he said,
‘I’ve put all of my faith in that useless dog, Ted’

‘I’ve tried to train him but each time I fail,
Being stuck with old Ted is a cruel twist of fate’
So they all looked at Ted, sitting, wagging his tail,
Eating a sausage he’d pinched off a plate.
Then Bill swung his foot in a savage attack
And said ‘Go on Ted, get down the back!’

Bill started drinking then, three times as hard.
As old Ted quietly skulked away.
And found a warm place at the back of the yard,
Where he could quietly pass the day.
And when Marissa went down there to turn off the taps,
No-one at the party heard her collapse.

With a shock she realised the baby was coming,
So she shouted out but no one could hear.
Unable to move, she had to do something,
Then old Ted gave her a lick on the ear.
‘Go and get Bill, boy’, she desperately said,
But this wasn’t Lassie, this was useless old Ted.

‘That useless old Ted, I should have him shot’
Wailed Bill, he was reaching the maudlin stage.
‘He’s by far the worst working dog that I’ve got,
I’m surprised I’ve allowed him to reach this old age.’
Then he told a joke to his friends and his staff,
And they all had a drink and another good laugh.
Meanwhile, down at the back of the yard,
Laughing was far from Marissa’s mind.
She had Ted by the collar and was twisting so hard,
That he couldn’t escape, he just stood there and whined.
But she got some comfort from this simple reaction,
As she worked her way through each contraction.

Then she realised that maybe she could make it through,
With old Ted beside her, taking Bill’s place.
She just needed something to curse and swear to,
And occasionally give her a lick on the face.
And Ted’s breathing was perfect, with no bark or bite,
Bill never could get that panting thing right.

Then the guests started asking ‘where was Bills wife?’
‘As its time they were gone and they wanted to kiss her’.
But Bill was the drunkest he’d been in his life,
And he had forgotten all about poor Marissa.
Then every one gasped and looked in surprise,
As she gracefully returned to say her good-byes.

Few people know what these moments are worth,
The fleeting and inimitable charm.
And beauty of a woman who has just given birth,
With her healthy boy cradled soft in her arms.
The expanse of gardens completed the story,
As the roses burst open in all of their glory.

And wagging his tail there proudly was Ted,
Unaware of the amount of time that elapsed.
‘He looks more like the father’ (a less prudent guest said),
“Than that drunk over there on the verge of collapse!’
And when Bill finally choked at the end of the keg,
Ted found a good place to cock his leg.

So now at this fictional place we call Yanda,
Things are pretty much the same as before.
Baby Edward now plays on the sunlit verandah,
And Bill has promised to drink nevermore.
But Marissa’s alone in the big double bed,
And Bill sleeps out back, with his new equal, Ted.

Glassy Eyed

Introduction

Butchering is not a trade for the weak of stomach, and rest assured, the craft that is often practiced in the bush would leave many self respecting butchers queasy. Throw a few beers, a dark night, and a blunt knife into the mix and see what you come up with.

 

Old Ted had a glass eye that was missing its lid,
So the bloody thing just used to stare.
And whilst he was asleep one eye would be hid,
Whilst the other continued to glare.

Once on the way home from a spree at the pub,
And definitely being to drunk to drive.
He steered his ute towards his shack in the scrub, 
But didn’t realise he’d not make it alive.

A couple of miles out he stopped to shoot a roo,
And he waved the gun in its general direction.
He needed bones for the dogs and some meat for the stew,
And the roo died of random lead injection.

Then with a rusty old Bowie he began the attack,
But his balance was tempered by beer.
And he slipped in the blood landing flat on his back,
So he said, “bugger it, I’ll just skin you from here”.

Ted wrestled the carcass like a demon from hell,
Dismembering limbs and things off the roo.
With the guts and the blood it was soon hard to tell,
Just who exactly was skinning who.

With the butchering done Ted was covered in gore,
Jack the Ripper would have spewed at the sight.
Then with the meat tucked away he set off once more,
Looking forward to getting home for a bite.

But at the half way mark the rum had started to tell,
So Ted pulled up in the road for a rest.
With his head against the window into a coma he fell,
With that eerie glass eye staring west.

A passer by stopped to see all was right,
With the car that was parked in mid lane.
But that staring eye, gave him a hell of a fright,
Not to mention all the blood and the brain.

The man flew into town, to tell of the slaughter,
And the ambulance and the police rushed to the scene.
But the cops seeing the mess said it must be murder,
And all agreed it’s the worse case they had seen.

With Ted’s staring glass eye sending chills down the spine,
And the hanging chunks of flesh and bits of liver.
While draped round his neck was a length of intestine,
And an eyeball was stuck to the rear vision mirror.

They fenced off the crime with a mile of yellow tape,
Whilst flashing lights diverted the traffic.
And the rising full moon light the surrounding landscape, 
Making that glass eyed stare even more horrific.

The sergeant radioed a warning throughout the night,
A madman must be in hiding near town.
And do not approach him just shoot him on sight,
Anyone capable of this just had to be put down.

Next at the crime scene a gruesome job lay in store,
The nervous medics could now do their bit.
But the body’s angle, meant that when they opened the door,
They’d have to move bloody quick to catch it.

The catcher was decided when he drew the short straw,
And he cursed his bad luck and his fate.
Then his partner opened the latch and old Ted started to fall,
But he awoke and with a groan sat up straight.

It took twenty minutes to revive that medical man,
The poor fellow’s heart just couldn’t compete.
And the cops that hadn’t fainted, well they all up and ran,
Screaming and wailing in hasty retreat.

And old Ted looked around with his blood matted hair,
And he slurred with a rum stained groan.
You mongrels just woke me and gave me a hell of a scare,
Then he started his ute and drove home.

Caught in a Drum Net

Introduction

A similar fishy tale to this has been knocking around the bush in one form or another for years. This is a true story that is about Ron getting caught by some fishing inspectors while he was checking a fish trap that he had found several years ago. Fish traps, or “Drum Nets”, are of course highly illegal. As it turned out the trap he was inspecting when inspected by the inspectors was actually the inspector’s trap. They were apparently doing a survey of fish numbers. That was their story any way. Here’s Rons.

Bush poetry by Ronnie Wilson

A fish inspector’s job is to enforce our laws,
From poachers who driven by greed.
Use methods unfair in the name of their cause,
And then take more fish than they need.

It’s a well known fact that bag limits retract,
From those who tend to be illegal.
And the nature of tackle is sure and exact,
On what is and what is not legal.

And apart from a gill-net the worst to conspire,
Is a round trap with the nickname of “drum net”.
With a funnel at one end, made of chicken mesh wire,
It just rolls into the river when set.

But still because of my respect for the law,
I’d never risked using one myself, “true”.
The cost if convicted means losing it all,
Your boat, and your four-wheel drive, too.

One morn I went early to a secret location,
Where I new I’d catch a good feed.
I had permission to fish on the grazing station,
And I never catch more than I need.

But there on the bank not ten feet from me,
Was a rope disappearing into the river.
I thought seeing this end is tied to a tree,
The other must be tied to a… “fish giver”.

An easy free feed seemed too good to pass,
So I hauled up the trap for inspection.
And I emptied the catch on the river bank grass,
Completely unaware of detection.

Then I jumped in the air when a voice on my right,
Said, “looks like a pretty good feed”.
And my heart went on strike from effects of the fright,
And my bowels soon followed its lead.

The local fish inspector right there, in uniform stood,
Surveying his latest investigation.
And I looked up the bank at my Landcruiser’s hood,
And new it was marked for confiscation.

I new in an instant as my life flashed me by,
He had already decided my guilt.
And I had to think quick of a suitable lie,
Or suffer the law at full hilt.

I drew a sharp breath and very loudly I said,
“And who the bloody hell are you”.
And I stood holding ground, demanding instead,
Where he probably thought I’d shoot through.

Then with a swing from my aggressive manner, 
I said, “Oh I’m dreadfully sorry old chap”.
What luck that it’s you the local fish inspector,
I thought you must be the bloke who owns this trap.

© Ron Wilson

Blowfly Stew

Introduction

The drovers cook’, conjures up all sorts of strange imagery and is linked to bush culture in just as many strange and imaginary ways. The light that drovers, and campers of all types, become accustomed to eating by, can sometimes call into question the exact origin of the meal.

Bush poetry by Ronnie Wilson

Back in Eighty-nine, when I was seventeen,
I had drifted to the outback for a look
And had found some brief employment with a local droving team,
My official title was the drovers cook

I had joined up with the team about ten miles west of Bourke,
On a ‘forty degree’ stinking summer day.
It was just three hours till tea-time and the men were still at work,
So I got stuck into cooking straight away.

The provisions were transported in an old worn out camper,
Which had already been stocked up by the crew.
They’d included the ingredients for about six tons of damper,
And about twenty-six tons of mutton stew.

It was the favourite and only meal they ever ate
‘Mutton stew’ for breakfast, lunch and tea,
So I thought on my first night that I’d serve them up a plate,
Of something new, created just by me.

But potato, onion, mutton and flour is all that I could find,
In the caravan which acted as a store.
Until I found some sweetened raisins hidden in behind,
A salt bag dated nineteen thirty-four.

I cooked them up a standard stew from an old bush recipe,
And then I threw my secret ingredients in.
With the extra raisin flavour it seemed tastier to me,
So I couldn’t wait for dinner to begin.

Id imagined these old drovers to be as tough as rusty wire,
And when they came in that was how they looked.
And one by one they each took a place around the fire,
To dig in to the feed that I had cooked.

The warm glow of the campfire was the only light about,
As I served up this new stew to my new mates.
So I was surprised to see them all pick the raisins out,
And push them to the edges of their plates.

As I cleaned up the dishes at the end of the night,
I saw every single raisin segregated.
They’d left every one behind in that campfire half-light,
And left my ego irreparably deflated.

The boss called me aside, so to whisper in my ear
And in a friendly way he told me what to do,
‘You have to leave the lid on, when you cook ‘round ‘ere,
Then you don’t get so many blowies in the stew!’

© Ronnie Wilson

Dances with Roo’s

Introduction

In case you don’t already know, our national symbol, the kangaroo, is one of the most dangerous creatures, at close range, in the outback. They will happily punch and scratch you with the front legs, but their secret weapon is to hold you with the front legs, lean back on their tail, and rake you with their powerful, and clawed, hind legs. There has been many a larrikin jackeroo, taught a lesson in bush blueing from either a kangaroo or emu.

Bush poetry by Ronnie Wilson

Stuey and Bluey were two cocky’s sons,
From a property west of the river at Bourke.
They were big and strong, and if you did the sums,
There was a couple of brick “out-houses” at work.

One day these two lads on their way back from town,
Hit a roo, which had jumped the wrong way.
And after the impact the Ute suddenly slowed down,
And it looked like it had decided to stay.

With the Ute hissing steam they surveyed the sad scene,
With roo fur and blood marking the trail.
And at the end of the carnage the corpse could be seen,
And Bluey thought of soup…. With “kangaroo tail”.

But Stue’y had other plans for the marsupial red,
He said why don’t we dress him in top hat and tails.
They had just bought the gear cause their sister soon wed,
And they even had the dress and the veils.

So with Stue’y all radiant in a majestic white gown,
And the seven-foot red, groom propped up beside.
Bluey acting as priest then married them down,
Then he photographed the roo and his bride.

Bluey then ran to the Ute and tuned the radio in
To a station playing some sort of a slow dance.
And there on the tarmac in tune to the din,
The red roo and his bride spun in romance.

Then a bus full of Jap tourists stopped for the sport,
And the flashing of their cameras was blinding.
And Bluey explained though the engagement was short,
The marriage remained legal and binding.

Then caught in wedded bliss Stue’y went for a hairy kiss,
But instead was caught by surprise by the roo.
He’d been unconscious not dead and wanted no part of this,
So he proceeded to throw punches at Stue.

Well the tempo picked up with both partners awake,
And Stue’y in high heels missed his shoes.
But he held on with fright cause his life was at stake,
This must surely be “Dances with Roo’s”.

Waltzing cheek to cheek like a love struck pair,
With the radio blaring to their movement.
The roo’s powerful back leg’s kept raking the air,
And Stuey knew to let go meant disembowelment.

After two solid hours of swirling and prancing,
Stue’y desperately let out with a stammer.
I cant stand much more of this Roo’s dirty dancing,
Try and hit him on the head with a hammer.

So as the couple hopped and bopped about the place,
Bluey stalked them with his nine pounder.
Then he swung and he missed and hit Stue in the face,
Much to the relief of the top-hatted bounder.

Stue’y dropped like a stone from the force of the blow,
And the roo was quick to shoot through.
And the Japanese tourists applauded the show,
Then past round the hat for poor old Stue.

Now this tale is renown round the district of Bourke,
And that tux wearing roo has entered folklore.
And Stuey never leaves home just preferring to work,
Cause the local girls know that “he’s spoke for”.

© Ron Wilson

Rooted

Available soon

Bourke Time

Introduction

I’m sure all country towns have there own concept of correct time. The further west you head the more the ‘real time’ turns into ‘when it happens’. This poem was written for a presentation to the Prime Minister in January Two Thousand, just five months before the Government launch their controversial new tax agenda.

Bush poetry by Andrew Hull

The minute the P M’s plane stopped at Bourke,
Our public relations team went to work.
Helping him down without any slip,
Inquiring whether he’d had a good trip,
And wasn’t feeling a touch of jet lag,
As they organised someone to carry his bag.
The P.M. instantly summed up the scene,
He was in the hands of a well-oiled machine,
So he asked if they would mind if he,
Could peruse tomorrow’s itinerary.

With a nervous glance from side to side,
The public relations team guessed,
That what he asked could not be denied,
And to tell him the truth would be best.
So with an embarrassed cough they tried,
To grant his humble request.

(They said) “A prominent businessman wishes to talk,
If he could join your six o’clock walk,
The trouble with this Mr Howard you see,
Is we’re not sure when six o’clock will be.”
You have a meeting at nine with the mayor
Although it’s unlikely that he will be there,
But the deputy mayor will meet you at three
Which could occur around morning tea.
And the chamber of commerce is booked in for five
Though it’s doubtful any of them will arrive”.

The Prime Minister said not a word,
He wasn’t quite sure what to do.
He didn’t know if what he’d just heard
Was a joke or if it was true.
This public relations team was absurd,
And their timetable was too.

“The problem”, they said, sensing his concern,
“Is this new time zone we’re trying to learn.
Every thing out here seems to work fine
If you only understand Bourke Time”.
“But Bourke Time is open to all sorts of tricks,
For example the milk is delivered around six.”
“So the logic they use out here in their sums
Is it must be six when the milk comes.
But depending on how fast the milkman drives
It could be ten before it arrives”.

The Prime Minister nodded his head
He was a shrewd sort of bloke,
He didn’t believe a word they’d said
But he’d go along with the joke.
It was their way in the bush, he’d read
‘Not to fix it if it ain’t broke’

“The deputy mayor,” said the public relations
“Knows all the Bourke Time machinations.
His doctor has told him no coffee ‘til three
Though he usually has one for morning tea
So now if he’s thirsty at nine or ten
He declares that in Bourke time, it’s three o’clock then.
The Chamber of Commerce can only survive
If they all agree to shut shop at five,
But if at that time there are shoppers in sight
Then the clock won’t strike five till half-way through the night”.

The P.M. cast a propitious eye
Over the public relations band.
He concluded now that this was no lie,
And this was the best that things could be planned,
But he thought he knew a way to try
And still maintain the upper hand.

The official dinner was at eight on the dot.
He said “If the time now is seven o’clock,
And two beers take half an hour to drink
It’ll be half past seven when I’m finished, I think.
That should give me time to settle in well,
So I’ll have a few beers at a local hotel”.
And when two beers turned into seven or eight,
He knew in Bourke time that he couldn’t be late.
So when they closed the pub at eleven,
He declared that it must now be half past seven.

Although his head was not so clear
When he finally sat down to dine.
He told his staff that he had an idea
To help get the new tax system on line,
And for the following financial year
Australia would get to know Bourke Time.

“The answer was always out here at Bourke
I think we really can make this thing work.
We’ll make an announcement in the press
That all the issues have been addressed
And we can now publicly guarantee
That the new tax system will work perfectly.
Right from day one, there won’t be a hitch,
There’ll be no transitional hiccup or glitch
And we promise the new system will be sublime
From the first of July, year two thousand – Bourke Time.”

© Andrew Hull

Gold Plated Trouble

Introduction

Drilling is a very expensive operation, with equipment, labour and expertise running into thousands of dollars per hour. The men in charge of these operations take protocol very seriously, they have to. The labour on the other hand, often contains a fairly large element of ‘larrikin’, which can cause further problems for management.

Bush poetry by Ronnie Wilson

“Jack the Rigger” worked on a western drilling rig,
Where the climate is hotter than hell.
And him and his mates are as tough as they’re big,
Burnt brown and sweat stained as well.

The land all around is scorched red from the sun,
Anything metal will burn at the touch.
The life of a driller doesn’t include a lot of fun,
And the temperature at night doesn’t drop much.

They work on a round platform, five meters across,
In the centre runs the diamond tipped drill.
And if any metal, down the drill hole, get lost,
The whole bloody job comes to a standstill.

The down time for retrieval could take up to a week,
To the tune of a million a day.
And the foreman’s temper would scream to a peak,
And the men knew to keep out of his way.

One day jack tripped and he fell with a slammer,
As his feet got caught on a stray pole.
And clanging across the deck skidded his trusty hammer,
Which first teetered then dropped down the hole.

The foreman in rage bought the whole job to a halt,
And a man was sent to fetch the magnetic mole.
And Jack declared to the foreman, he alone was at fault,
It was his hammer that fell down the hole.

The boss snarled back “you’ll keep for now Jack”,
But you better get out of my site.
And to make up for your slip you’d better not slack,
‘Cause my barks not as bad as my bite.

It took ten grueling days of sweat, tears and blood.
With Jack the hardest working man there.
And he did back to back shifts in the dust and the mud.
Till his hammer was pulled from its lair.

With the driller’s back drilling, life went on once again,
And Jacks folly in time was forgotten.
But the foreman still cracked at the slightest strain,
And he still treated Jack really rotten.

After a month of abuse the foreman called a parade,
And he lined up the whole of his crew.
He said I’ve been waiting to put an end to the charade,
And now Jack will finally get what he’s due.

He pulled from his pocket a hammer plated with gold,
From the other came Jacks severance pay.
He said, now Jack, you can “consider yourself told”,
You can finish at the end of the day.

Jack received his gold hammer and he let out a slow hiss,
His eyes were as black as pure coal.
And he said “where I’m going I’ll have no use for this”,
As he tossed that gold hammer right back down the hole.

Ron Wilson

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