Edward When You Go

Introduction

This poem was written for the retiring manager of a large pastoral company, an Englishman, who is returning home after a number of well loved years in the bush

Bush poetry by Andrew Hull

Its time for Bourke to say good-bye to Chairman, Boss & Friend,
All our pleas for him to stay have been declined.
And returning to an old home, brings an era to an end,
But I wonder are you leaving home behind?

The dust has barely settled on the roads out West of Bourke,
Through the properties that you have come to know.
This country has been more to you than just a place of work,
What part will you take with you when you go?

Will you take the Toorale homestead, as a token of the place?
Though the Mansion is now rotted and decayed,
It’s a symbol to remind you of the challenges you faced,
On journey to the Empire that you made.

The back bar at the Port of Bourke still echoes with the laughter,
And the embers of the fire are still aglow.
The long nights there will fondly be remembered ever after,
Will you take that part with you when you go?

Will those beers and conversations with the locals in town,
Return to you those chilly English nights.
When perhaps your education and position let you down,
And a dose of old bush lore will put you right.

The memories of Mundawa are bound to bring a smile,
When you call back the places that you know.
Is it hard to leave that place that you have loved for such a while? 
Will you take that part with you when you go?

I can imagine all the laughs and smiles upon those English faces,
When you tell them of the long and dusty trails.
The smell and noise and atmosphere that go with the Louth races,
On the claypans, in the West of New South Wales.

Tell them of the winter afternoons of Rugby in the west,
Put all the Bourke Rams victories on show.
Will you revel in the memory of how your boys stood the test,
Will you take that part with you when you go?

To you a lengthy yarn with a wealthy station Boss,
Or a beer with his men are just the same.
For you have the understanding to assimilate across,
Those petty boundaries, such as rank and name.

You’re the closest thing that Bourke will get to real nobility,
SIR Edward is the title that you earn.
For making normal people special is your true ability,
And will hold you in good stead for your return.

So you take all those other memories, anything you care to name,
All the favourite Bush places that you know.
Edward Scott will soon return to the Country whence he came,
But SIR Edward will live on here when you go.

©Andrew Hull

The Old Soldier

Introduction

You won’t have any trouble believing that this poem was written about someone close. It remains an issue close to Ron’s heart that a man (like thousands of others) gave his youth for this country, only to be a misunderstood in their old age. The war was hard enough to fight at the age of nineteen, let alone in their seventies. I have seen this poem recited to an Anzac day audience of over three hundred and there was not a dry eye to be found.

Bush poetry by Ronnie Wilson

It’s Tuesday the Third of March, Nineteen Hundred and Ninety Eight,
An old soldier died this morning, fifty-three years too late.
And the nurses in the nursing home hated to be near him,
‘Cause he’d spit and curse and fume, and cause a mighty din.
And the doctors were glad to see him go, he was dangerous in their eyes,
He’d knocked one out with a single blow, and he was twice his size.
And when he’d snarled at visitors, and spooked the other old folks,
They took away his privileges, his magazines and his smokes.
And they lectured him on manners, and called him a disgrace,
When at night he woke from screaming, lathered in sweat, pale faced.

An old soldier died this morning, fifty three years too late,
But the nursing home’s not mourning, for the latest turn of fate.
And the doctor chatting to the pretty nurse, has something else in mind,
Cause soon he’ll be on the golf course, with others of his kind.
And from cross the road, the wind will bring the sound of children’s laughter,
And in the tree’s the birds will sing, and will forever after.
The day goes on and before very long, the passing might never have been,
No lasting sorrow nor mournful song, for nasty old men it seems.
So go and put him in the ground and mind you bury him deep,
That way we won’t hear the sound, of him screaming in his sleep.

An old soldier died this morning, fifty three years too late,
With no regrets in going, nor pity at his fate.
But what cruel trick life gave him, and who designed the law,
That would slip his mind back in time, and make him relive the war.
Back to the tropical jungles, with sweat and mud and rain,
Back to the yellow terror he visits again and again.
Where the very land around him is trying to kill him as well,
With the crocs and snakes and malaria he lives in living hell.
It’s no wonder he was cranky in his final golden years,
When he heard the screams of the dying in his nightly sleeping ears.

An old soldier died this morning, fifty three years too late,
His mind went back to war in ninety-seven and ninety-eight.
And the sight of the gardener pruning in bushes on bended knee,
Was to him the enemy sneaking, as plain as plain could be.
And when the Docs came to get him he caused such trouble and strife,
But little did they realise he was fighting for his life.
And so he suffered daily at the hands of a hidden foe,
Hunted and haunted nightly by fears we’ll never know.
Why now so many years later should he fight all over again?
When surely he has already fought, more than most other men.

An old soldier died this morning, fifty three years too late,
He spent three years in Changi, Weary Dunlop was his mate.
And the Burma Rail was built with blood of men that he called mates,
And all of those men and most of his sight was lost behind Changi’s gates.
And though he lived over fifty years past the end of that terrible place,
That a part of him had died there was written on his face.
And fifty years of silence had its own nasty price,
Because in one single lifetime he had to live it twice.
Rest in Peace now old soldier you have deserved it yet,
And may the rest of us remember, Lest We Forget.

© Ron Wilson

My Expensive Education

Bush Poetry by Andrew Hull

He was making a lot of noise ,
In the bar of the hotel Federation..
He was telling every one,
About his fancy education.

He had diplomas and degrees,
From business to guitar strumming.
But the most useful lesson he had learnt,
Was how to spot a sucker coming.

He then produced some fancy papers,
Just to prove that he was smart.
They said that he was a genius,
And a patron of the arts.

But (he said) all his education,
Hadn’t helped him for a day.
Like the ability to spot a sucker,
From a mile away.

And I must say I was jealous,
Because I’d never been to school.
And almost everyone in town,
Considered me a fool.

But this bloke came right up to me,
And he said I looked deflated.
He could tell straight away,
I’d never been educated.

When he asked if we could talk alone,
I was a little apprehensive.
But he was only explaining,
How an education was expensive.

And he said he felt sorry for me,
In my brainless situation.
And he said that for a small price,
I could have his education.

It was the chance I had been dreaming of,
I couldn’t believe my luck.
So I bought his education off him
For seven thousand bucks.

So now I’ve got all his brains,
And all he’s got today, 
Is the ability to spot a sucker,
From a mile away.

© Andrew Hull

Love Potion

Introduction

Ever wondered what the secret ingredient to love is? We’re not even sure if this is a poem or a recipe but if you get the quantities correct, it’s a sure winner. What do you mean you didn’t think we were romantic? We’re bloody poets aren’t we?

Bush poetry by Ronnie Wilson

Take your newest lover,
And weave an ancient spell.
Add a dash of laughter,
And stir the cauldron well.

Just keep the steam arising,
But don’t boil the magic brew.
Then add a touch of seasoning,
From past lovers that you knew.

Careful now, a pinch of hope,
And of future, add the most.
Then put in an escape rope,
And secure it to a post.

Then thicken with forgiveness,
Don’t be scared to spill the lot.
And skim off any weakness,
Then make it boiling hot.

Put in a touch of anger,
And a tear you’ll find’s a must.
Add just a hint of danger,
Then fill it up with lust.

Well there you are you’re ready to serve,
But just remember this.
You must never ever lose your nerve,
And always garnish with a kiss.

© Ron Wilson

What’s The Story

Introduction

Henry Lawson said that ‘if you know Bourke, you know Australia.’ But you don’t have to believe him, he was a bit of a trouble starter and a drunk. (Two perfectly admirable qualities) Come and have a look for yourself.

Bush poetry by Andrew Hull

The sharpest of the media
Felt stirring’s in the breeze.
And experienced reporters,
Had a grumble of unease.

Somewhere, there was a story,
That was about to break.
The likes of which was liable,
To make the news world shake.

And as necessity,
Is the mother of invention,
Reporters began searching,
For a focus of attention.

They looked in all the usual places,
Stories tend to lurk.
Till finally a shrewd one,
Lucked upon the town of Bourke.

The Deputy Prime Minister,
Had recently been west.
But that wasn’t a big story,
A brief article at best.

Then the Prime minister himself,
Had paid a special call.
Which sounded the alarm bells,
For journo’s one and all.

But what was the story?
What was it they all knew?
In the media, anxiety,
And speculation grew.

Till it got to breaking point,
And producers went berserk.
And then the story broke,
The Queen was going to visit Bourke.

QUEEN TO VISIT BOURKE.
Read the next days morning news,
With monarchists and republicans,
Each offering their own views.

But why is she going to Bourke?
Asked the reporters who had nouse.
There’s no Bourke harbour bridge,
There’s no Bourke opera house.

They have no real celebrities,
And no real millionaires.
I don’t think even Tom and Nicole
Have bought a place out there.

They say it’s marvelous to hear
The poet ‘Hully” speak.
But couldn’t we just fly him,
Down to Sydney for the week?

And ‘The Bourke Two Thousand Olympics’?
No, that just doesn’t work.
Why come to Australia
Just to visit Bourke?

The answer to these questions,
Won’t be written anywhere.
You won’t see it on the news,
Or on A Current Affair.

You’ll see it on a sun-baked claypan,
On a summers day.
When ancient dust and heat shimmer,
Wash the horizon away.

And when it storms you won’t see it,
If you huddle and complain.
You will if you bare your chest,
And turn your face up to the rain

Or in an outback evening,
You can’t find in clubs and bars.
And when the fire dies,
You just try and count the stars.

And if you want your heart to soar,
Forget your cheap romance.
Watch aboriginal children,
Perform traditional dance.

And if by chance you don’t see then,
Just why the queen would come.
Then sit down by the river,
And breathe the breath of river gum.

You’ll have your answer then,
But not the words to write it down.
You don’t come to Australia to see Bourke,
It’s the other way around.

© Andrew Hull

Mouse Poo

Introduction

There is nothing more frustrating to a wife than finding mouse pooh in her house and it usually results in a full scale, fully equipped expedition to seek and destroy the rodent. Women should understand that they may be initiating a chain of events over which they have no control.

Bush poetry by Andrew Hull

All night a noisy little mouse was keeping me awake,
With that irritating little squeaky scratchy noise they make.
And then at breakfast time there was mouse pooh on my flakes,
And at lunchtime there was mouse pooh on my chocolate cake.

“I’ll snare him”, I decided, “when he finishes his nap”.
And I used a bit of cheese with a drop of mango sap.
Then I set the apparatus just outside his little flap,
But he just ate the cheese, and left mouse pooh on the trap !

My best friend had a cat, which was supposed to be well bred,
“I’ll mind him while you go away”, I innocently said.
Now I hate cats, but I promised that I’d keep him brushed and fed.
But when I woke in the morning there was cat pooh on my bed !

He had squatted there beside me while I was in repose, 
I decided I must kill him with a string of violent blows.
But as I snuck up on him, I felt cat pooh ‘tween my toes.
I lunged at him and missed, hit the chair and broke my nose.

I whispered “that’s the last time that this cat has tempted fate”.
But the only way to trap him would require juicy bait.
So I got a tin of sardines and put them on a plate,
Then sat it in the laundry, and found a spot to wait.

Then I saw the windows, the cat had torn up all my screens,
I raced back to get dressed and there was cat pooh on my jeans.
The mouse was still alive, ‘cause there was mouse pooh at the scene,
And on returning to the laundry, the cat had eaten the sardines !

I could see I’d need assistance or I would surely lose.
My house was torn to pieces and was covered in cat poohs,
My nose was surely broken and my face a purple bruise,
And when I left I was not shocked to find cat pooh in my shoes.

So I got a dog. A Doberman. A very vicious breed.
He’d been locked up for weeks and he hadn’t had a feed,
He was guaranteed to catch a cat if ever he was freed.
So I put him in the yard and I let him off his lead.

I went to sleep and left the dog to do what he must do,
And slept soundly in the knowledge that the cat would soon be through.
When I awoke and went outside to greet the day anew, 
I stepped off the porch and straight into a steaming pile of pooh !

The way the dog had left the yard was an absolute disgrace.
There were little piles of pooh scattered all over the place.
I yelled obscenities at the dog and rapidly gave chase.
While my neighbor looked across the fence, a frown apon his face.

“Don’t you hurt that dog” he said “Or I will make you pay”.
“I know you plan to keep him locked up in the yard all day”
“I’ve placed a call to an officer from the R.S.P.C.A”,
“And when they see your place I’m sure that they’ll put you away.”

“Oh No”, I said, “there’s no need for anything like that”
“I was only trying to catch him for his morning pat.
I love my little puppy dog, and my pussycat,
I even have a little mouse that sleeps apon my mat.”

My neighbor didn’t trust me as I saw him take my name.
I was furious with the animals that I would get the blame.
Then after a few drinks I thought ‘to beat them at their game’,
‘These animals behavior must be rewarded with the same.

A drunken madness took me in the darkness of that room.
And I formed a twisted plan as I drank all afternoon.
“I must fight fire with fire” I vowed apon the rising moon.
Then I ate a block of chocolate and a family bag of prunes.

In the morning I got the animals food and set it on a plate,
Then I took my trousers down and squatted on their food to wait.
I gave them all a call and then began to defecate.
Then the officer from the R.S.P.C.A walked through the gate.

The magistrate was a cat lover, with a sense of humour too,
He gave me a council uniform and a brand new job to do.
I now work with the large animals at the local zoo.
I don’t have to feed or wash them, I just clean up their pooh.

© Andrew Hull

The Bushman

Introduction

Long have the legends of Clancy, and Snowy River dominated bush culture. The reality is, that that sort of courage has been and is faced every day by all types of Australians.

 

On a warm and dusty morning at a campsite west of Bourke,
Two bushmen caught their horses and set about their work.
They only spoke as needed, and then, only just enough,
To see the job completed, or an occasional nervous laugh.

For today they’d drove a long dry stretch, to the next known watering spot,
But the mob in tow was barely alive, and the track so dusty and hot.
And if the hole they sought was also dry, it was more than the mob they’d lose.
But to stay here meant they’d certainly die, so the track was easy to choose.

On a wet and misty morning at a hide out south of Bourke,
Two bushmen caught their horses and set about their work.
They only spoke as needed, and then, only just enough,
To see the job completed, or an occasional nervous laugh.

For today they’d ride against the law, their children for to feed.
With a life of hunger still in store, they’d steal for want and need.
And if today a traps bullet finds, the Bushrangers mortal end.
The only regret they’ll have in dying, is leaving their wives to fend

On a cold and frosty morning in the ranges East of Bourke,
Two bushmen caught their horses and set about their work.
They only spoke as needed, and then, only just enough,
To see the job completed, or an occasional nervous laugh.

For today they’d cross a rivers flood and a snowy mountain peak.
Cold and wet and covered in mud their horses sore and weak.
To fetch the doc and bring him back, their mother was gravely ill.
No time to take the normal track when an hour could easily kill.

On a calm and peaceful morning at a war, long way from Bourke,
Two bushmen caught their horses and set about their work.
They only spoke as needed, and then, only just enough,
To see the job completed, or an occasional nervous laugh.

They checked the straps and ammo, and memorized the plan.
Then swore allegiance to each other, and vowed to make a stand.
They sprung lightly to the saddle to face this life’s last test.
Then charged the machine guns rattle, “Light Horsemen” at their best.

On any dawn of any morn on any track from Bourke,
The bushmen catch their horses and continue with their work.
And they’ll always be there as needed till their hearts of gold all spent,
Find its time to meet their maker and pay their final rent.

The Human Gaff

Poem Introduction

The fisherman will already know that a ‘gaff’ is a large hook on a pole which you use for landing fish. A friend of ours lost his arm in an industrial accident. Ron thought this was a boring way of losing a limb and certainly not worth the trouble, so he decided to embellish a bit, not being the sort of bloke to let the truth get in the way of a good yarn

Bush Poetry by Ronnie Wilson

Fishermen closely guard from inspections,
All the secrets on which he relies.
Being vaguely loose with directions,
And the colours of his lures and flies.

But to tell this tale now before me,
For sole purpose of raising a laugh.
With tradition I’ll just have to break free,
In the tale of “The Human Gaff”.

See me and Chris, we call him C”J”,
Had a unique way of landing our cod.
We’d first catch them in the normal way,
Then bring them to the boat with the rod.

But we never had the usual “gaff” or “net”,
To pull the fish up into the boat.
Still we managed and hardly ever got wet,
By ripping them out by the throat.

See when you lift a fish’s head from water,
He has no choice but to open his gob.
And hanging back near his aorta,
Is this dirty big red dangly job.

Now it takes most of the arm just to reach it,
And all of your strength to hold once you do.
Cause the fish don’t like cold fingers one bit,
And generally try pretty hard to shoot through.

Well for years we were kings of the weir pool,
Catching cod by the tonsils at will.
And apart from being covered in fish drool,
Chris really perfected the skill.

But our method backfired on one tragic day.
And Chris, he now has an arm missing/
The tragedy befell us during a coastal holiday.
Were we tried our luck at “Shark Fishing”.

I’ll go no further with details all bloody and gory,
‘Cept that the day finished on a happier note.
Cause once the snapper got a whiff of that burly,
We set a new catch record for our boat.

And now Chris he is happier than ever,
With a new bionic arm and a steel hook for a hand.
And he thinks them city docs were so very clever,
To give him a gaff for the fish that we land.

© Ron Wilson

The Corruption of a Bushman

Introduction

What happens when you take a perfectly good bushman away from familiar surroundings, and introduce him to a world he has never seen? 

He was a bushy when I met him,
There’s no denying that.
From his long unshaven bushy beard
To the sweat on his bushy hat.

He came out to Bourke from the coastal scrub,
Where he’d lived in an old bush shack.
He had a Holden ute, three or four dogs,
His swag and the clothes on his back.

The paddock where he did his day’s work,
Is where he’d make his bed.
And if he managed to catch a wild pig in the night,
Then he and his dogs would get fed.

But he was happy the way his life was then,
With the campfire and the billy of tea.
And if you asked him would he live in a town,
He’d just say “nar mate, not me.”

He had no need for modern things,
He scorned the ‘townies’ life.
He swore he’d never change, and he never did,
Until one day he took a wife.

He married Debbie in by the sea
Then brought her straight back out to Bourke.
Their honeymoon night’s they slept in a swag,
And their honeymoon day’s they both worked.

But women are more sensitive,
They need more than their daily bread.
So Debbie longed for a kitchen,
And dreamt of a roof over her head.
When he finally agreed to buy her a house,
She thought it was her finest hour.
But the house that he bought her was miles from town,
With no running water or power.

They chopped wood in the winter to fight off the cold,
And their summers where hot as sin.
But I think that when the power came on,
Is when the first rot set in.

Because Ron was skeptical at first,
This electricity didn’t seem right.
And for a while, he’d make the sign of the cross
Whenever Debbie would switch on the light.

So he still wouldn’t use the kettle,
He preferred a billy of tea.
And if you asked would he live a townies life,
He’d just say “nar mate, not me.”

But it gradually grew on him (as things do)
And he soon developed a reliance.
And in true bushy spirit, he was not content
‘Til he’d mastered every appliance.

Now when I say ‘every appliance’,
It was EVERY appliance he craved.
From Kettles, toasters, and Mixmaster’s,
To dishwashers and microwaves

The T.V and stereo he treasured, of course,
He worshiped his video games.
He had all extras a man could want,
And he referred to them all by name.

The bush lore began to fade from his mind,
Convenience became his new tutor.
But all this paled in comparison
When he finally discovered the computer.

He was absolutely astounded, mesmerised,
That such a small box could be so vast,
And this bushy who’d never believed in much,
Thought he’d found his one true God at last.

He had found new meaning, his life was complete,
He had his phone and his Microsoft mouse.
And with his computer and his other gadgets
He need never leave the house.

He had the T.V for news, the video for fun,
The climate was whatever he set.
The microwave meals were delicious
And he had friends on the Internet

His old mates would call for a cup of tea
He never knew they’d been.
He’d just mumble ‘“nar mate, not me.”
But his eyes never left the screen.

And that’s how he was, Lord of all he surveyed,
He was every appliances master.
‘Til one dark stormy night, he was alone in the house,
Unaware of the looming disaster.

The heating was perfect, the coffee was brewing,
As into the console he sank.
And then a wild electrical storm reached the house,
The lights died and the screen went blank.

The heater switched off, the dishwasher stopped,
The percolator refused to bubble.
Every switch that he threw, every button, all failed,
He knew he was getting in trouble.

Don’t panic, he thought, it’s just a brief lapse,
As he tried every trick that he knew.
But the darkness got thicker, and the fear gripped his throat,
Without power, what would he do?

His brain was overloading with stress,
His memory was coming in snatches,
And as he fumbled around like a child in the dark,
His hands found – a box of matches.

It took three or four goes to get one to light
But that match lit a long felt desire,
At the end of his sanity, his instincts shone through,
This bushy needed a fire.

It’s surprising how well a dishwasher burns
If you give the thing enough heat.
The toaster and kettle fired up well enough,
But lighting the fridge was a feat.

The microwave, T.V and vacuum cleaner
All found their way to the pyre.
And there was a maniacal gleam in his eye
As he threw on the washer and dryer.

He franticly gathered every appliance
And burnt them without any shame.
His half-crazed eyes never even blinked
As his computer burst into flames.

His cellular phone got the very last job,
Before it too got axed.
He called up the electricity board,
And screamed “you can all get faxed!”

And that was the end, the bushy returned,
He fired up his old ute.
He loaded the wife, the swag and the hat,
And a couple of good dogs to boot.

And he drove away from the smoldering mess
Of the monster he once used to be.
There’s just ashes there now and a single white cross
With three letters, R.I.P.

Now he’s happy again round the campfire at night,
With some mates and a billy of tea.
And when they ask could he live a townie’s life,
He just says “nar mate, not me.”

Remember Us

Introduction

Saying goodbye to friends is harder than saying goodbye to family. You are usually glad to see your families go and you know they’ll always be in touch. With a friend it often means a long parting with few exchanges in between.

Bush Poetry by Andrew Hull

When you’re laughing with the new friends that you make.
And you draw the similarities to here.
Make all your old friends the first memories you take,
And always the first people that you trust.
Then if you shed a happy tear,
Remember us.

Remember us
By the river, in the starlight and the sun.
The special places you have known a while.
The images of these places will all merge into one,
And if you can’t recall one day, don’t fuss.
Because when they make you smile,
Remember us

Remember us
Who’ve been to you a family, of a kind,
Complete with bad times as well as good.
Retain all the good times freshly in your mind,
And leave all the bad ones out to rust.
Then when you think you should,
Remember us.

© Andrew Hull

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