The Ringer and the Cleanskin

The True Story A Poem of the time, when as a 16 year old young fellow, and fresh from Blighty I spent 7 years as a Ringer in North Queensland, Australia. A Ringer is the Queensland name for a Stockman or as in the US a Cowboy. In Australia a Cowboy is usually a retired Ringer, they milk the cows for the Homestead, and take care of the garden. I had to spend a year initially working with sheep, to get a rudimentary grip on riding very unsociable horses, and stock sense. When mustering these cleanskins, the name for unbranded stock, one 3 or 4 year old bull sent to the US for the hamburger trade, was worth 5 to 7 weeks of my pay. It was a very profitable excursion for the company that owned the Station. For us young blokes, it was the reason to live. As a property was cleaned out, over a year or two, I would move on to the next one with wild unbranded cattle. The move was easy, because the stations were all connected by radio for hundreds of miles. The one I was on, would talk to others, and recommend me for the job. This particular station the Poem is based on was Dotswood. Where I worked on the Out Station called the Star. It was 75 kilometres from the main station. It is all Army reserve now for the Townsville base. This year the Army had a mishap and burned down the historic Dotswood homestead. The image is the strap used to tie down wild cattle The time had come around again, to the Basin we would go The head of the Star River, where the Burdekin does flow That's where all the cleanskins live, in Lantana choked creek beds Making all the tunnels through, with the big horns on their heads The breed is Shorthorn cattle, that is a joke for sure Some may have a four foot spread, others even more They live out in the gorges, up near Rollingstone The steepest of the gullies, is where they make their home We'll take a mob of coaches, quiet cattle what we call They are needed as a sedative, or we would get none at all Run a wild one in the bunch, and let them settle down After we collect enough, we send them into town Saddling up pack horses, is a job for lots of care Anything we leave behind, will not be found up there It is on the Big Star River, that we have a small iron shed It is mainly used for cooking, not much room for any bed We go out in the early Morn, the coaches left before The older Ringers drive them, can't throw wild ones anymore Us three younger fellows, we have get up and go Head out to the ranges, as the Dawn begins to glow Go in three directions, cover much more ground that way The biggest problem that we face, is on our own we stay If something dastardly occurs, we have to sort it out How can someone help you, if there is no one about The idea is to see them, and give them lots of space Let them walk away real slow, later comes the race Just move around the ridge top, to steer them to the flat When you get them to clear ground, charge on in flat chat Close the gap between you, as quickly as you can Get up close behind them, it is time to be the man When back legs show a sideway swing, jump off and grab the tail Wrap the brush around your hand, let out a woeful wail The head will turn towards you, pull the hind quarter to meet When it gets round near his head, he's bound to lose his feet When he falls you must make sure, he is down on his side Lay down and pull him by the flank, a little time to bide After he has settled, take the bullstrap from your waist Now has come the danger time, to get things done in haste A loop around the back foot, closest to the ground Then round a front, the other back, the tension is profound After he is bound up tight, go look for the mob Make sure that you mark the spot, to tidy up the job While the coaches stand beside him, another touchy time You will have to untie him, and there is no tree to climb Release the strap and drop it, then quickly mount your horse Then back off a fair bit, but not too far of course He should go straight into the mob, he would think safety there Then just ride along behind, there's another two out there There are different types of Ringers, some very much gung ho There are others they are just like me, one strap the way to go The heroes may have two or three, they have a bigger heart After I have one tied up, my get up is torn apart I think back to those early days, how did I survive Behind a one ton clean skin, you sure know you are alive You only get the one mistake, you get no second try I don't know a Ringer made one, because if they did goodbye