Best Drovers Poems
Excitement filled the bushland as December was near
Every creature had been waiting for Christmas time - all year.
Wallabies hung their stockings on a gumtree branch with care
Just as all nice children do – everywhere.
Meanwhile those more up to date logged on the internet
sending E mails to Santa to see what they could get
Koalas draped high treetops with shiny garlands green
And furry possums lined their dens in golden glitter sheen
Wallabies joined in with bright balloons hung on their tails
All the crows tied streamers, cascading from the rails.
Kookaburras’ laughter changed to Christmas songs
While magpies and peewees piped along in throngs.
A wombat and a bandicoot made honeysuckle punch
The parrots came too early and drank’ til they got drunk
And when the’ Magic Pudding’ came to help with Christmas Dinner
His taste was so delicious he left a trifle thinner.
With a Kangaroo as Santa, his pouch stuffed full of cheer
hopping ‘round the outback in the hottest time of year
Just guess what all the drovers got- lots of ice-cold beer.
Suzanne Delaney
For Children's Christmas Poem Contest for Carol Eastman
Easter Bunnies
Easter bunnys bellies burning ,
From the poison virus mate,
Aussie farmers want him murdered ,
For every blade of grass he takes,
Have you seen a mattry eyed, blind bunny,
A stumbling to and fro,
Have you felt his pain, the stumbling,
Bugs Bunnies‘s STILL gotta go, (today)
Bunny was here in millions,
In our great south land,
Free food for all the nation,
People ate and loved it man,
RSPCA protection for the animals of man,
But not for outlaw Bunnie,
not part of the plan?
2112 arrives, but still they want him dead,
The hungry squatter/farmer,
What about Cane toad’s, uncle Fred,
The Bushmen and the Drovers,
And the Swaggies loved his meat ,
No starvation in Australia,
When we had ol Bunnie sweet.
But he’s gotta go.
Our great depression was a bit easier because we had Bunnys, no one starved when there was no money. Their hides made Army Slouch hats and Akubras. Shouldn't we have free tucker on the hoof, is there something wrong with that!!!
So he is an outlaw Bunnie, like the wild Pigs, but not in the same numbers as of the Kangaroo, who are there in millions, eating much more grass of the Master…Don Johnson
Yes Joe, Bunny was a free feed you didn't have to work, you could wander the country like the swaggies did ...i got some kentucky rabbit in the seventies ...strip of fur on my chicken...
white meat very good tucker, less Waltzing matilda sheep stolen as a result ...but the hungry Squatter stole the bagmans bunny so we ate his sheep...
Bronco Don Johnson and Bally Watson...
Oh they speak of Bally Watson and the Dirran boys don't laugh...
Yet they tell in whispers how his ear was shot in half...
Old Bronco Don had shot him for everyone to see...
Witnesses could not be found though the coppers asked all three...
Bally he bolted, drove fast to get away...
For a bullet had his number, safer up old Mitchell way...
Yes it was in the fifties an old soldier got a win...
Don was locked up for the night for the drunken driving sin...
Don had been to Kokoda and the Middle East war too...
He was quick on the trigger mate and never missed, they knew....
A mob had come to bash him, back in nineteen forty five...
Dons down the stairs a shooting quick, they were glad to be alive...
7 years had come and gone, Bally appeared they say...
Sent word he wanted to see old Don out the Culgoa river way...
Mark John went as backup a rifle in his hand...
Mark did cover the drovers, shoot low was the command...
Bally got no permission was told to stay away...
Just bypass the town is what old Don did say...
So Bally is known throughout the west ...
the earmark worn by him...
The Sheriff really did his best ...
To make his ear hole ring...
When you get a car door slammed on your head ?..
Broken cheek bone!...
You might get tempted to shoot a man dead ...perhaps..... ..Don Johnson
Pickles met a woman in town who complained about him saying she needed a martingale to
keep her head down . (Horsemen and women will know a martingale has a connection to the
bridle to stop a horse jerking up its head sometimes possibly smacking the rider in the
nose. Also it looks better if the horse doesn't do a Giraffe impression .) So pickles
said no missus I said you would need 2 martingales to keep your head down, one just
wouldn't do the trick.
One of the Dirranbandi characters Jack Laughton was heard to utter with a grin , how
would you like that old bat to fart on your last cup of flour?
Aub
Aubrey Gordon Joseph Mc'Govern
by Don Johnson...
he was born in 1895 to a land so different then,
one of three boys born at Brenda station,
near to Hebel up the river near the water on a bend.
though just a child he told me of his life upon the land,
of strange things seen and space ships strange, with
coloured lights so grand.
how he and Walter and the boy had seen it flying past ,
but never went to look for it though it fell with a mighty blast.
he drove the coach for Cobb & co, held six horses by the rein,
these 3 Mc Govern's never married though,
so no Mc Govern's will remain.
he worked on Cubbie station as a station hand
their fences he did mend, delivered mail a sulky
mailman to the squatters he was friend.
no radio on the airwaves then, the news would come by him,
by word of mouth the bush telegraph, bare facts with no garnishing.
one time he was a shearers cook and cooked o'er an open fire.
he was on the rum, maybe seeing things, old Aub. he was no liar.
as he stooped to check the boiling pot he saw the Devil lunge at him.
so he flogged him off used his boiling spuds,
made a goodly campfire dim.
old Aubrey's gone where the old drovers go,
but i sure remember him.
as a story teller i did know,
when i was small and thin. …
When night came, the cattle bedded down
And the night riders making their rounds
Samuel would take a strole to the chuck wagon
And Cookie would hand him his cup of coffee
As he savored it's taste
He'd check with Cookie to see
If his supplies were holding out
Then find ol' Jack crawl aboard and make another round
The nights of stary bliss
Or winds a blowin strong
The drovers were right there
To keep things from going wrong
The rivers they did cross,
Sometimes took their tole
Little Zeke was lucky to be on hand
He threw Luke a lasso and drug him to dry land
Some cattle were lost
Due to the heat
Some they had to nurse maid
If they got snake bit
The prairie dog towns were dangerous grounds
For horses, cattle or cowboys
Their holes were the cause of many a fall
With broken legs you can't ride a saddle
Nights in the bedroll
Days in the saddle
Day after day
They trailed the cattle
"Ain't got no prairie fire worries,"
Bob says to Little Zeke
"Lessen we gits some whar with grass"
And he kicked his horse in the ribs as they entered the pass
A week later they found grass
The cattle were starting to get weak
Samuel called a hault
And all enjoyed the two day break
Renewed the drovers and cattle stepped out refreshed
Two days later the Platt River again came into view.
The leader she began to balk
Samuel put a rope on her and Gabe gave her a whack
As they reached the other side
Some riders topped a ridge
Everyone threw their hats in the air
And holler "Here we is"
Samuel entered the bunkhouse
And to the window he did strole
He looked at the beautiful land
Bowed his head and said "Amen"
Cile Beer
August 17,2010
Through my Magic Window
I see the cowboys on the hill
Trying to convince the cattle
That they have had their fill
"Jist goes ahead un snuff nu blow
Cause ut er a thousan' miles ta go
Bafor youse'll be left un youse own,"
Called out Lester Lowe
"Two thousan' un twenty three a youse long horns
Er in fer a travelin' spell'"
Said Samuel the trail boss as he helped his drovers
Move the drifters to the dell
"This air youse first time,"
He sez to Little Zeke
"Jist keeps um a movin'
Un youse'll be a cowpoke by end a the week.
The first day went fine and Little Zeke did well
The same for day two, day three and four
He breathed a sigh of relief as Bob slapped him on the back
"Youse air uh real cowboy now ma man"
As they rode on
Each day was something like the last
Then the desert dust gave way
To the fresh spring grass
The drovers had to push harder
Trying to keep the herd a moving
When the leader thought she was boss
Samuel and his rope proved that she lost
The front bar of the Criterion is filling up,
It’s after five and the patrons are filing in.
Placed orders echoing off the old timbers
Vying to be heard and adding to the din.
The Grand Old Lady proudly plays host
As she looks out over the muddy Fitzroy.
Thirsty travellers mingle with the regulars,
Escaping the heat with a time worn ploy.
The nubile young bar staff are soon kept busy
As the chaos of orders are shouted out.
Pots and schooners, Bundy Rum and XXXX,
Of their burning thirst there can be no doubt.
The old burnished timber balustrade
though hints at an earlier time of splendor.
An era lost in a more genteel age,
When the old lady was of years more tender.
There’s a Dining Room and spacious Saloon,
Public Bar and upstairs rooms in which to stay.
All retaining their charm of yesteryear,
You can imagine just what they would say.
They’d tell tales of the customers of old,
Of the dusty drovers long on the track.
To the bar to slake a hard earned thirst
Before again mounting up to “get on back”.
Of the bullockies breasting up to the bar
Still cursing that cranky old lead beast.
In language blue they summons the barmaid
And soon settle in for a liquid feast.
Floorboards ringing to the thud of hob nailed boots
As the thirsty stockmen venture into town.
Today their pockets are full of promise,
Tomorrow hangovers they need to drown.
They’d recall long ago warm summer nights
With the polished chandeliers shining bright.
When the silver cutlery was out on display,
And well set tables made for a grand sight.
When gentlemen and ladies on the town
Took pride in appearance to look the part.
When crinoline, whale bone, lace and shift,
Were well placed to land a gentleman’s heart.
And assignations conducted furtively
In consummation of illicit affairs.
All in the rooms overlooking the city,
at the top of those carpeted old stairs.
I’m sure that today’s equivalent games
Are still seen daily by those left in charge.
The same scenes repeated by a new crowd,
The same desires on their faces writ large.
The Ancient Track strides out across the plain,
A trading route five thousand years ago,
A constant presence – sunshine, wind and rain,
Forever onward winds the ancient road.
The Ancient Track strides out across the plain;
Explore with me and tread the track again.
From distant Ivinghoe the drovers came,
Then Roman legions followed in their wake
And Vikings too, the British folk to tame
And pillage, many Saxon towns to take.
The Ancient Track strides out across the plain;
Explore with me and tread the track again.
The Ridgeway path is long and steeped in history,
A legendary corridor through time,
Connecting many sites of myth and mystery
Through varied English pastoral scenes sublime.
The Ancient Track strides out across the plain;
Explore with me and tread the track again.
Observe the new-born lambs on white Horse Hill
As rising skylarks soar and sweetly sing.
The air is fresh, our senses take their fill –
New sights and sounds, a sumptuous taste of Spring.
The Ancient Track strides out across the plain;
Explore with me and tread the track again.
Progressing through five counties on its route,
To ride or jog or walk, all at your leisure.
Free access guarantees each one’s pursuit,
With loyal Friends to care – a lasting treasure.
The Ancient Track strides out across the plain;
Explore with me and tread the track again.
The drovers' hearts were beating fast
When our grueling drive was done.
They'd had their fill of dust and beans,
And the only thing they wanted now,
Was a long, hot bath, and some cow town fun.
They loaded up the holding pens
With bawling, longhorn beef,
Then spurred their horses into town,
To seek out recreation--
And give their lonely hearts relief.
Dark moods and headaches followed
A long and lusty night.
The cattle town was lifeless--
Billy Barnes was taut and mean,
And the Kansas sun was blazing bright.
The boys ducked into the general store
Out of the noon-day sun.
There, Billy saw his heart's desire--
Beneath the glass of the counter,
Lay a blued steel, Colt, handgun.
Against young Tom's wise counsel,
Billy laid his money down.
With the heavy Colt tucked beneath his belt,
And feeling nearly ten feet tall,
He stepped out on the streets of town.
That evening found the bosom friends
In a dimly lit saloon,
Where the cost of rot-gut whisky,
And painted good-time gals
Left them busted much too soon.
Out in the steaming, summer night,
On the cattle town's boardwalk,
Billy's mood was dark and somber--
While Tom McQueen, as usual,
Was full of fun and nonsense talk.
--continued...
He lived in the lighthouse next to the crashing sea
Everyone knew of him, but they’d all leave him be
Down past the cliffs, away from the fishing town
His beauty gone unnoticed, masked by a frown
He never spoke to anyone, wandered into the marketplace
Tweed jacket and chords, the collar turned to hide his face
Every Saturday he would linger towards the cake shop
By the window he would wait, caught a glance and would stop
The town all new why he would stand and stare
Each time she came out to see him, skin so fair
His handsome furrow could not hide his wandering eye
The look went noticed by all those passers by
She’d give him a parcel, he’d smile and whisper in her ear
She appeared confused by him, a look between lust and fear
A small smirk and a quick glance right and left
She looked away, knew he was to commit a theft
This was love, or so it seemed. Harmless and sweet
Two lovers sharing a delicious thing when they would meet
Then the cake shop was not open, shut for the day
Then a man in the pub claimed the girl’s boat was gone from the bay
This went by unnoticed, for shops do often close
Quick to leave, escaping under the gossiping ladies nose
Everyone knew that she went to see the man
Subtle in escape, only she knew her predetermined plan
To that lighthouse no one has been, such a sight
They would ask her when she came to The Drovers that night
She can tell her story for when she finally did come around
But she won’t, as her body was anchored to the oceans ground.
A Horseman
https://www.youtube.com/edit?o=U&video_id=V9rXOdSslKA
Just watching the Magnificent Seven again,
Seen it many times of course,
Yul Brynner and Steve Mc Queen,
Two horsemen a sitting their horses,
When horse and man move as one,
You know, these are men that can ride,
Old drovers could tell in a heartbeat,
Yes it’s a matter of pride,
For when you have lived in the saddle,
And you feel the beat of his heart,
Your horse does carry you gladly,
gets a grip, like your only sweetheart ,
but my friend and I are now parted,
no longer his whinny or sigh,
but I still have his saddle,
just a horseman, a waiting to die.
Don Johnson
NB - familiarity with the pronunciation of the British place names in this poem is essential to comprehend some of the lines - and to ensure the tongue twisting effect in parts.
The Seven Siren Sisters of old Cirencester
Are more infamous now than the lechers of Leicester
While walking with linked arms in Lincoln one day
They saw six sailors sinking pints on the public highway
Their giggles could be heard way down in Biggleswade town
Where the cattle drovers were supping in ye olde Rose & Crown
When one time they rummaged in the markets of Kent
Even they were shocked at the brass they had spent
fourteen shillings had gone and a handful of pence.
nowt left in their purses to furnish the rent
so they came to the notion of trading themselves
for to pay the landlord and put food on their shelves
Soon with all their gay laughter and raucous loud shouts
some curtains at their lodgings were twitching about
and when out were seen tottering many men who were known
to be married to others that lived close by that home
there was such a commotion as wives came scurrying forth
one carried a bucket filled with fresh muck from a horse
A pitched fight then started with brooms and an odd frying pan
until the wives were left standing over each cowering man
while the Seven Siren Sisters of Old Cirencester
sneaked out the back door and ran off to Rochester
never again did they return there to work picking hops
but it wasn't the last time they'd spend too much in the shops
©Rhumour
October 10th 2008
“Go west young man”, the neighbors said; but they wisely stayed at home.
From pianoforte to pianoforte, saloon to saloon, town to town I roam.
Surrounded by Phillistines, “soiled doves”, cowpokes, and dullards,
Gamblers, dealers, dance hall girls, and other assorted drunkards.
If a fellow’s feeling generous, he might leave something in my jar,
Or even offer me a drink of the “good stuff” behind the bar.
I guess my fortune can be made where folks are hot, dry, and thirsty,
Playing sad songs on old pianofortes that are musty, dusty, and rusty.
I grew up playing Beethoven, Chopin, Bach and Wagner.
The only songs these cretins know are all by Stephen Foster.
A gambler in a pink silk shirt once asked for a Franz Lizt tune.
I was so surprised, I fell off my chair, to the amusement of the room.
The “faded rose” smells like a horse, and looks the worse for wear.
But if a few more drovers buy me beers, I probably will not care.
If I should wake up next to her, I won’t know what to say.
But she’ll just pretend to be asleep as I quietly slip away.
Through hazes I might recognize a face; or maybe they all look the same.
But in town’s like Rotgut, last night’s best friend won’t remember your name.
I hope someday, somewhere I’ll find a good pianoforte in tune--
But that’s something I’ll probably never find in a one-street town saloon.
If they don’t happen to catch my name, “Eighty-Eight Fingers” will usually do;
That’s all any of them remembers anyway, after they’ve had a few.
Cattle trucks drive highways now
where drovers once held sway
Heavy rigs of chrome and steel
replaced the horse and dray
Gravel tracks of rich red earth
that rambled near and far
Have disappeared forever
‘neath miles of hot black tar
The billabong by shady gums
stands empty cracked and dry
The thirst of modern farms it seems
lets river systems die
The campfires of the cattle men
that used to dot the plains
No longer flicker in the night
no sign of them remains
Bush ballads sing of sweeping plains
where brumbys still run free
Of wild unharnessed rivers
and clear inviting seas
But brumbys fall as feral pests
the rivers drained and dry
The sea is choked with sewage
where fish and sea grass die
As the romance of the outback
begins to fade away
We learn that progress has a price
we’ve all been forced to pay.
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"