60 Classic Australian Poems for Children (10 page)

A short time back while over in Vic.

I met with a chap called Post-Hole Mick;

He was a raw-boned, loose-built son of a paddy

And at putting down post-holes he was the daddy.

And wherever you'd meet him, near or far,

He had always his long-handled shovel and bar,

I suppose you all know what I mean by a bar,

It's a lump of wrought-iron the shape of a spar.

With one chisel end for digging the ground

And average weight about twenty pound;

Mick worked for the cockies around Geelong,

For a time they kept him going strong.

He would sink them a hundred holes for a bob,

And, of course, soon worked himself out of a job.

But when post-hole sinking got scarce for Mick,

He greased his brogues and cut his stick.

And one fine day he left Geelong

And took his shovel and bar along.

He took to the track in search of work,

And struck due north, enroute to Bourke.

It seems he had been some time on tramp

When one day he struck a fencers' camp.

The contractor there was wanting a hand,

As post-hole sinkers were in demand.

He showed him the line and put him on,

But while he looked round, shure Mick was gone.

There were the holes, but where was the man?

Then his eye along the line he ran.

He'd already put down about ninety-nine,

And at the rate of a hunt he was running the line.

He had a few sinkers he thought was quick

Till the day he engaged with Post-Hole Mick.

When he finished his contract he started forth,

And it appears kept on his course due north;

For I saw a report in the Croydon Star

Where a fellow had passed with a shovel and bar.

To give you an idea of how he could walk

A day or two later he struck Cape York.

If they can't find him work there putting down holes

I'm afraid he'll arrive at one of the poles.

The Days of Cobb & Co. and other verses
, 1906

The night too quickly passes

And we are growing old,

So let us fill our glasses

And toast the Days of Gold:

When finds of wond'rous treasure

Set all the South ablaze,

And you and I were faithful mates

All through the roarin' days!

Then stately ships came sailing

From ev'ry harbour's mouth,

And sought the land of promise

That beaconed in the South;

Then southward streamed their streamers

And swelled their canvas full

To speed the wildest dreamers

E'er borne in vessel's hull!

And 'neath the sunny dadoes,

Against the lower skies,

The shining Eldoradoes,

Forever would arise;

And all the bush awakened,

Was stirred in wild unrest,

And all the year a human stream

Went pouring to the West.
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The rough bush roads re-echoed

The bar-room's noisy din,

When troops of stalwart horsemen

Dismounted at the inn.

And oft the hearty greetings

And hearty clasp of hands,

Would tell of sudden meetings

Of friends from other lands;

When, puzzled long, the new-chum

Would recognise at last,

Behind a bronzed and bearded skin,

A comrade of the past.

And when the cheery camp-fire

Suffused the bush with gleams,

The camping-grounds were crowded

With caravans of teams;

Then home the jests were driven,

And good old songs were sung,

And choruses were given,

The strength of heart and lung.

Oh, they were lion-hearted

Who gave our country birth!

Oh, they were of the stoutest sons

From all the lands on earth!

Oft when the camps were dreaming,

And fires began to pale,

Then thro' the ranges gleaming

Would come the Royal Mail.

Then, drawn by foaming horses,

And lit by flashing lamps,

Old ‘Cobb and Co.'s,' in Royal State,

Went dashing past the camps.

Oh, who would paint a gold-field,

And limn the scene aright,

As we have often seen it

In early morning's light;

The yellow mounds of mullock

With spots of red and white,

The scattered quartz that glistened

Like diamonds in light;

The azure line of ridges,

The bush of darkest green,

The little homes of calico

That dotted all the scene.

I hear the fall of timber

From distant flats and fells,

The pealing of the anvils

As clear as little bells,

The rattle of the cradle,

The clack of windlass-boles,

The flutter of the crimson flags

Above the golden holes.

Ah, then our hearts were bolder,

And if our fortune frowned

Our swags we'd lightly shoulder

And tramp to other ground.

But golden days are vanished,

And altered is the scene;

The diggings are deserted

The camping-grounds are green.

The flaunting flag of progress

Is in the West unfurled,

The mighty bush with iron rails

Is tethered to the world.

Their shining Eldorado,

Beneath the southern skies,

Was day and night for ever

Before their eager eyes.

The brooding bush, awakened,

Was stirred in wild unrest,

And all the year a human stream

Went pouring to the West.

The Bulletin
(Christmas edition), 1889

'Tis Spring!

Sing Hey!

Birds sing

All day.

In trees

Bees hum—

I' sneeze—

Skatch-Humb!!

I sdeeze.

Bees hub.

Id trees

All day

Birds sig.

Sig Hey! 'Tis Sprig!

The Bulletin
, 1908

‘We'll all be rooned,' said Hanrahan,

In accents most forlorn,

Outside the church, ere Mass began,

One frosty Sunday morn.

The congregation stood about,

Coat-collars to the ears,

And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,

As it had done for years.

‘It's lookin' crook,' said Daniel Croke;

‘Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,

For never since the banks went broke

Has seasons been so bad.'

‘It's dry, all right,' said young O'Neil,

With which astute remark

He squatted down upon his heel

And chewed a piece of bark.

And so around the chorus ran

‘It's keepin' dry, no doubt.'

‘We'll all be rooned,' said Hanrahan,

‘Before the year is out.'

‘The crops are done; ye'll have your work

To save one bag of grain;

From here way out to Back-o'-Bourke

They're singin' out for rain.

‘They're singin' out for rain,' he said,

‘And all the tanks are dry.'

The congregation scratched its head,

And gazed around the sky.

‘There won't be grass, in any case,

Enough to feed an ass;

There's not a blade on Casey's place

As I came down to Mass.'

‘If rain don't come this month,' said Dan,

And cleared his throat to speak—

‘We'll all be rooned,' said Hanrahan,

‘If rain don't come this week.'

A heavy silence seemed to steal

On all at this remark;

And each man squatted on his heel,

And chewed a piece of bark.

‘We want a inch of rain, we do,'

O'Neil observed at last;

But Croke ‘maintained' we wanted two

To put the danger past.

‘If we don't get three inches, man,

Or four to break this drought,

We'll all be rooned,' said Hanrahan,

‘Before the year is out.'

In God's good time down came the rain;

And all the afternoon

On iron roof and window-pane

It drummed a homely tune.

And through the night it pattered still,

And lightsome, gladsome elves

On dripping spout and window-sill

Kept talking to themselves.

It pelted, pelted all day long,

A-singing at its work,

Till every heart took up the song

Way out to Back-o'-Bourke.

And every creek a banker ran,

And dams filled overtop;

‘We'll all be rooned,' said Hanrahan,

‘If this rain doesn't stop.'

And stop it did, in God's good time:

And spring came in to fold

A mantle o'er the hills sublime

Of green and pink and gold.

And days went by on dancing feet,

With harvest-hopes immense,

And laughing eyes beheld the wheat

Nid-nodding o'er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face,

As happy lad and lass

Through grass knee-deep on Casey's place

Went riding down to Mass.

While round the church in clothes genteel

Discoursed the men of mark,

And each man squatted on his heel,

And chewed his piece of bark,

‘There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man,

There will, without a doubt;

We'll all be rooned,' said Hanrahan,

‘Before the year is out.'

Around the Boree Log and other verses
, 1922

In 1911 PJ Hartigan (John O'Brien) purchased his first motor car. He was one of the first curates in NSW to own one. He loved cars. During his life he owned many!

Father O'Brien was once asked by the Albury parish priest to drive him to administer the last rites to a man called Jack Riley.

After receiving the last rites, Father O'Brien recited ‘The Man from Snowy River' not knowing that Riley had told Banjo Paterson about one of his rides, the ride that became Paterson's famous poem.