Just a poem


New Member
The Bush

by James Lister Cuthbertson

Give us from dawn to dark

Blue of Australian skies,
Let there be none to mark
Whither our pathway lies.

Give us when noontide comes
Rest in the woodland free –
Fragrant breath of the gums,
Cold, sweet scent of the sea.

Give us the wattle’s gold
And the dew-laden air,
And the loveliness bold
Loneliest landscapes wear.

These are the haunts we love,
Glad with enchanted hours,
Bright as the heavens above,
Fresh as the wild bush flowers


Well-Known Member
The Bush

by James Lister Cuthbertson

Give us from dawn to dark

Blue of Australian skies,
Let there be none to mark
Whither our pathway lies.

Give us when noontide comes
Rest in the woodland free –
Fragrant breath of the gums,
Cold, sweet scent of the sea.

Give us the wattle’s gold
And the dew-laden air,
And the loveliness bold
Loneliest landscapes wear.

These are the haunts we love,
Glad with enchanted hours,
Bright as the heavens above,
Fresh as the wild bush flowers

Very good , got any more ?

Thank you Simmo


New Member

The most important bloke, they say, in every drover's crew,
Is any fellow who can cook a roast or decent stew.
But expert cooks have always been a little hard to find,
Which brings, as often is the case, another tale to mind.

We had a job in 'forty-eight, along an outback route,
But didn't take our usual cook, we'd given him the boot!
He'd been with us for several months, but we could not ignore
That every meal was cinder black, or else completely raw!

So we enquired about the place for some experienced cook;
And, luckily, or so we thought, we hadn't far to look.
It wasn't very long before a scruffy fellow came
And said, "I've been a shearer's cook, and Joseph is my name."

Joseph, as we quickly found, and each of us recall,
Was not the cleanest bloke around; he rarely washed at all!
He never wore his boots in camp, his feet were always bare,
Except for several layers of grime to match his filthy hair!

He did the cooking well enough, as far as we could tell,
But everything we ate, it seemed, had similar taste and smell!
The johnnie cakes and brownies, the potatoes and the stew,
All smelt and tasted just the same, as did the billy's brew!

We rarely saw him at his work, for we were on the Track,
And he'd reach camp before us all and, naturally, unpack.
Once preparations were complete, the meal was under way;
So all was cooked when we arrived toward the end of day.

But once our stockman, Davy, was feeling rather off,
He had a stinking headache, and a very nasty cough.
We told him that we'd manage, for him to go ahead,
That's when he saw how Joseph the evening meal prepared!

All the food that Joseph cooked was always shaped the same,
No matter what went into it, or what the food was named.
The dumplings, patties, brownies, they all were carefully pressed
Beneath Joe's armpits, left or right, next to his hairy chest.

And Joseph heavily perspired, he sweated like a pig:
Sweat dripped into his cooking, but he didn't care a fig!
It ran into the billy tea from matted whiskers grey,
And so both drink and cooking tasted just the same each day!

We managed to survive the trip, despite Joe's sweaty food;
But, at the end, we paid him off, we didn't think it rude!
We couldn't find another cook, except the one we'd had;
But cinder black, or cold and raw, now didn't taste so bad!


New Member


Old Jim McGann was a bullock man, he owned a team of five,

A Queensland drought once starved him out on a hungry road to strive.

Without a swag or tuckerbag, with a waggon held by nails,

And a dog to heel, behind the wheel, they walked to New South Wales.

He addressed his cows with lurid vows, using language of renown,

He bust a spoke and lost a yoke outside Wilcannia town.

‘Neath a blazing sky, his throat gone dry, and tired of damper crust,

To lend him cheer, Jim craved a beer to wash away the dust.

But the teamster bloke was stoney broke, the barman’s look was strong,

He needed cash, in a moment rash, sold his bullocks for a song.

Jim drank his liquid bullock team, ‘twas rather strange, I fear,

But sell he did, for a lousy quid, to get a nice cold beer.

He boozed away his team and dray to make his troubles go,

“Goodbye, Lofty, Sailor, Jack, Brindle and Old Snow.”

In a reckless dash, he spent the cash, and the barman’s look turned mean,

“Go pack your gear, get out of here, you’ve drunk yer bloody team!”

Now Jimmy rests in a swaggie’s grave, his bullocks vanished, too.

The whips don’t crack along the track the way they used to do.

Yes, he’s gone to Nick, still dry as a brick, and he’s droving down below

With the ghosts of Lofty, Sailor, Jack, Brindle and Old Snow.


Hi Jeff,
Great, some really good poems there.
Keep them coming if you can.

We have some great friends that live at Bargara,we where there about 1 year ago on our trip to Mackey.
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New Member
my country

My Country
© 1904 Dorothea MacKellar
The love of field and coppice, of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens is running in your veins.
Strong love of grey-blue distance, brown streams and soft, dim skies-
I know but cannot share it, my love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country, a land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges, of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons, I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror- the wide brown land for me!

The stark white ring-barked forests, all tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains, the hot gold hush of noon,
Green tangle of the brushes where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops, and ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country! Her pitiless blue sky,
When, sick at heart, around us we see the cattle die -
But then the grey clouds gather, and we can bless again
The drumming of an army, the steady soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country! Land of the rainbow gold,
For flood and fire and famine she pays us back threefold.
Over the thirsty paddocks, watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness that thickens as we gaze.

An opal-hearted country, a wilful, lavish land -
All you who have not loved her, you will not understand -
Though earth holds many splendours, wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country my homing thoughts will fly


Well-Known Member
The Anzac on the Wall

A poem by Jim Brown

The Anzac on the Wall .

I wandered thru a country town 'cos I had time to spare,
And went into an antique shop to see what was in there.
Old Bikes and pumps and kero lamps, but hidden by it all,
A photo of a soldier boy - an Anzac on the Wall.

"The Anzac have a name?" I asked. The old man answered "No,.
The ones who could have told me mate, have passed on long ago.
The old man kept on talking and, according to his tale,
The photo was unwanted junk bought from a clearance sale.

"I asked around," the old man said, "but no one knows his face,
He's been on that wall twenty years, deserves a better place.
For some one must have loved him so, it seems a shame somehow."
I nodded in agreement and then said, "I'll take him now."

My nameless digger's photo, well it was a sorry sight
A cracked glass pane and a broken frame - I had to make it right
To prise the photo from its frame I took care just in case,
"Cause only sticky paper held the cardboard back in place.

I peeled away the faded screed and much to my surprise,
Two letters and a telegram appeared before my eyes
The first reveals my Anzac's name, and regiment of course
John Mathew Francis Stuart - of Australia's own Light Horse.

This letter written from the front, my interest now was keen
This note was dated August seventh 1917
"Dear Mum, I'm at Khalasa Springs not far from the Red Sea
They say it's in the Bible - looks like Billabong to me.

"My Kathy wrote I'm in her prayers she's still my bride to be
I just cant wait to see you both you're all the world to me
And Mum you'll soon meet Bluey, last month they shipped him out
I told him to call on you when he's up and about."

"That bluey is a larrikin, and we all thought it funny
He lobbed a Turkish hand grenade into the Co's dunny.
I told you how he dragged me wounded in from no man's land
He stopped the bleeding closed the wound with only his bare hand."

"Then he copped it at the front from some stray shrapnel blast
It was my turn to drag him in and I thought he wouldn't last
He woke up in hospital, and nearly lost his mind
Cause out there on the battlefield he'd left one leg behind."

"He's been in a bad way mum, he knows he'll ride no more
Like me he loves a horse's back he was a champ before.
So Please Mum can you take him in, he's been like my brother
Raised in a Queensland orphanage he' s never known a mother."

But Struth, I miss Australia mum, and in my mind each day
I am a mountain cattleman on high plains far away
I'm mustering white-faced cattle, with no camel's hump in sight
And I waltz my Matilda by a campfire every night

I wonder who rides Billy, I heard the pub burnt down
I'll always love you and please say hooroo to all in town".
The second letter I could see was in a lady's hand
An answer to her soldier son there in a foreign land

Her copperplate was perfect, the pages neat and clean
It bore the date November 3rd 1917.
"T'was hard enough to lose your Dad, without you at the war
I'd hoped you would be home by now - each day I miss you more"

"Your Kathy calls around a lot since you have been away
To share with me her hopes and dreams about your wedding day
And Bluey has arrived - and what a godsend he has been
We talked and laughed for days about the things you've done and seen"

"He really is a comfort, and works hard around the farm,
I read the same hope in his eyes that you wont come to harm.
Mc Connell's kids rode Billy, but suddenly that changed
We had a violent lightning storm, and it was really strange."

"Last Wednesday just on midnight, not a single cloud in sight
It raged for several minutes, it gave us all a fright
It really spooked your Billy - and he screamed and bucked and reared
And then he rushed the sliprail fence, which by a foot he cleared"

"They brought him back next afternoon, but something's changed I fear
It's like the day you brought him home, for no one can get near
Remember when you caught him with his black and flowing mane?
Now Horse breakers fear the beast that only you can tame,"

"That's why we need you home son" - then the flow of ink went dry-
This letter was unfinished, and I couldn't work out why.
Until I started reading the letter number three
A yellow telegram delivered news of tragedy

Her son killed in action - oh - what pain that must have been
The Same date as her letter - 3rd November 17
This letter which was never sent, became then one of three
She sealed behind the photo's face - the face she longed to see.

And John's home town's old timers -children when he went to war
Would say no greater cattleman had left the town before.
They knew his widowed mother well - and with respect did tell
How when she lost her only boy she lost her mind as well.

She could not face the awful truth, to strangers she would speak
"My Johnny's at the war you know , he's coming home next week."
They all remembered Bluey he stayed on to the end
A younger man with wooden leg became her closest friend

And he would go and find her when she wandered old and weak
And always softly say "yes dear - John will be home next week."
Then when she died Bluey moved on, to Queensland some did say
I tried to find out where he went, but dont know to this day

And Kathy never wed - a lonely spinster some found odd
She wouldn't set foot in a church - she'd turned her back on God
John's mother left no will I learned on my detective trail
This explains my photo's journey, that clearance sale

So I continued digging cause I wanted to know more
I found John's name with thousands in the records of the war
His last ride proved his courage - a ride you will acclaim
The Light Horse Charge at Beersheba of everlasting fame

That last day in October back in 1917
At 4pm our brave boys fell - that sad fact I did glean
That's when John's life was sacrificed, the record's crystal clear
But 4pm in Beersheba is midnight over here.......

So as John's gallant sprit rose to cross the great divide
Were lightning bolts back home a signal from the other side?
Is that why Billy bolted and went racing as in pain?
Because he'd never feel his master on his back again?
Was it coincidental? same time - same day - same date?

Some proof of numerology, or just a quirk of fate?
I think it's more than that, you know, as I've heard wiser men,
Acknowledge there are many things that go beyond our ken
Where craggy peaks guard secrets neath dark skies torn asunder

Where hoofbeats are companions to the rolling waves of thunder
Where lightning cracks like 303's and ricochets again
Where howling moaning gusts of wind sound just like dying men
Some Mountain cattlemen have sworn on lonely alpine track
They've glimpsed a huge black stallion - Light Horseman on his back.

Yes Sceptics say, it's swirling clouds just forming apparitions
Oh no, my friend you cant dismiss all this as superstition
The desert of Beersheba - or windswept Aussie range
John Stuart rides forever there - Now I dont find that strange.

Now some gaze at this photo, and they often question me
And I tell them a small white lie, and say he's family.
"You must be proud of him." they say - I tell them, one and all,
That's why he takes the pride of place - my Anzac on the Wall.