Diamantina Drover - Hugh McDonald
The faces in the photograph have faded
And I can't believe he looks so much like me
For it's been ten years today
Since I left for Old Cork Station
Sayin' I won't be back till the drovin's done
For the rain never falls on the dusty Diamantina
And a drover finds it hard to change his mind
For the years have surely gone
Like the drays from Old Cork Sta-ation
And I won't be back till the drovin's done
Well it seems like the sun comes up each mornin'
Sets me up and takes it all away
For the dreaming by the light
Of the camp fire at ni-ight
Ends with the burning by the day
For the rain never falls on the dusty Diamantina
And a drover finds it hard to change his mind
For the years have surely gone
Like the drays from Old Cork Sta-ation
And I won't be back till the drovin's done
Sometimes I think I'll settle back in Sydney
But it's been so long it's hard to change my mind
For the cattle trail goes on and on
And the fences roll forever
And I won't be back till the drovin's done
For the rain never falls on the dusty Diamantina
And a drover finds it hard to change his mind
For the years have surely gone
Like the drays from Old Cork Sta-ation
And I won't be back till the drovin's done
For the rain never falls on the dusty Diamantina
And a drover finds it hard to change his mind
For the years have surely gone
Like the drays from Old Cork Station
And I won't be back till the drovin's done |
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The Spirit of the Land - Hugh McDonald
The rivers are dry across the land and the farmers fields
have turned to sand
'Cause the rain hasn't come for two years going on three
The topsoil's gone with the hot north wind, the crops won't
grow and rust set in
And the cruel south wind of winter brought no relief
And the old men in the public bar talk of floods and
droughts before
And as the night goes on the conversations die
But the battlers don't give up, it's written on their hands
And in their eye-eye-eye-eye-eyes, and the spirit of the
land survives
And on Saturday night in the Royal Hotel, Hank the Dutchman
plays guitar
He sings country and western favourites and requests
It used to be his second job, a bit of a laugh for a couple
of bob
Now it's all he's got 'cause his crops all died from thirst
Then he spent his savings on cattle and sheep, he got some
credit, got in too deep
But stock won't graze on pastures turned to salt
And then he tried to get work as a travelling man selling
Rawleighs products from the back of his van
But the cockies all shop in town where things are cheap
And the old men in the public bar talk of floods and
droughts before
And as the night goes on the conversations die
But the battlers don't give up, it's written on their hands
And in their eye-eye-eye-eye-eyes, and the spirit of the
land survives
The school's all rundown, the roofs rusted and the paint's
peelin'
The playground's just a dustbowl, not a spot of green
The kids still kick their footballs sending dust clouds to
the sun
And it's good to know the drought can't spoil the fun
And in the cricketers lounge late at night where the cockies
talk and the shearers fight
And their wives drink shandies 'cause they'll be dri
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I
Was Only Nineteen - John Schumann
Mum and Dad and Denny saw the passing-out parade at
Puckapunyal
It was a long march from cadets.
The sixth battalion was the next to tour, and it was me who
drew the card.
We did Canungra, Shoalwater before we left.
And Townsville lined the footpaths as we marched down to the
quay
This clipping from the paper shows us young and strong and
clean.
And there's me in my slouch hat with my SLR and greens.
God help me, I was only nineteen.
From Vung Tau, riding Chinooks, to the dust at Nui Dat
I'd been in and out of choppers now for months.
But we made our tents a home, VB and pinups on the lockers
And an Asian orange sunset through the scrub.
And can you tell me, doctor, why I stil can't get to sleep?
And night-time's just a jungle dark and a barking M16?
And what's this rash that comes and goes, can you tell me
what it means?
God help me, I was only ninteen.
A four week operation when each step could mean your last
one on two legs
It was a war within yourself.
But you wouldn't let your mates down til they had you dusted
off
So you closed your eyes and thought about something else.
Then someone yelled out "Contact!" and the bloke behind me
swore
We hooked in there for hours, then a Godalmighty roar
Frankie kicked a mine the day that mankind kicked the moon,
God help me, he was going home in June.
I can still see Frankie, drinking tinnies in the Grand Hotel
On a thirty-six hour rec leave in Vung Tau
And I can still hear Frankie, lying screaming in the jungle
Til the morphine came and killed the bloody row.
And the Anzac legends didn't mention mud and blood and tears
And the stories that my father told me never seemed quite
real.
I caught some pieces in my back that I didn't even feel
God help me, I was only nineteen.
And can you tell me, doctor, why I still can't get to sleep?
And why the Channel Seven chopper chills me to my feet?
And what's this rash that comes and goes, can you tell me
what it means?
God help me, I was only nineteen.
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Faces in the Street - Henry Lawson
They lie, the men who tell us for reasons of their own
That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;
For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet
My window sill is level with the faces in the street –
Drifting past, drifting past,
To the beat of weary feet –
I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.
And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,
To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care;
I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet
In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street
-
Drifting on, drifting on,
To the scrape of restless feet;
I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.
I
wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure
Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor?
Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in
terror beat,
When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street,
The wrong things and the bad things
And the sad things that we meet
In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless
street.
Once I cried: "O God Almighty! if Thy might cloth still
endure,
Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure."
And, lo! with shops all shuttered I saw a city's street,
And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet,
Pouring on, pouring on,
To a drum's loud threatening beat,
And the war hymns and the cheering of the people in the
street.
And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its
course,
The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow
hoarse,
And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat,
And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street –
Coming near, coming near
To a drum’s dull distant beat
Then I saw the army that was matching down the street…
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Sons of the South
Sons of the South awake! arise!
Sons of the South, and do.
Banish from under your bonny skies
Those old-world errors and wrongs and lies.
Making a hell in a Paradise
That belongs to your sons and you.
Sons of the South, make choice between
(Sons of the South, choose true),
The Land of Morn and the Land of E’en,
The Old Dead Tree and the Young Tree Green,
The Land that belongs to the lord and the Queen,
And the Land that belongs to you.
Sons of the South, your time will come —
Sons of the South, ’tis near —
The “Signs of the Times”, in their language dumb,
Foretell it, and ominous whispers hum
Like sullen sounds of a distant drum,
In the ominous atmosphere.
Sons of the South, aroused at last!
Sons of the South are few!
But your ranks grow longer and deeper fast,
And ye shall swell to an army vast,
And free from the wrongs of the North and Past
The land that belongs to you. |
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Scots of the Riverina - Henry Lawson
The boy cleared out to the city from his home at Christmas
time –
They were Scots of the Riverina - and to run from home was a
crime -
And the old man burned his letters, the first and last he
burned …
And he scratched his name from the Bible
When the old girl’s back was turned.
A
year went past, and another, and the fruit went down the
line;
They heard the boy had enlisted, but the old man made no
sign.
His name must never be mentioned on the farm by Gundagai –
They were Scots of the Riverina - with ever the kirk hard
by…
The boy came home on his "final", and the township's bonfire
burned -
His mother's arms were about him, but the old man's back was
turned.
The daughters begged for pardon, till the old man raised his
hand -
A Scot of the Riverina - he was hard to understand….
The boy was killed in Flanders, where the bravest heroes
die,
There were tears at the Grahame homestead, there was grief
in Gundagai;
But the old man ploughed at daybreak and he ploughed and he
ploughed the dirt -
There were furrows of pain in the orchard while his
household went to the church.
The hurricane lamp in the rafters, dimly and dimly burned,
And the old man died at the table when the old girls’ back
was turned.
Face down on his bare arms folded he sank with his wild grey
hair
Outspread o'er the open Bible was a name re written there...
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Do
You Think That I Do Not Know
hey say that I never have written of love,
As a writer of songs should do;
They say that I never could touch the strings
With a touch that is firm and true;
They say I know nothing of women and men
In the fields where Love's roses grow,
And they say I must write with a halting pen
Do you think that I do not know?
When the love-burst came, like an English Spring,
In days when our hair was brown,
And the hem of her skirt was a sacred thing
And her hair was an angel's crown.
The shock when another man touched her arm,
Where the dancers sat round in a row;
The hope and despair, and the false alarm
Do you think that I do not know?
By the arbour lights on the western farms,
You remember the question put,
While you held her warm in your quivering arms
And you trembled from head to foot.
The electric shock from her finger tips,
And the murmuring answer low,
The soft, shy yielding of warm red lips
Do you think that I do not know?
She was buried at Brighton, where Gordon sleeps,
When I was a world away;
And the sad old garden its secret keeps,
For nobody knows to-day.
She left a message for me to read,
Where the wild wide oceans flow;
Do you know how the heart of a man can bleed
Do you think that I do not know?
I stood by the grave where the dead girl lies,
When the sunlit scenes were fair,
And the white clouds high in the autumn skies,
And I answered the message there.
But the haunting words of the dead to me
Shall go wherever I go.
She lives in the Marriage that Might Have Been
Do you think that I do not know?
They sneer or scoff, and they pray or groan,
And the false friend plays his part.
Do you think that the blackguard who drinks alone
Knows aught of a pure girl's heart?
Knows aught of the first pure love of a boy
With his warm young blood aglow,
Knows aught of the thrill of the world-old joy
Do you think that I do not know?
They say that I never have written of love,
They say that my heart is such
That finer feelings are far above;
But a writer may know too much.
There are darkest depths in the brightest nights,
When the clustering stars hang low;
There are things it would break his strong heart to write
Do you think that I do not know? |
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The Sliprails and the Spur
THE
COLOURS of the setting sun
Withdrew across the Western land—
He raised the sliprails, one by one,
And shot them home with trembling hand;
Her brown hands clung—her face grew pale—
Ah! quivering chin and eyes that brim!—
One quick, fierce kiss across the rail,
And, ‘Good-bye, Mary!’ ‘Good-bye, Jim!’
Oh, he rides hard to race the pain
Who rides from love, who rides from home;
But he rides slowly home again,
Whose heart has learnt to love and roam.
A
hand upon the horse’s mane,
And one foot in the stirrup set,
And, stooping back to kiss again,
With ‘Good-bye, Mary! don’t you fret!
When I come back’—he laughed for her—
‘We do not know how soon ’twill be;
I’ll whistle as I round the spur—
You let the sliprails down for me.’
She gasped for sudden loss of hope,
As, with a backward wave to her,
He cantered down the grassy slope
And swiftly round the dark’ning spur.
Black-pencilled panels standing high,
And darkness fading into stars,
And blurring fast against the sky,
A faint white form beside the bars.
And often at the set of sun,
In winter bleak and summer brown,
She’d steal across the little run,
And shyly let the sliprails down.
And listen there when darkness shut
The nearer spur in silence deep;
And when they called her from the hut
Steal home and cry herself to sleep.
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