Gary Fogarty

There’s a hut near Monogorilby, out amongst the bull-oak stand,
That for years has stood neglected, now it rots there in the sand.
With its solitude unbroken, ’cept for those who come by chance,
And the timid bushland creatures, who just add to its romance.

The dawn’s light paints the shadows like a master artist’s stroke,
As the mist on winter mornings drifts away like campfire smoke.
While the magpie’s early calling, drowns the echoes of the past,
Around the remnants of this bushman’s hut, history’s shroud is cast.

The roof is sagged and rotting, and the chimney’s all askew,
The doorway stands unguarded and the wind just whistles through.
The rough hand-hewn timber speaks aloud to those who know,
The foundations of our nation are standing here on show.

And while learned scholars rave aloud about the great “Bush Myth”,
They denigrate the memory of our world-renowned wordsmiths.
In their marbled halls of learning, in an academic bliss,
Dispensing words of wisdom, while the truth they squarely miss.

Well they’re entitled to their theories and they’re entitled to their say,
But they should not have the mandate to lead our youth astray.
As they mourn our lack of culture, ’cause it does not suit their style,
And ignore the bush that bore us, and ignore the bushman’s guile.

For despite their lofty intellect, despite their learned ways,
They miss true understanding of the bush and all her ways.
And despite their push for progress and for true ideals that last,
They gaze in blinding ignorance, at the lessons of the past.

But life’s a better teacher, than the best of public schools,
And those who learn her lessons will not be labelled fools.
They protest this desecration with a brush or with a pen,
So that truth shall not be altered, not least by learned men.

For the bush gave us spirit, and forged a nation’s soul,
It gave to us a vision, and set for us a goal.
That everyone should have fair chance, that all should give their best,
No matter dressed in dungarees, or tailored suit and vest.

For in that hut near Monogorilby, out amongst that bull-oak stand,
There’s a monument for all of us, now rotting in the sand.
And I’ll keep its presence guarded, ’cept from those who come by chance,
In case they mock the memory, or tarnish the romance.