ABPA — The Australian Bush Poets Association Inc.

A Faithful Fergie

© Laurie Warfe

Winner, 2025 Corryong Larrikin (Humorous) Award, Man from Snowy River Festival, Corryong, Victoria.

The morning sun had just come up, the dew was on the hay;
old Macca and his trusty dog went out to start the day.
He’d only got in half the bales so planned to get the rest;
he hoped to have it sorted out by morning tea at best.

The shed door screeched and opened wide, and at the shed’s far end,
his Fergie waited patiently - a loyal, faithful friend.
Mounting up, he turned the key, she creaked and groaned aloud;
then coughed and whined and caught at last and belched a blackened cloud.

Old Macca loved the ancient beast, he’d known her all his life;
the two were mates and worked the farm as one - like man and wife.
They’d battled through the toughest times, drought, storm and burning heat;
and all the years the Fergie worked, she never missed a beat.

The gear stick crunched then rattled in, persuaded by a thump;
as if being kicked, the old machine hopped forward with a jump.
Then when the dog had leapt aboard, and firmly told to stay,
the close-knit trio shambled off to start the working day.

Old Macca loved the farming life, was plain for all to see;
“Livin’ the dream,” he told himself, “where would you rather be?”
His life’s ideal was only this, a blueprint tried and true:
just sitting on the Fergie’s seat with farming work to do.

He headed for the lower yard in early morning’s sun;
the Fergie chugged and rattled on, as she had always done.
As Macca struck a huge wide grin and stroked his tractor mate;
he hummed a favourite country song and blessed his lucky fate.

He slowed as he approached the gate and pulled the throttle back,
and readied for his well-planned move - he’d taught himself the knack.
He firmly told his dog to stay, a second more to wait,
then jumped down as the tractor rolled towards the bolted gate.

He ran ahead, released the pin and swung the gate out wide -
the Fergie chugged her way right through, much to her owner’s pride.
The gateway cleared, he shut the gate, the job was now complete;
old Macca ran to then catch up and jump back in the seat.

He’d done the trick a hundred times, and needed no one’s hand,
but this time Macca’s well-timed feat did not go quite as planned.
For as he ran, he tripped and fell - his dicky knee had gone,
and with the dog still on the seat, the Fergie travelled on.

Old Macca groaned then cursed out loud, while in the mud he lay;
the tractor with the dog on board continued on its way.
As tears ran free down Macca’s cheeks, a distant brief view showed -
the wayward Fergie rambling on towards the boundary road.

The tractor disappeared from sight, a long way to the west;
the last that Macca saw of it was when it cleared the crest.
He slowly pulled himself erect and rubbed his troubled dome;
he gave a shrug, then heaved a sigh and limped away t’ward home.

Now, in the pub that Friday night, the crowd had filled the bar,
to tell and hear the latest tales from places near and far.
The local blokes swapped many yarns explaining what transpired;
and all were expert raconteurs with skills to be admired.

“I hear Macca’s lost his tractor boys,” said Joe beside the bar,
“He loved it like an only son, it’s something quite bizarre.
They say he has a way with it - as close as two old chums;
I’m told that when he whistles it, that bloody tractor comes!”

“Can beat that cold,” old Tom then said, and took a quaff of brew;
“I swear by mother’s sacred soul it’s absolutely true.
While down by his place yesterday - I know it sounds unreal -
I saw his tractor cross the road, his dog behind the wheel!”

“Well, I believe it,” Mick piped up, and scratched his weathered face;
“Old Macca found him as a pup way up near Wilson’s place.
He must be dingo-kelpie cross - their training is an art;
they’ll bite the hand that feeds ’em but, by God, those dogs are smart.”

“He’s not so smart,” said one-eyed Jack, “regarding traffic code-
I saw him cruise past Johnno’s pub - the wrong side of the road!
And when he headed out of town, he kept on Mitchell’s Lane;
he should have known the road’s a mess since last week’s heavy rain!”

“But anyhow, the dog got home - he loped in late last night;
he was tired, wet and hungry, the tractor not in sight.
But Macca wasn’t much concerned, though still out on the track,
his precious Fergie would return – she knew her own way back”.

“Some tractors always head for home, it’s instinct, so they say;
She knows the local tracks so well, she’s sure to find her way.
So, the farm gate’s not been bolted, the shed door’s open wide,
Macca’s whistling for his Fergie to come back to his side!”


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