Mounts Tanglefoot and St. Leonard (and CJ Dennis)
Posted: Sat Aug 13, 2011 9:00 pm
I have made mention elsewhere of the clearfell logging that is currently taking place near Toolangi, the former home of CJ Dennis. Of course, logging took place near Toolangi in Dennis' day, but on a much different scale to what is occurring now.
Much of the activity centres on the slopes of two densely forested mountains that stand very close to each other, Mount Tanglefoot and Mount St. Leonard. Rather amazingly, Dennis wrote poems that refer to both of these mountains.
The first poem, 'Mount Tanglefoot', is not so well known. The other, 'An Old Master', is very well known, and remains highly popular to this day.
Here they both are.
Mount Tanglefoot
On Tanglefoot are found no stones
About the forest’s leafy floor,
Save where a dead man’s bleaching bones
Have lain these forty years, or more;
And there’s a cairn lifts, ’mid the trees,
Built patiently by grieving mates
To mark throughout the centuries
The sepulchre of old Bill Bates.
When Tanglefoot lay deep in snow
Where paling-splitters had their shacks
The bullock teams were loth to go
Down to the plains o’er treacherous tracks;
But old Bill Bates, ’gainst all appeals,
Set out one morning with his load,
To fall beneath the wagon’s wheels
And die upon the lonely road.
They found him when for long he’d lain
Half-hidden in a snowdrift there.
But paths were blocked now to the plain;
So, with a half-remembered pray’r,
They laid him in a shallow grave
Beside the track, his sorrowing mates.
“He was a white man,” said Joe Shave -
The funeral rites of old Bill Bates.
Then Jackson said to Peter Brent,
As the last clods above were prest:
“Old Bill deserves a monument;
The wild dogs will not let him rest
Like this. I want, from every man -
Because Bill was a dead straight bloke -
A dinkum promise for my plan.”
And solemnly the vow was spoke.
Then day by day and week by week,
As slow teams sought the higher land,
A great stone from the foothill creek
Each bullocky bore in his hand;
And Peter Brent and Long John Shave
And Jackson and a dozen mates
Piled them all reverent on the grave
In memory of old Bill Bates.
On Tanglefoot were once no stones
Where great trees yearn to rake the skies;
But now, above his bleaching bones,
A great cairn lifts where Bill Bates lies.
And as the team plods up the hill
Men’s hats are raised until this day;
For men remember old Bates still,
Tho’ all his mates are worlds away.
An Old Master
We were cartin' lathes and palin's from the slopes of Mount St. Leonard,
With our axles near the road-bed and the mud as stiff as glue;
And our bullocks weren't precisely what you'd call conditioned nicely,
And meself and Messmate Mitchell had our doubts of gettin' through.
It had rained a tidy skyful in the week before we started,
But our tucker-bag depended on the sellin' of our load;
So we punched 'em on by inches, liftin' 'em across the pinches,
Till we struck the final section of the worst part of the road.
We were just congratulatin' one another on the goin',
When we blundered in a pot-hole right within the sight of goal,
Where the bush-track joins the metal. Mitchell, as he saw her settle,
Justified his reputation at the peril of his soul.
We were in a glue-pot, certain —- red and stiff and most tenacious;
Over naves and over axles —- waggon sittin' on the road.
"'Struth," says I, "they'll never lift her. Take a shot from Hell to shift her.
Nothin' left us but unyoke 'em and sling off the blessed load."
Now, beside our scene of trouble stood a little one-roomed humpy,
Home of an enfeebled party by the name of Dad McGee.
Daddy was, I pause to mention, livin' on an old-age pension
Since he gave up bullock-punchin' at the age of eighty-three.
Startled by our exclamations, Daddy hobbled from the shanty,
Gazin' where the stranded waggon looked like some half-foundered ship.
When the state o' things he spotted, "Looks," he says, "like you was potted,"
And he toddles up to Mitchell. "Here," says he, "gimme that whip."
Well! I've heard of transformations; heard of fellers sort of changin'
In the face of sudden danger or some great emergency;
Heard the like in song and story and in bush traditions hoary,
But I nearly dropped me bundle as I looked at Dad McGee.
While we gazed he seemed to toughen; as his fingers gripped the handle
His old form grew straight and supple, and a light leapt in his eye;
And he stepped around the waggon, not with footsteps weak and laggin',
But with firm, determined bearin', as he flung the whip on high.
Now he swung the leaders over, while the whip-lash snarled and volleyed;
And they answered like one bullock, strainin' to each crack and clout;
But he kept his cursin' under till old Brindle made a blunder;
Then I thought all Hell had hit me, and the master opened out.
And the language! Oh, the language! Seemed to me I must be dreamin';
While the wondrous words and phrases only genius could produce
Roared and rumbled, fast and faster, in the throat of that Old Master —-
Oaths and curses tipped with lightning, cracklin' flames of fierce abuse.
Then we knew the man before us was a Master of our callin';
One of those great lords of language gone for ever from Out-back;
Heroes of an ancient order; men who punched across the border;
Vanished giants of the sixties; puncher-princes of the track.
Now we heard the timbers strainin', heard the waggon's loud complainin',
And the master cried triumphant, as he swung 'em into line,
As they put their shoulders to it, lifted her, and pulled her through it:
"That's the way we useter do it in the days o' sixty-nine!"
Near the foot of Mount St. Leonard lives an old, enfeebled party
Who retired from bullock-punchin' at the age of eighty-three.
If you seek him folk will mention, merely, that he draws the pension;
But to us he looms a Master -- Prince of Punchers, Dad McGee!
Much of the activity centres on the slopes of two densely forested mountains that stand very close to each other, Mount Tanglefoot and Mount St. Leonard. Rather amazingly, Dennis wrote poems that refer to both of these mountains.
The first poem, 'Mount Tanglefoot', is not so well known. The other, 'An Old Master', is very well known, and remains highly popular to this day.
Here they both are.
Mount Tanglefoot
On Tanglefoot are found no stones
About the forest’s leafy floor,
Save where a dead man’s bleaching bones
Have lain these forty years, or more;
And there’s a cairn lifts, ’mid the trees,
Built patiently by grieving mates
To mark throughout the centuries
The sepulchre of old Bill Bates.
When Tanglefoot lay deep in snow
Where paling-splitters had their shacks
The bullock teams were loth to go
Down to the plains o’er treacherous tracks;
But old Bill Bates, ’gainst all appeals,
Set out one morning with his load,
To fall beneath the wagon’s wheels
And die upon the lonely road.
They found him when for long he’d lain
Half-hidden in a snowdrift there.
But paths were blocked now to the plain;
So, with a half-remembered pray’r,
They laid him in a shallow grave
Beside the track, his sorrowing mates.
“He was a white man,” said Joe Shave -
The funeral rites of old Bill Bates.
Then Jackson said to Peter Brent,
As the last clods above were prest:
“Old Bill deserves a monument;
The wild dogs will not let him rest
Like this. I want, from every man -
Because Bill was a dead straight bloke -
A dinkum promise for my plan.”
And solemnly the vow was spoke.
Then day by day and week by week,
As slow teams sought the higher land,
A great stone from the foothill creek
Each bullocky bore in his hand;
And Peter Brent and Long John Shave
And Jackson and a dozen mates
Piled them all reverent on the grave
In memory of old Bill Bates.
On Tanglefoot were once no stones
Where great trees yearn to rake the skies;
But now, above his bleaching bones,
A great cairn lifts where Bill Bates lies.
And as the team plods up the hill
Men’s hats are raised until this day;
For men remember old Bates still,
Tho’ all his mates are worlds away.
An Old Master
We were cartin' lathes and palin's from the slopes of Mount St. Leonard,
With our axles near the road-bed and the mud as stiff as glue;
And our bullocks weren't precisely what you'd call conditioned nicely,
And meself and Messmate Mitchell had our doubts of gettin' through.
It had rained a tidy skyful in the week before we started,
But our tucker-bag depended on the sellin' of our load;
So we punched 'em on by inches, liftin' 'em across the pinches,
Till we struck the final section of the worst part of the road.
We were just congratulatin' one another on the goin',
When we blundered in a pot-hole right within the sight of goal,
Where the bush-track joins the metal. Mitchell, as he saw her settle,
Justified his reputation at the peril of his soul.
We were in a glue-pot, certain —- red and stiff and most tenacious;
Over naves and over axles —- waggon sittin' on the road.
"'Struth," says I, "they'll never lift her. Take a shot from Hell to shift her.
Nothin' left us but unyoke 'em and sling off the blessed load."
Now, beside our scene of trouble stood a little one-roomed humpy,
Home of an enfeebled party by the name of Dad McGee.
Daddy was, I pause to mention, livin' on an old-age pension
Since he gave up bullock-punchin' at the age of eighty-three.
Startled by our exclamations, Daddy hobbled from the shanty,
Gazin' where the stranded waggon looked like some half-foundered ship.
When the state o' things he spotted, "Looks," he says, "like you was potted,"
And he toddles up to Mitchell. "Here," says he, "gimme that whip."
Well! I've heard of transformations; heard of fellers sort of changin'
In the face of sudden danger or some great emergency;
Heard the like in song and story and in bush traditions hoary,
But I nearly dropped me bundle as I looked at Dad McGee.
While we gazed he seemed to toughen; as his fingers gripped the handle
His old form grew straight and supple, and a light leapt in his eye;
And he stepped around the waggon, not with footsteps weak and laggin',
But with firm, determined bearin', as he flung the whip on high.
Now he swung the leaders over, while the whip-lash snarled and volleyed;
And they answered like one bullock, strainin' to each crack and clout;
But he kept his cursin' under till old Brindle made a blunder;
Then I thought all Hell had hit me, and the master opened out.
And the language! Oh, the language! Seemed to me I must be dreamin';
While the wondrous words and phrases only genius could produce
Roared and rumbled, fast and faster, in the throat of that Old Master —-
Oaths and curses tipped with lightning, cracklin' flames of fierce abuse.
Then we knew the man before us was a Master of our callin';
One of those great lords of language gone for ever from Out-back;
Heroes of an ancient order; men who punched across the border;
Vanished giants of the sixties; puncher-princes of the track.
Now we heard the timbers strainin', heard the waggon's loud complainin',
And the master cried triumphant, as he swung 'em into line,
As they put their shoulders to it, lifted her, and pulled her through it:
"That's the way we useter do it in the days o' sixty-nine!"
Near the foot of Mount St. Leonard lives an old, enfeebled party
Who retired from bullock-punchin' at the age of eighty-three.
If you seek him folk will mention, merely, that he draws the pension;
But to us he looms a Master -- Prince of Punchers, Dad McGee!
