The Spoken Word in Bush Poetry

[Gary Harding]

Last year at this time I tried to work out the meaning of "friends".

As was remarked to me.. we certainly know how to separate the levels of friendship in our own hearts and minds. After all. they are the ones still hanging in there with us.

I find it useful to reflect on what has been achieved in 2025.
A Major, Major Project has just been finalised. 18 months of solid work.
It is Confidential but I hope to be able to disclose it soon.

Anyway, a big thank you to all those beautiful people who are still along with me for the ride.
I scratched my head to think of something Original and Poetic to serve as a present from me to all Readers.

So ...below is a timely bush ballad... written by myself some years ago.

I hope Readers have enjoyed this year's offerings.

As Henry Lawson said :
Our hearts are filled with kindness and forgiveness sublime,
For no one knows where one may be next merry Christmas time.

Have an excellent Christmas of profound joy and happiness, and then off we go for another fun year of exploring Australia
All aboard.

Gary

A BUSH CHRISTMAS .. by Gary Harding

Peter Casey with his family kept a lonely outback farm.
He would slave from dawn to sunset to survive.
All his darling little children were the jewels of his life,
And their ages ranged from eldest down to five.

Sometimes seasons would be kindly or perhaps his luck was good,
Then when Christmas came they’d decorate the tree.
But this Christmas he was ruined by the drought that baked the land,
So he gathered all his children at his knee.

He explained that Father Christmas might forget to come that year,
For their home was hidden many miles away.
But their faith could not be shaken nor their expectation dimmed.
Peter knew their hearts would break on Christmas Day.

But in keeping with tradition still they put their stockings up,
With a children's silent prayer attached to each.
They would not be filled that evening; Father Christmas couldn't come.
Being poor had put their presents out of reach.

It was shortly after midnight, or it might have been before
When a barking dog meant something was amiss,
But its warning went unheeded for they all were fast asleep,
Tiny heads had been anointed with a kiss.

And though Peter didn't know it he'd a visitor that night
Who had parked his transportation on the rise
And worked silently by moonlight; magic kept them all asleep.
In the morning they were woken in surprise.

For the stockings that were empty now were bulging at the seam,
And the bush-boys mouths were gaping at the sight,
While the maidens felt the stockings just in case it was a dream,
And their happy faces shone in sheer delight!

Peter murmured “Well I never.." as he stared in disbelief.
"How on earth.." he said and rubbed his sleepy chin,
And a host of like expressions that reflected his dismay,
Then his words were lost beneath the merry din.

There were coloured shirts and trousers and some lace-up shoes as well.
There was underwear to see them through till spring.
Little knickknacks that were treasures like a pocket-knife or brooch,
And for each the children found a ball of string!

On the table was a platter that was spread with tucker grand.
Tasty johnny-cakes and pies and fancy stuff.
In the centre was a pudding iced with sugar dipped in jam,
While beside it stood a damper and a duff.

Never yet was there such feasting; not since Christmases began
And that’s really going back for quite a while.
All the wonder that was Christmas weaved enchantment in the bush,
Painting gratitude and rapture in each smile.

Peter scratched his head and puzzled as he tried to find a clue,
For he knew not how this Christmas came to be.
But an instant revelation would have struck him in a trice,
If he'd seen the melting snow beneath his tree.

[Gary Harding]

On March 26th, 2023 I posted here about the artist Jan Scheltema (1861 - 1941). Three other posts also referred to him and his "Bullock Team In The Canungra Forest" painting.

I posted then : "Wouldn't it be something to have one of his original works on your wall at home?", never dreaming that it could ever happen.
However, I am delighted to say that I have made a fortunate acquisition by Jan Scheltema (see below)

An Oil on Board, 48x73cm. Framed.

It shows a resting Bullock Team in the foreground while the bullocky (presumably) has a discussion with a fellow outside a hut or shanty.

Remembering the bullockies for what they did for Australia, and the hard-working beasts too. Enshrining them, as the bush poets did, for future generations. Art culture as well.

The modulated howl of the storm-wind here this evening seems to bear a striking resemblance to the lowing of the bullocks as I post this. Spooky?.. or perhaps not.

This painting really reminds me of Henry Lawson's poem The Shanty On The Rise.

The Shanty On The Rise

When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West,
On a spur among the mountains stood `The Bullock-drivers' Rest';
It was built of bark and saplings, and was rather rough inside,
But 'twas good enough for bushmen in the careless days that died -
Just a quiet little shanty kept by `Something-in-Disguise',
As the bushmen called the landlord of the Shanty on the Rise.

City swells who "do the Royal" would have called the Shanty low,
But 'twas better far and purer than some toney pubs I know;
For the patrons of the Shanty had the principles of men,
And the spieler, if he struck it, wasn't welcome there again.
You could smoke and drink in quiet, yarn, or else soliloquise,
With a decent lot of fellows in the Shanty on the Rise.

'Twas the bullock-driver's haven when his team was on the road,
And the waggon-wheels were groaning as they ploughed beneath the load;
And I mind how weary teamsters struggled on while it was light,
Just to camp within a cooey of the Shanty for the night;
And I think the very bullocks raised their heads and fixed their eyes
On the candle in the window of the Shanty on the Rise.

....... etc

I suppose the Shanty vanished from the ranges long ago,
And the girls are mostly married to the chaps I used to know;
My old chums are in the distance - some have crossed the border-line,
But in fancy still their glasses chink against the rim of mine.
And, upon the very centre of the greenest spot that lies
In my fondest recollection, stands the Shanty on the Rise.

So this is quite a joyful addition. A celebration of this aspect of fabulous Australia.

Something once deemed impossible and out of reach for me has only just become a reality.

And through The Australian Cultural Centre Project, it will be made to benefit all generations of Australians.