ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

I recently found this in Dennis O'Keeffe's recently published book about Waltzing Matilda.

What a poem!

More can be found about the author, John Keith McDougall, here:
http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/mcdouga ... keith-7346

I'd never heard of him.


The blacks I slew when I settled there, not far away are sleeping,
And the big gums, o'er their gloomy graves, a sullen watch are keeping.
True, they were victims of British greed and they rot where the ferns are growing,
In the shadow of the lonely hills - by a river ever flowing.
Fierce, wild men of the woods were they and content with their mode of living,
They fought their battles as fierce men do - unforgiven and unforgiving;...

But I am Lord of their country now, though a convict here I landed,
Clad in a suit of Government clothes and shackled and shaved and branded;
And my youngsters carry their noses high and brag of their father's merit,
Though they won't proclaim how I got the land, which they will of course inherit.

But the blacks imagined my land was theirs and they pestered me - parson said rightly -
By spearing my cattle or stealing my sheep or laming my horses nightly;
At last, grown tired of their frequent thefts and their deeds of native daring,
I rode, one day, with my shearers armed, to kill them or give them a scaring.

There were ten of us there, who had all been lagged and feared neither man nor devil,
And we rode to murder that tribe of blacks like we'd ride to a dance or a revel;
I can still remember our wild hurrahs and our blood-hounds' savage baying,
As we galloped abreast in sight of the camp, where the young of the thieves were playing...

Our hot blood leaped and our hearts beat high and we stayed at our headlong riding,
Till we neared a creek where we plainly saw the blacks through the bushes gliding;
And laughed aloud at their frantic looks and their fleet uncertain running,
For we feared their spears and their boomerangs far less than we feared their cunning.

We penned them like sheep in a rocky gorge - there must have been full fifty -
And we shot them and stabbed them as fast as we could for the law was lax and shifty;
And our bloodhounds fought in the fierce melee and assisted to kill and ravage,
Each fixing his fangs with a desperate grip, in the throat of a wounded savage.

A lubra fled with her screaming child, through the line of pitiless rifles,
And I galloped away to kill the two, for the lives to me were trifles;
As my horse strode after the dusky pair, like beasts, I could hear them panting,
But I shot them both as they fell fatigued, beneath a lightwood gently slanting.

Then back to my comrades I rode through the bush, in the light, like a phantom rider,
And I saw that the work of blood was done, as the vista got shorter and wider;
Where I checked my steed they were busy enough in a ring of sable corpses,
Wiping the blood from the gleaming knives and the sweat from their heated horses.

We dug a trench in the golden sand, where the wattles skirted the river,
And we buried the slaughtered side by side and left them to rest forever;
And those were the blacks who had speared my sheep and maimed and destroyed my cattle,
And I reckon we slew them as fair that day as soldiers are slewn in battle.

But...in tortured dreams when I fall asleep, I can hear the lubras weeping,
And spectral blacks through spectral woods are always towards me creeping;
And ever and ever they beckon me on to strange and mysterious places,
Where, in fancy, I see their comrades lie with blood on their ghastly faces.

Like the miserly men who oppress their kind to make heavier still their purses,
I walk through life a detested thing and the mark for a thousand curses;
And, although I feast on ambrosial fare and imbibe my winery nectars,
I'll be hunted down to my grave at last, by horrible shapes and spectres.

I hadn't heard of him either Stephen, but that's a powerful poem he's written.
Robyn

Australian history is full of such stories generally not told - it is powerful writing - were he ( how do we know he was not) the criminal one would think he would be hoisted by his own petard and found guilty of pre meditated murder but somehow I doubt that would have been the case - after all he would have been in the right since he was white.

I rest my case - this is exactly why I empathize with our aboriginal people - what a way to be treated

But I am Lord of their country now, though a convict here I landed,
Clad in a suit of Government clothes and shackled and shaved and branded;
And my youngsters carry their noses high and brag of their father's merit,
Though they won't proclaim how I got the land, which they will of course inherit.

But the blacks imagined my land was theirs and they pestered me

Naive of them - wasn't it?

Thanks for sharing that Stephen - I was also ignorant of this poet - I will now go and find more, I am keeping this one

Cheers

Maureen

Thank you Stephen for a blood chilling but marvellous poem. This morning I was leafing through my copy of Bruce Dawes' book of poetry Sometimes Gladness and re read a poem I had forgotten about "Nemesis" which is his poem concerning the slaughter of the Kalkadoon people in Queensland which is not as good in my opinion as the poem you have posted but nevertheless a revelation.
I know I am at risk of being strongly criticised but I think "the forgotten war" is a very accurate description as it should also be remembered that there were two sides to the story and there were thousands of people killed by the original owners of this land although of course it does not excuse the massacres and horrible crimes committed in retribution.
I recommend an early poem entitled "Lex Talionis" by Francis Myers for another view of the problem.

I don't see why you should be criticised, Vic. It was a war, and that's what wars are about - atrocities are committed on both sides.

One point I found interesting. Apparently the white settlers started to complain when the blacks started firing guns at them. They couldn't work out where they had got them from. Then they remembered they had given them to hunt lyrebirds, because the feathers were so highly prized! It's a funny old world.