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The Black Dog Returns

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          The Black Dog Returns

There is a black dog hanging round and scratching at my gate,
For some unknown reason he seems to think he’s still my mate.
I tried to hunt the mongrel cos I don’t need a visit at this time,
But he keeps on scratching and insists he’s a mate of mine.

We were pretty much companions then he’d suddenly disappear,
Then when I was feeling down the bastard would suddenly reappear.
He would just come out of nowhere like a ghost on the breeze,
Wagging his tail wildly, the cur was so eager, me to please.

He is whimpering and scratching cos I won’t open up and let him in,
Saliva drips from his mouth and he looks at me with a very devilish grin,
I reckon he thinks I’m weak, all because I’ve nurtured him before,
But I’ll tell you something; that whimpering is so hard to ignore.

I head towards the gate, and watch as his excitement seems to grow,
But I’ve a trick up my sleeve and it’s one he doesn’t know.
With chain and a padlock called Love the gate I firmly lock,
The slavering beast is now yelping as he looks at me with shock.

With his tail between his legs as he slowly slinks away,
The black clouds covering the sky are now turning grey.
As the sun breaks through I realize the Black Dog has disappeared,
It’s amazing how you see the world; once the sky has cleared.

                                                © Corin Linch 24/5/14

The STUPID FILTER

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                   The STUPID FILTER

You know I reckon there should be a filter between the mouth and the brain,
I tend to say what I think then sometimes I repeat it and say it once again.
What’s that you said someone will very stupidly say to me,
So then I will repeat myself enunciating to the nth degree.

`You Sir are very wrong and most likely stupid to boot,` I’ll say,
`Did you not hear me say Black is White so why did you call it Grey?`
`I do believe I’ve told you this at least a hundred times before,`
`No I will stand corrected it has been a few times more.`

Now if there was a filter no disagreement ever would occur,
It would be quite a conversation till both parties did concur.
But the stupid would still be stupid, without ever being told,
And stupidity would multiply and become uncontrolled.

Now I find the very stupid don’t like to be informed of their affliction,
They start to work their jaws as if to argue and give you contradiction.
But alas the stupid keep on breeding and believe that Black is White,
And they get most upset when you point out that that’s not right.

Good or bad I have this habit of saying exactly what I think,
And if you smell a bit I’m inclined to tell you that you stink.
If I think you’re stupid; which you probably are, I’ll surely tell you so,
Don’t say you didn’t realize cos after talking to me you’re bound to know.

You can tell the stupid most anything and they’ll generally believe,
And you don’t have to be clever, if the stupid, you want to deceive.
Tell them Red is Crimson they’ll look at you with disbelieving eyes,
But just promise them it’s the truth, and that you are not telling lies.

                                                © Corin Linch 30/5/2014

Experts an over used term by over-rated people

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EXPERTS
   (An extremely overused and overrated term)

One day I saw this, `Ask the Experts`, section in a magazine,
Solving all your problems, including getting your clothes clean.
Now their advice was offered freely, you can take it if you will,
And all these so called experts possess some kind of skill.

Now me, I figure this word expert is an overused and overrated term,
Whenever I hear it I always shake my head and feel my body squirm.
But these days it seems everyone is an expert in some shape or form,
From fellas fighting fires, to weather men who predict a coming storm.

Experts’ advice isn’t always correct; no matter how resolute they seem,
After all no-one is right all the time; to think so is just a dream.
Amateurs can achieve success even when the obstacles seem massive,
But they rarely skite and carry on; you’ll find most are pretty passive.

Cast your mind back to the Bible and the story of Noah and the Ark,
How he built this giant ship, which caused the experts to remark.
It was to be a livestock carrier with pens above and below the deck,
The experts assembled and scorned; said it was destined to be a wreck.

The animals were gathered and then were loaded two by two,
The line just stretched for ever, a thousand mile was the queue.
And when at last the loading was finished the rain began to fall,
For forty days and forty nights, this was no passing squall.

The Ark floated on the flood until at last the waters did recede,
Then the animals in ones and twos were released to go and breed.
A giant ship built by an amateur that many said would not float,
The chances of success had been extreme, in fact almost remote.

Now to the twentieth century and the pride of the Cunard fleet,
As a luxury ocean going liner the Titanic could not be beat.
She was designed by the world’s finest shipwrights; experts that’s a fact,
She had nearly everything; but there was one key thing that she lacked.

Life boat numbers were sacrificed to enhance the view from the deck,
After all there was no way this beauty could ever become a wreck.
It was 1912 when she sailed from Southampton on her maiden trip,
The passengers were awe struck at her luxury and her workmanship.


Just off the coast of Newfoundland in the dark a giant iceberg loomed,
With not enough lifeboats; twelve hundred human lives were doomed.
Experts designed the Titanic, but now she lies at the bottom of the seas,
They thought she was unsinkable but there were no guarantees.

These experts are everywhere; even commentating the cricket on TV,
Or they may be a failed footy coach who will give their advice for free.
Experts, specialists, connoisseurs, past masters call them what you like,
Whatever the subject there is a critic, an authority, someone to dislike.

Next time you hear someone say he’s an expert as part of their remark,
Close your eyes and count to ten and remember the Titanic and the Ark.
Now a spurt is just a drip under pressure and X is a factor unknown,
So is it any wonder that when I hear the word it chills me to the bone.

                                                                        © Corin Linch 26/2/2012


This is a rewrite of a poem written about 15 years ago to the day 23/2/97.
I was at Wyloo when I tried reciting this poem on the A.B.C. Early Morning programme and the phone dropped out half way through. Mark Bunting told me it was divine intervention, who’s to say he’s not right?

Moola Bulla (Part Two)

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          Moola Bulla part 2

You took frightened immature boys and turned them into men,
You showed no fear or favour as you welcomed us to the den.
Not all were frightened, some were brash that much I will admit,
But if they did not mould to you they were considered to be unfit.

The lessons learned came thick and fast and none of them were easy,
You pummelled youthful bodies and made some feel a trifle queasy.
You taught us how to work, that time really meant nothing here,
And the best way to accomplish things was in a team like atmosphere.

Loyalty and pride were perhaps the most important lessons learned,
As our muscles ached and beneath Kimberley’s brutal sun we burned.
There were times when we cursed you, believing you to be too tough,
As we crawled into our swags saying to ourselves we’d had enough.

In the morning when the sun came up, we were saddled and away,
Thoughtful and excited about the challenges that we would meet today.
Your beauty was there for all to see, be it black soil plains or ranges,
The flooded wet season rivers and all the vast seasonal changes.

No-one could ever tame you; your spirit should remain forever intact,
No doubt some will leave you abused and feeling raped, ransacked.
But once again Moola Bulla will rise like a Phoenix from the ashes,
Pride and loyalty will return no longer to be reminiscent flashes.

                                                            © Corin Linch 27/11/2014

Christmas Day at Parron Place or Anywhere else in the Bush

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            This was my first attempt at writing a Christmas poem.  Christmas Day at Parron Place I would always do the water run first thing Christmas morning I believed as the manager it was my responsibility and no-one else’s.  We always made the effort there to have all the tanks chock a block full Christmas Eve but every now and again disaster would strike and sure enough on that day of days one would find a leak and an empty tank  Of course when Dani and Ryan were very small they could not understand the necessity of the water run but as they got older they came to understand.  There biggest bug bear was the fact that they could not open there presents until the water run was done and I’d cooked up and eaten breakfast.  As they got older they would come with me and open the gates for me in the hope that we would get back to the house and the Christmas presents a little quicker.  I never realised at the time how precious those hours doing the Christmas Day water run with the kids were.  There were those that told me I should learn to delegate responsibility and still others who said that the stock will be right for one day.  I’ve yet to find a cow that can tell me it’s Christmas Day, they still need a drink and if the tank is empty thirsty cattle can do a lot of damage and the water run only took a couple of hours ifeverything was okay.

CHRISTMAS DAY at PARRON PLACE

Someone once told me I should learn how to delegate responsibility,
Then perhaps I could relax and take things easy during the Nativity.
But on Christmas Day at Parron Place I’d always do the water run,
The kids knew that no presents could be had until all the tanks were done.

Dani and Ryan weren’t best pleased there were times they would cry,
“What you got to check the water for Dad please won’t you tell us why?”
I’d tell them about stock, how they never knew it was Christmas Day,
Besides looking after the animals is how your father earns his pay.

I told them about the three wise men, and of peace and good will,
About the animals in the stable all wanting to eat and drink their fill.
Debbie told me worrying would give me ulcers or even send me grey,
But once every thing was checked I could relax and maybe enjoy the day.

If I didn’t check the stock I’d worry as I tried to eat my Christmas feast,
But by checking them, I’d know all was well with both man and beast.
While driving around the water tanks it gave me a chance to think,
So I’d try and come up with a story that would make both kids blink.

I told them I’d seen Santa’s reindeer eating some of the Tagasaste once,
“Don’t be silly Dad; you’re just kidding us and being a stupid dunce.”
As the years past and they grew older, I think they began to understand,
About the importance of looking after your stock and life on the land.

And as they grew and got big enough they’d come and open gates,
It was all part of their cunning plan to make sure Santa wasn’t late.
Once we got home I would tell them that first I have to break my fast,
Then we would dole out the presents and they could open them at last.

Sometimes it wasn’t all plain sailing, especially if I found a water leak,
More than likely it would be on tank we’d been battling to fill for a week.
Or maybe late in the afternoon Christmas day I might have to start a bore,
No gate openers then, they’d be playing with their toys upon the floor.

“Who is going to keep me company?” I’d ask hoping to get a reaction,
But accompanying Dad and opening gates had sure lost its attraction.
Those days are long gone and the kids are both grown up adults now,
But the tanks still need checking everyday so there’s water for the cows.

Rewritten  17/12/14 © Corin Linch  14/11/05

Wandoo Reserve

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WANDOO RESERVE

Just over the road from my place is a reserve called Wandoo,
Many people want to camp there as the district they pass on through.
It’s always chockers on long week-ends, some even stay for a week,
There is no ablution block, so facilities are rudimentary so to speak.

People occasionally ask me for assistance they must think I’m the RAC,
Some demand immediate help and some expect everything for free.
Others are very genuine, like older people needing help with a tyre,
Perhaps I may have a compressor or something else they may require.

But it’s the long term campers and picnickers, who really fascinate me,
Because it’s not the most hygienic place to sit and barbeque your tea.
For everywhere around this camp-site is where people drop their faeces,
There bum fodder is everywhere blowing round in dirty bits and pieces.

Why they don’t go along the firebreak with a shovel has got me at a loss,
Their lack of hygiene and bush etiquette really makes me cross.
I mean just dig a hole and bury your crap and bury the paper too?
It’s kind of similar to a flushing when using the bush as your loo.

But no most will just crap anywhere like the animals they are,
To take a shovel down the firebreak is taking things a step to far.
The scrub beside the road must also be an utterly terrifying place,
With no thought for cleanliness these people are a true disgrace.

I wonder do they wash their hands after their stroll amongst the turds,
And the flies swarm around their food stuffs like gigantic flocks of birds.
But still they come and camp and cook and then eat their tucker here,
Of the things that lie on the clearings edge they do not know or fear.

The fly upon your sandwich do you care where he might have been,
Perhaps ignorance is bliss if the surrounding shit you haven’t seen.
Meanwhile I’ll just be careful where I ride and my horses put their feet,
And I hope I dodge the spot where they bared their bums to secrete.

                                    © Corin Linch 28/12/14

The Bloody Piker

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The Bloody Piker   (Rewrite)

There's days you gotta throw the coachers, just to get a mob,
Tailing mickeys and tying up pikers, is just part of the job.
When you've thrown your coachers and the whips begin to crack,
You can muster ever onwards, never looking back.

And you’ll watch the lead most careful, so nothing gets away,
For there’s a big old piker bullock and you know he wants to stray.
His head is hidden in the mob; he’s just waiting for his chance,
If the opportunity arises, he’ll lead the ringers a merry dance.

The fellas on the wing, they keep running scrubbers in,
You've another five mile to go before the cutting out begins.
Well you know you're feeling tired and a break you'd like to take,
You been doing a perish for hours and your thirst you'd like to slake.

You see a young bloke roll a smoke and the piker breaks away,
"Useless blooming jackeroo!" but that's not all you're gunna say.
You race up there on the shoulder, that's when the fun begins,
Its times like this you're wishing, that maybe you had wings.

Like those bloody aerial musterers, up there in the sky,
It's on days like this that you wish that you'd learnt to fly.
But you're on a horse and, that bullock he aint going back,
So you’ll have to throw him before he gets off the beaten track.

Now you’re going to have to tie him up, once you get him down,
And you hope that he don't sulk once he’s on the ground.
'Cause it's the want of piker bullocks, to lay and sulk and die,
You've asked yourself so many times, `Why oh bloody why?'

Well you take away his freedom; take all he has to give,
Then you take him from his country and that takes his will to live.
And if you were religious, well I guess you'd hope and pray,
That this bloody piker bullock lives to fight another day.


© Corin Linch      9/05/97

The Office Johnny

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The OFFICE JOHNNY

“Don’t look down at us mate, ‘cos we’re as good as you,
We’re the ones who make your wages, me an’ the rest of the crew.
Don’t think you’re better than us, ‘cos you sit in an office chair,
As for your position in the company, well none of us bloody care.
We’re the ones who choke in the dust, the ones who fight the flood,
We’re the ones to get our hands dirty; the ones who get covered in blood.

I’ve nothing against pencil pushers, especially if that’s what they do best,
Take a look at the blokes around ya; every one’s been put to the test.
And that smirk on your face tells me you think I’m being funny,
Just remember what I said sport; we earn your bloody money.
And when you shook me hand you couldn’t look me in the eye,
Does meeting to a manual labourer make you want to cry?

As for your handshake, I’ve met girls with a better grip than you,
Best watch your step mate, there’s fellas here who don’t mind a blue.
And if I might make a suggestion, take that sneer off your face,
The cattle yards our office; and you look outa place.
We might have to get our hands dirty; we might lose a bit of sweat,
Treat us with respect bloke or there’s no telling what you’ll get.

You look a little fragile bloke; we wouldn’t want you hurt;
So don’t look at us fellas as though we’re a grain of dirt.
Perhaps you’d best return to your office and the comfort you have there;
After all we don’t want you choking from the dust in the air.
No don’t look down at me mate ‘cos I might consider you unfit,
To shake the hand of a working man whose clothes are covered in shit.”

© Corin Linch 21/5/04 - Truck(Rewrite-24/1/07)

When you work on properties owned by big companies occasionally members of the office staff come visiting to see what goes on. Most of these blokes are okay but every now and again you get the bloke who just has that look on his face, many of you will know the look I’m talking about. These fellas forget it’s us blokes who are making the money that pays there wages this poem is for them, the wankers.

Wandoo Reserve

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WANDOO RESERVE

Just over the road from my place is a reserve called Wandoo,
Many people want to camp there as the district they pass on through.
It’s always chockers on long week-ends, some even stay for a week,
There is no ablution block, so facilities are rudimentary so to speak.

People occasionally ask me for assistance they must think I’m the RAC,
Some demand immediate help and some expect everything for free.
Others are very genuine, like older people needing help with a tyre,
Perhaps I may have a compressor or something else they may require.

But it’s the long term campers and picnickers, who really fascinate me,
Because it’s not the most hygienic place to sit and barbeque your tea.
For everywhere around this camp-site is where people drop their faeces,
There bum fodder is everywhere blowing round in dirty bits and pieces.

Why they don’t go along the firebreak with a shovel has got me at a loss,
Their lack of hygiene and bush etiquette really makes me cross.
I mean just dig a hole and bury your crap and bury the paper too?
It’s kind of similar to a flushing when using the bush as your loo.

But no most will just crap anywhere like the animals they are,
To take a shovel down the firebreak is taking things a step to far.
The scrub beside the road must also be an utterly terrifying place,
With no thought for cleanliness these people are a true disgrace.

I wonder do they wash their hands after their stroll amongst the turds,
And the flies swarm around their food stuffs like gigantic flocks of birds.
But still they come and camp and cook and then eat their tucker here,
Of the things that lie on the clearings edge they do not know or fear.

The fly upon your sandwich do you care where he might have been,
Perhaps ignorance is bliss if the surrounding shit you haven’t seen.
Meanwhile I’ll just be careful where I ride and my horses put their feet,
And I hope I dodge the spot where they bared their bums to secrete.

                                    © Corin Linch 28/12/14

The Spirit of Australia

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My contribution to Australia Day January 24th






SPIRIT OF AUSTRALIA

It went droving with Clancy out there on the Overflow.
Out in the desert with Lasseter where white men seldom go.
It opened up the Kimberley with Quilty, Durack and the rest
The Spirit belonged to all and shone through with the best.
It's carried its swag in Queensland, its waltzed Matilda all over
It's been a fencer and a shearer; he's also been a drover.
It was there with Paddy Hannon when he discovered gold.
It was born 200 years ago, but isn't very old.
It's the Spirit of Australia what makes this country great.
It's in every town and city, in every Territory and State.

On the 25th of April they march on Anzac Day.
To remember comrades that fell along the way.
The Spirit stormed Gallipoli as Anzac's faced the Turk,
Many died, but the Spirit lives and grows from Albany to Burke.
On the fields of Flanders out in the dead man zone,
The Spirit did shine through even when it was alone.
Up there in New Guinea on the killer Kokoda Track
They fought the Japanese with some never coming back.
At Changi and on the Burma railway the Spirit withstood the test,
Suffering hardship and weakened it would not be laid to rest.

She was there as well, the back bone of this land
Facing drought and floods and fighting for her man.
Raising a family the hard way, no luxuries, no electric light.
Battling hard to make ends meet but never giving up the fight.
Together they can conquer anything standing side by side.
They represent this country chests puffed out with pride.
They've got the Spirit of Australia, what makes this country great,
You'll find it growing in every town and city, Territory and State
From the frozen Antarctic wasteland to the heat of Alice Springs,
The Spirit of Australia grows, and from the heart begins.
So come all young Australians don't let this Spirit die
Let’s build the greatest country in the world, under a southern sky

© Corin Linch 11/11/94-25/12/96.

A Stairway to Heaven or A Highway to Hell

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          A Stairway to Heaven or a Highway to Hell

There is a stairway to Heaven or at least that’s what they say,
But if you are going to Hell you can take a well-used Highway.
There are multi lanes and all downhill so in neutral you can coast,
The closer you get the higher the flames until you begin to roast.

I’m told it’s slightly crowded and there is a premium on space,
But it’s easy traveling not like climbing Heavens staircase.
‘Cos if you are on the stairs to Heaven the climb is steep and slow,
And there are detours everywhere if you’re not sure which way to go.

If you ever reach the top there is no guarantee they will let you in,
Because Saint Peter has a ledger that records and details every sin.
It makes for salacious juicy reading if you like that kind of thing,
There’s no telling where he’ll send you or which way he’ll swing.

He may send you on a side road which is I’m afraid a one way track,
It junctions with a Highway from which there’s no way back.
Unlike the stairs which were peaceful there is a lot of traffic here,
But your cruise control kicks in and you don’t even have to steer.

Acca Dacca rule the airwaves so you’ll surely know where you are,
`Thunderstruck`on `The Highway to Hell`, just cruising in your car.
You’ll be `Back in Black` as you `Play Ball` and hear `Hells Bells`,
The music will become deafening as you join the Devils clientele.

© Corin Linch 27/2/15

Article 4

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      Get Stuffed Entertainment

Now my niece is getting married, so a hen’s night was planned,
For a bit of entertainment the girls booked a giant bucking gland.
A huge pink male member that worked like a mechanical cow,
To see it towed down the street would raise many an eyebrow.


The girls just wanted to have some fun so two hours was set aside,
More than enough time, for them all to mount and have a ride.
But the booking time came and went no sign of the giant cock,
The girls were getting frustrated as the hands moved round the clock.

An hour and a half late it finally arrived at their door,
So the giant bucking penis the girls began to explore.
I believe the operator was rude; he then began to smoke and drink,
Your insurance company doesn’t cover that, I shouldn’t think.

Promised feedback on social media caused a real war of words,
One article in the print media got some of the facts a little blurred.
Radio stations latched onto the story as word spread around the city,
Word of mouth recommendations are not so good mores the pity.

You called a pregnant girl fat and ugly, your FB response a disgrace,
The language you used in social media was most certainly out of place.
I wouldn’t think this hoo-ha is good advertising for your operation,
I’d say your giant bucking penis got a real hen’s night castration.

                                                      © Corin Linch 26/2/15
 http://www.watoday.com.au/wa-news/perth-hens-in-war-of-words-after-entertainment-cock-up-20150226-13opoz.html

How the Fire Queen Crossed the Swamp

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Will Ogilvie was a Scotsman who spent some time in Australia during the late 1800's early 1900's working at many of the things he wrote poetry about.  One of the best if not the best bush poet to write about this great country.

                                      How the Fire Queen Crossed the Swamp






The flood was down in the Wilga swamps, three feet over the mud,
And the teamsters camped on the Wilga range and swore at the rising flood;
For one by one they had tried the trip, double and treble teams,
And one after one each desert ship had dropped to her axle beams;
So they thonged their leaders and pulled them round to the camp-on the sandhill’s crown,
And swore by the bond of a blood red oath to wait till the floods went down.

There were side-rail tubs and table-tops, coaches and bullock drays,
Brown with the Barcoo Wonders, and Speed with the dapple greys
Who pulled the front of his wagon out and left the rest in the mud
At Cuttaburra crossing in the grip of the ‘Ninety flood.
There was Burt with his sixteen bullocks, and never a bullock to shirk,
Who twice came over the Border line with twelve ton-ten to Bourke;
There was Long Dick damning an agent’s eyes for his ton of extra weight,
And Whistling Jim, for Cobb and Co., cursing that mails were late;
And one blasphemed at a broken chain and howled for a black-smith’s blood,
And most of them cursed their crimson luck, and all of them cursed the flood.

The last of the baffled had struggled back and the sun was low in the sky,
And the first of the stars was creeping out when Dareaway Dan came by.

There’s never a teamster draws to Bourke but has taken the help of Dan;
There’s never a team on the Great North Road can lift as the big roans can;
Broad hipped beauties that nothing can stop, leaders that swing to a cough;
Eight blue-roans on the near-side yoked and eight red-roans on the off.
And Long Dick called from his pine-rail bunk; “Where are you bound so quick?”
And Dareaway Dan spoke low to the roans and aloud, “To the Swagman’s Dick!”
“There’s five good miles”, said the giant, “lie to the front of you, holding mud;
If you never were stopped before, old man, you are stopped by the Wilga flood.
The dark will be down in an hour or so, there isn’t a ghost of a moon,
So leave your nags in the station grass instead of the long lagoon!”

But Dan stood up to his leaders head and fondled the big brown nose;
“There’s many a mile in the roan team yet before they are fed to the crows;
Now listen, Dick-with-the-woman’s-heart, a word to you and the rest;
I’ve sixteen horses collared and chained, the pick of the whole wide West,
And I’ll cut their throats and leave them here to rot if they haven’t the power
To carry me through the gates of Hell-with seventy bags of flour!
The light of the stars is light enough; they have nothing to do but plough!
There’s never a swamp has held them yet, and a swamp won’t stop them now.
They’re waiting for flour at the Swagman’s Bend; I’ll steer for the lifting light;
There’s nothing to fear with a team like mine, and-I camp in the Bend tonight!”

So they stood aside and watched them pass in the glow of the sinking sun,
With straining muscles and tightened chains-sixteen pulling as one;
With jingling harness and droning wheels and bare hoofs’ rhythmic tramp,
With creaking timbers and lurching load the Fire Queen faced the swamp!
She dipped her red shafts low in the slush as a spoonbill dips her beak,
The black mud clung to the wheels and fell in the wash of the Wilga creek;
And the big roans fought for footing, and the spreaders threshed like flails,
And the great wheels lifted the muddy spume to the bend of the red float-rails;
And they cheered him out to the westward with the last of the failing light,
And the splashing hoofs and the driver’s voice died away softly in the night;
But some of them prate of a shadowy form that guided the leader’s reins,
And some of them speak of a shod black horse that pulled in the off-side chains-
How every time he lifted his feet the wagon would groan and swing,
And every time he dropped his head you could hear the tug-chains ring!

And Dan to the Swagman’s Bend came through mud-spattered from foot to head,
And they couldn’t tell which of the roans were blue and which of the roans were red.
Now this is the tale as I’ve heard it told, and many believe it true
When the teamsters say in their off hand way- “Twas the Devil that pulled him through!”
Will Ogilvie

The Bushman's Book

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Poem: The Bushman's Book
 by Will Ogilvie




All roughly bound together, The red-brown pages lie
In red sirocco leather, With scored lines to the sky:
The Western suns have burned them, The desert winds dog's-eared,
And winter rains have turned them, With wanton hands and weird!
They flutter, torn and lonely, Far out, like lost brown birds;
The Western stockmen only, Can spell their wondrous words;
And gifted souls and sages, May gather round and look,
They cannot read the pages, That fill the Bushman's Book!
But open, night and day-time, It spreads with witching art
A picture-book of playtime, To hold the Bushman's heart,
And learned in the lore of it, And lessoned in its signs,
He reads the scroll, and more of it, That lies between the lines.
He sees the well-filled purses, From Abbot-tracks like wires,
And hears the deep-drawn curses, That dog the four-inch tyres!
He knows the busy super, By worn hoofs flat as plates,
And tracks the mounted trooper, By shod hoofs at the gates!
He knows the tracks unsteady, Of riders "on the bust,"
Of nags "knocked up already" By toes that drag the dust;
The "split" hoofs and the "quartered," He'll show you on the spot,
And brumbies that have watered, And brumbies that have not!
So, North and West o' westward, Nor'-West and North again,
The Bush Book is the best word, Among the Western men;
They find her lines and hail them, And read with trusting eyes:
They know if old mates fail them. The Bush Book never lies!

First published in The Bulletin, 14 December 1905


The Man Who Steadies the Lead

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THE MAN WHO STEADIES THE LEAD
Will H Ogilvie




He was born in the light of red oaths and nursed by the drought and the flood,
And swaddled in sweat lined saddle-cloths and christened in spur drawn blood;
He never was burdened with learning, and many would think him a fool,
But he’s mastered a method of `turning` that never was taught in a school.
His manners are rugged and vulgar, but he’s nuggets of gold in our need,
And a lightning flash in the mulga is the Man who Steadies the Lead!

When the stockwhips are ringing behind him and brumbies are racing abreast,
It’s fifty-to-one you will find him a furlong or two from the rest
With the coils of his whip hanging idle, his eyes on the mob at his side,
And the daintiest touch on the bridle- for this is the man that can ride!
And the stallions that break for the mallee will find he has courage and speed,
For he rides the best horse in the valley- this stockman who steadies the lead.

When they’re fetching in `stores` to the station through tangles of broken belar,
And the road is a rough calculation that’s based on the blaze of a star;
When they’re quickening through sand-ridge and hollow and rowels are spattered with red,
And sometimes you’ve only to follow the sound of the hoof-beat ahead;
Then we know that he’s holding them nor’ward- we trust in the man and his steed,
As we hear the old brown crashing forward and his rider’s `Wo-up` to the lead.

And again in a journey that’s longer, in a different phase of the game,
Dropping down the long trail to Wodonga with a thousand or so of the same;
When the blue grass is over the rollers, and each one contentedly rides,
And even the worst of the crawlers are stuffing green grass in their hides;
He is ready to spread them or ring them or steady them back on the feed,
And he knows when to stop them or string them, this stockman who rides in the lead.

But when from the bend of the river the cattle break camp in the night-
O, then is the season, if ever, we value his service aright!
For we know that if some should be tardy, and some should be left in the race,
Yet the spurs will be red on `Coolgardie` as someone swings out of his place.
The mulga-boughs-hark to them breaking in front of the maddened stampede!
A horse and rider are taking their time-honoured place in the lead.

As an honest and impartial recorder I’d fain have you all recollect
There are other brave men on the Border entitled to every respect;
There’s the man who thinks bucking a tame thing and rides them with lighted cigars;
And the man who will drive any blame thing that ever was hooked to the bars……….
Their pluck and their prowess are granted, but, all said and done, we’re agreed

That the king of ‘em all when he’s wanted is the Man who Steadies the Lead!

The Coach of Death

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The COACH of DEATH

There’s a phantom-coach runs nightly along the Western Creeks;
Her four black steeds step lightly, her driver never speaks;
The horses keep there places across flood-worn plains,
Yet no man sees their traces, their bits or bridle reins;
For welcome or for warning she shows no lamp or light,
A shadow till the morning she steals across the night.

She never wants for passengers, the back creek settlers say,
A price so moderate as hers the poorest purse can pay;
The lost one, missed by measure of days or maybe weeks,
Pays lightly for the pleasure of coaching down the creeks;
And station hands and squatters, alike in ease reclined,
May praise the whirling trotters whose hoofs outstrip the wind
(who leave no tracks behind.)

You hear no lead-bars creaking, no footfall on the ground;
In silence past all speaking the flying wheels go round;
The horses have no breeders, their driver has no name,
But he swings the reefing leaders like a man that knows the game;
And through the stony ranges where swift hoofs strike no fire
They want no wayside changes, these steeds that never tire.

They’re fit to `stay for ever and are never short of work;
They run the Darling River from MenindieLake to Bourke.
Where a thousand watercourses, bankfull or bound with drought,
Have seen the silent horses go gliding in and out,
Where the stars in red battalions are marshalled in the sky
To watch the black maned stallions with muffled hoofs go by.

They fear him on the Barwon, they curse him on the Bree,
And wish his goal a far one where’er that goal maybe;
But ever back and forward, in silence source to mouth,
He runs the rivers Nor’ward and runs the rivers South;
When winds the wavelets feather between the flood and fall,
He holds the blacks together and hears the dead men call.


In drifted, flood-wracked sailing on every swirling stream
He hears his patrons calling, and checks his noiseless team;
In belts of timber shady, when all the holes are dry.
His guests are waiting ready when the phantom wheels go by,
For every man in good time must book for Further Out,
It may be in Flood-time-it may be in drought!

Her load of clay-cold faces she never carries back;
The dim wheels leave no traces, the shoeless hoofs no track;
But all along the river in bends that she has passed,
The giant gum trees shiver in a strange and icy blast;
The clumps of scented sandal are tainted with her breath,
And teams are hard to handle behind the Coach of Death.

She lifts no mud in winter and stirs no summer dust,
Her pole bars never splinter, her lock bolts never rust;
Her parts are stout for wearing and strong her simple gear,
She’ll run without repairing from year to deathful year,
When every coach is rotten on the Western watershed,
And Cobb and Co. forgotten and all their drivers dead!


                                      Will Ogilvie

Are You Blokes Doing Your Bit

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This poem drew a poetic reply from Julie Percy of Yalleen station to which I replied ........... to which Julie replied and so on ......... the five poems that stemmed from Greg Pearce's innocent suggestion are all below.  Thanks Julie for your contribution.
            Are you Blokes doing your Bit?

Me and the missus were out fixin’ a fence, when she give a weary look,
So I told her to knock off, anyway, it’s time to cook.
Said “I wouldn’t mind a T.V. dinner, so I can watch the footy match.
Oh, an’ me backs a little itchy, would yer mind givin’ it a scratch?”
Well she give me a dirty look, mumbled something I couldn’t hear,
So I told her to stock the fridge ‘cos I was nearly outta beer.

She then stormed off growlin’; I think she’s in a huff,
I dunno what’s wrong with her lately, she’s runnin’ outta puff.
When I got home I told her; tomorrow we’ll start seedin’,
An’ I noticed on the way in, the vegie garden needs weedin’.
I got another dirty look, so I went to see a mate,
Saying as I left, “I hope me tea aint late.”

As I went out the door, I seen the lawn needed mowin’,
I’d have to get her on to it, when we finish sowin’.
Well I got me T.V. dinner, an’ I got a beer to drink,
Then I even put me own dishes in the flamin sink.
“I can’t help you to wash up, the second half’s about to start,
But I’ll you what I wouldn’t mind dear, a bit more jam tart.”

Then as I sat down I noticed, the floor was getting dirty,
But when I mentioned it, my god she did get shirty.
The footy wasn’t over when she said she was going to bed,
Reckoned she was out on her feet, feeling almost dead.
So I said “I’ll need an early breakfast ‘cos the tractors still apart,
And I need some clean clothes, so the washing you can start.



An’ you best light the fire ‘cos it’ll be cold when I arise.
What’s the matter darlin’ is that a tear in your eyes?
An’ I suppose it’s no use askin’ for my conjugal right,
You know I could be feelin’ buggered by tomorrer night.
An’ what’s with the hysterical laughter, do you think it all a joke?
Just remember sweet-heart I’m a normal type of bloke.”

                                                                                               © Corin Linch  28/5/04



In response to ‘Are you Bloke’s doing your Bit?’

Well I read Corin’s poem about blokes doing their bit,
When a lump formed in my throat and I choked and I spit.
I broke out in a sweat and my temperature rose.
I mean usually I’m a fan of Corin’s poetic prose.

But doing your bit….well by crikey I was left in no doubt.
Doing’ Jack Sh_t was what I wanted to shout.
But I continued my reading while gasping for air,
“Is this bloke for real? I mean how could he dare?”

Fair dinkum, something’s a miss, I mean can’t this bloke read all the signs.
Those chauvinistic actions…… WILL surely set off the lions.
The growling and scowling means he’s no doubt in strife.
Something’s OBVIOUSLY bothering his long suffering wife!

As a modern bush woman, well I’ll pull my weight,
But these words made me halt…does he think he’s pleasing his mate?
I mean what makes him think when she’s been sharing the load,
That his wife needs to keep working while he’s in ‘knock-off” mode?

I took time to ponder and wiped off my brow.
That sort of behavior ought-a cause a huge row!
When he comes home from working he should grab his own bloody beer.
Offer a hand and by that I don’t mean grabbing her rear!

When I got to the bit about conjugal right,
 Well I lost my composure……it WAS quite a sight!
It caused me to mumble what I just can’t repeat,
I went weak in the knees and fell back in my seat.

I took a deep breath as I was feeling somewhat forlorn.
A wife should be a mate not a slave to all men born!
So come on blokes do your bit and treat your wife like a treasure.
Lift your game and she’ll assure you it will be for your pleasure!!

                                                                                  Julie Percy  22/11/05  

A RESPONSE to a RESPONSE

You know I wrote this poem, on how us blokes like to do our bit,
But for some reason I don’t know why, some ladies seemed to throw a fit.
And Julie Percy, she got up in arms; she seemed to take these words to heart,
I’d never have wrote the bloody thing if I’d known all these poetic responses were gunna to start.
I thought that I was honest when I said us blokes would like to do a little more,
But when we come in from the paddock we are often feeling a little sore.
And we just wanna to put our feet up, have a feed and a nice cold beer,
And hope we’ve come home to a happy woman who’s bright always full of cheer.


It was you women who asked the question `Are you blokes doing your bit? `
Just because I answered in the affirmative is no reason to throw a hissy fit.
You asked the question and now I’ve answered you go and get offended,
So perhaps if I done some damage it’s time some fence got mended.
Well I figure I said nothing, to which you ladies might take offence,
I pointed out what us blokes do; you know it’s only common sense.
So now it looks like I’m really gunna upset you, an’ I’m gunna have to ask,
Aren’t you here to look after the menfolk, now is that not that a woman’s task?

I mean I know you do the washing and I know you cook a feed,
And I must admit you’ve always been there in our hour of need.
And I know you do the gardening and sometimes you mow the lawn,
And I’ll have to admit you have to be there when the kids are born.
And I know you change the nappies and the midnight feeds you did,
But c’mon mate us blokes pull our weight, who you think I’m trying to kid?
You know some of them things you responded to left me gasping for air,
Was this women suggesting laziness, surely she wouldn’t blooming dare.


In my first poem I thought I was simply pointing out a fact,
You know I aint a diplomat so don’t be surprised at the lack of tact.
You said something about grabbing your rear and going weak at the knees,
Then you refuse us our conjugal rights, oh darlin’ you are a tease.
You tell me there’ll be no conjugal rights; does that mean I cannot fornicate?
Well you leave me no option but to go out drinking with me mate.
To be honest I don’t even know what that word conjugal really means.
Is it the way a woman, seductively removes her jeans?
Or does it mean I can leave the seat up after I’ve had a pee?
And if I leave that seat up you won’t go crook at me?


Now Julie I’ve sat at your table and I’ve dined on real good fare,
And after I’ve pigged out on your desserts well I’ve never had room to spare.
But come one let’s be honest, you’ve got to give us blokes a go,
After all a lot of what we do is just a male ego show.
And you must allow us to have our fantasies of the women in our life,
Don’t you know that us poor blokes are always in female strife?
And dinkum Jules I was only kidding with some of them things I wrote,
They were never supposed to be taken to heart; I didn’t mean to rock the boat.
If I’m as bad as you make me out to be I really am in strife,
You got me worried now I aint even game to ask me wife.
I suppose by responding to your response I may as well piddle into the breeze,
I could ask you to accept an apology; I could even get down on my knees,
But I know that as a woman you must have the last say,
So I’ll expect another response, which could be here any day.
           

©  Corin Linch  31/7/06

The Final Say
( In Response to the Response to the Response!)
  
Well Corin, your apology is accepted
We can lay this debate to rest.
With your response to my response,
 That was really said in jest.

Though I’m sure you expected a reaction,
From the original words that you wrote.
I mean you weren’t exactly aiming
For the feminine ‘sympathetic’ vote!

But by gees we sparked the embers though
And put a cat amongst the birds.
It even started getting graphic,
Those descriptive phrases that you put into words.

You were right about one thing though
In that woman need the final say.
But when menfolk don’t ‘Do Their Bit”
Is there REALLY any other way?

I think it was all pretty funny
A reaction that was a so called ‘ Hissey Fit”
Truth is I know I’m right with the bloke I’ve got
‘cause he often ‘Does His Bit’.
And I’m sure you have the ability Corin to do ‘Your Bit’ as well,
‘cause I know Deb wouldn’t allow it to be QUITE like you tell !

Now you have always been welcome at my table
As long as you keep ‘Doing Your Bit’
Just remember that at the head of the table,
Is where all good women should sit!!!!

  ©  Julie Percy  August 2006

The FINAL SAY? I DON”T THINK SO

Now listen Julie Percy “Don’t you think this poetic dueling rather silly?”
I thought Michael had you trained, I thought you a tractable little filly.
`The Final Say` Did you really think that was the last word?
To think I’d give in that easily is really quite absurd.

I am thankful you accepted my apologies, I’m glad this debate can be put to rest,
Although I’m disappointed it took you so long to understand that what I said was all in jest.
But that’s okay because I know you were flat out caring for a bloke that does his bit,
And I know a lady like you would never throw a hissy fit.

But you best be mighty careful because memories MIGHT come flooding back to me,
About that little story, you were telling the other night at tea.
But I do believe that story I promised I would not tell,
And I cannot break a promise for I do not want to go to Hell.

Julie, Deb would be the first to tell you round the house I’m very slack,
Like a race horse broken down out there on the track.
And I suppose that I had better admit it, I don’t always pull my weight,
Well actually I leave the house work to my spousal mate.

I mean us blokes have to use a bit of subterfuge when it comes to Doing our Bit,
Because we are only trying to avoid the circumstances that cause a Hissy fit.
So at last Julie I’m being honest, the sordid truth can now be heard,
I really am ashamed of myself, so now, can I please have the FINAL WORD?

  © Corin Linch  3/9/06  





The Quilty Memorial Campdraft

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Twenty one running's and still going strong Saturday 23rd of November 2013 will see the twenty second episode of this now Prestigious Campdraft. 

    THE QUILTY MEMORIAL OPEN CAMP DRAFT
            Parron Place Badgingarra

Back in September of 92 the Quilty draft got going .
Things were bloody dry up north , down south the creeks were flowing.
The Daley’s and the Potters were just some to load their truck.
And head up to the sand plain and with Herefords try their luck.
The cattle really turned it on testing the drafters’ mettle
Only one horse all week-end could make those baldies settle.
The black stallion Chanway and Gerald got three rounds and a gate,
I'm sure I heard Mick Quilty say “that Kilpatrick’s a horseman mate."
Memories of Sunny and Sundance came flooding back to me,
Horses Mick had rode when he was young and free
But now he's watching from a place where drafters never fail
And that first week end of Spring he's here sitting on the rail.

Spring of 93 was the turn of Jim Daley and Peringa Serenade
They'd travelled up from Capel to take first and truly make the grade.
Once again the steers were tricky no doubt they finished top
It seemed shifting the arena didn't stop their rot.
There's something in that Tagasaste Doc Daley did declare,
That makes them Herefords run the way they do with a fixed hypnotic stare.
I've tried covering the eye, shouldering, still I can't get a gate,
They'd be better off as beef steaks decorating a blooming plate.
You must have Marijuana growing in them Tagasaste trees,
Look at the buggers duck and dive trying to shake the blooming fleas.

94 saw new horse and rider on the scene,
Dick Northcott and Majestic to a southern draft had never been.
They'd honed their skill in Kimberley were cattle are mighty tough,
Where niceties are cast aside and things get pretty rough.
A change in arena placement a change of cattle too,
We had to shift the camp even shift the bloody loo.
The Shorthorn-X were tough to get a peg let alone a gate,
And the judges’ whip more often than not was a rider’s fate.
But when the week end was over we all came to realise
That Dick and Majestic would take home the Quilty prize.


Fathers Day of `95'Yarraween Jewel Spur was the horse,
That sooled them blooming heifers round a controversial left hand course.
Henry Clifton was on a roll seemed he just couldn't lose,
Every beast ran for him no matter which he choose.
He'd had a win in Fitzroy Crossing, a win in Derby too,
But Grasshopper hadn't made the final so maybe there's hope for you.
Saturday night poetry and Boot-scooting in the shearing shed,
Henry saved his energy and hit the swag instead.
Not content with first he rode Lotus to second as well
We've put it to a vote, Henry you need a blooming spell.


The last day of winter 1996 was overcast and grey,
Perhaps it would affect how the cattle ran this day.
The Angus-cross heifers sure proved hard to catch,
More than one competitor knew they'd met their match.
At the end of round one Ben Daley was the one to beat,
And on the first day of Spring we'd have to catch Peringa Elite.
When the final scores were tallied Ben would join this role of renown,
Along-side brother Jim, now there's only the Docs' name to go down
So come on Mr. Daley you'd best lift your blooming game,
If your sons can win this draft I'm sure you can do the same.

The Quilty buckle of `97' went to Dandilla Campass and the Doc,
But only two short months later, all us drafters got a shock,
When we heard along the grapevine that Campass had passed away,
All true camp draft competitors felt for the Doc that day.
We'll remember him as he was blue ribbon, buckle and glory,
No doubt around the camp fires the subject of many a story.
You may be feeling down Doc but I'll guarantee you're not out,
And I reckon you'll be back to show us what drafting’s all about.
But it's sad that Campass won’t be back to defend the title he won this year,
Our sympathies go to the Daleys' on a horse they held so dear.



Cantabilling Springs  Jurien

With the sale of Parron Place a new chapter in the Quilty Draft begins,
And with their kind permission, in '98 it's to be held at Cantabilling Springs.
It's no longer held on Fathers Day but in mid October instead,
We still had a barbie and this time bag-pipes at the shearing shed.
The competition was still fierce out on the drafting course,
A real true test of the cattle, the riders and their horse.
There was some confusion, horses filled places that were wrong,
A novice on the tally sheet had riders were they did not belong.
So when the embarrassment was over and the dust had cleared away,
The buckle went to Freeman and MyonaRivoli, the rightful winners of the day.

Well I never made the Quilty draft in October ‘99,
For I was up mustering cattle on a station near Nullagine
So the following verse is hearsay, I don’t know if it’s true,
And if some of the facts are wrong, I’d best apologise to you.
But I heard that the cattle were feral, and a little out of hand,
An’ the going was rather difficult in the Cantabilling sand.
And a speech on the Republic, I’m told didn’t go down to well,
But a camp draft barbecue has never been the place for politics to sell.
So call him President or King, the fact is Leigh McLarty was the best,
And Princess, or Queen of Queens, was the mighty mare Celeste.


Avondale Coolup

A new century is with us, in the year 2000 the millennium bug is here,
The Quilty drafts’ been moved again, Coolups’ the venue this year.
At the property Avondale with the Tricketts as our hosts,
With the first round run at night they’d be riding with the ghosts.
By crikey it does look speccy, with the arena doused in light,
Bullocks over five hundred kilos oh boy what a sight.
The blood was fairly boiling, the adrenalins got to flow,
As every horse and rider and bullock was having a red hot go.
Terry Hall the judge fresh from a win in the Warwick Gold Cup,
Most times the gate was cleared before the time was up.
With the second round in daylight it was won by Brock and Kebaringup Klaim,
So to the Role of Renown, all we have to do is add the Shepardson name.

For the Quilty draft 2001 on Friday it came in cold and damp,
But by the time the drafting starts things had dried out in the camp.
Saturday night was the Quilty with two rounds under lights,
Leigh McLartys’ bullocks were the challenge on the drafters’ night of nights.
First a Calcutta with horse and rider presented to the crowd,
Bids were fast and furious with alcohol making people loud.
Some of the judging decisions had us riders baffled,
Instead of a Calcutta we felt that we’d been raffled.
Round one was beefies, big and tough and hard to get a course,
The second round was Friesians these were a little softer for both man and horse.
Fernvale Prospector made the early running and the pace was pretty hot,
To guide him Roger Shepardson, who, when it was over, laughingly took the lot.

For ten years now I’ve been trying to win the Quilty, I’ve found the going tough,
At times I doubt my own abilities, start thinking, am I good enough.
Twenty O two for me was a case of de-ja-vu from the past,
I couldn’t pick a beast and damn near finished last.
Take nothing from the winner though, by gee she earned her place,
Racing round the course with skill and poise and grace.
Our first lady winner, Kym Edgley on Stanton Stud Bay Fay,
The mare looked like she was in foal; it must have been a belly full of hay.
She blew away the opposition, in the camp and on the course,
The judge David Wilson gave some big scores to this horse.
I reckon the spectators too were amazed at what they saw,
The rest of us competitors, could only sit and watch in awe.
John and Ann, Kyms’ mum and dad fairly glowed with pride,
For there was no doubt their little girl, had shown the rest how to ride.

Was 2003 my year, I could feel it in me bones, I reckon I was hot,
But coming round the second peg all my dreams were shot.
Abbeygale nearly fell but heart kept her on her feet,
She caught the steer again and a 29 second course to complete.
Two judges Troy Clarke and David Wilson, we took the aggregate score,
Abbeygale had 81&1/2, but Sheppo he had more.
But my little mare was lame; I’d have to scratch, no ifs or buts,
You’d reckon I’d walked under a ladder or kicked a black cat in the nuts.
I’ve been asked how that mare stayed on her feet, I tell ‘em it was my riding skill,
But hindsight tells me Mick and Cherry might have saved me from a spill.
Well Roger, I reckon Mick Quilty would say congratulations and well done,
Fernvale Prospector the first to double up, but now you’re a marked man old son.

A fellow they called the Mongrel rode the Quilty winner in 2004,
Cooks Rock the Wagon started proceedings with a twenty three camp score.
He finished the round with ninety two; he was leading from the front,
But there was a few of us on his hammer keeping us in the hunt.
Me I was back on Quango the governor Paul Kelly had him going well,
The old fella still remembered me that much I could tell.
Well the Governors training methods had the Wanker going fine,
And our first round score was a handy eighty-nine.
But if we wanted to catch McDowell we’d have to go for broke,
And going for a second round gate, well, our dreams went up in smoke.
So to Steve and the Rocket there’s no doubt you pair were the best,
All us other bloody would be’s if we could be’s were given a thorough test.


Ann Edgely said John needs to win the Quilty he’s running out of time,
The rest of us just smiled for we knew he was well past his prime.
Only a few years ago the Quilty had gone to John’s daughter Kym,
Maybe with determination on his part 2005 could well go to him.
Well the lightening bolts were flashing as he came out on the course,
But this would not deter him or his little grey horse.
Balaka Park Ser seemed to do it easy he just never missed a beat,
Come the second round the rest of us were starting to feel the heat.
But for a while it looked like things could go right down to the wire,
Then it became obvious to us all that the old boy would not tire.
John was a bantam rooster after he had withstood the test,
Because when the scores were added up he’d beaten all the rest.
So it seems it’s no disadvantage being the oldest rider on the track,
And 2006 will see John and Ser trying for Quilty’s back to back.

There were twenty one competitors, in the Quilty of 2006,
And every one of them riders knew a few campdraft tricks.
Some riders wore a black arm band, in memory of Graham Dean,
To ride one day in the Quilty, had been the gentle giants dream.
The Calcutta was held again this year; the bidding was fierce and hot,
With that bloody ding Cirracosta, trying to buy the lot.
The crowd knew no quarter would be given as each drafter gave his all,
For ‘tis only the winner, who has his name inscribed on the champions wall.
The judge once again was David Wilson; he was the man with the whip,
But we knew he’d score us well, as long as we had a dip.
When finally it was over, the crowd gave each placegetter a cheer,
With the loudest of the night going to the winner, Moray Monty and Trevor Beer.

The Quilty of 2007 would go to a very wily old fox,
A horse and rider combination right out of the box.
Now to qualify for the Quilty is considered no easy feat,
And to oversee proceedings Bruce Hollis was in the judge’s seat.
The first round was fierce as all the riders got going,
Some decent scores were given; the Friesian bullocks were really flowing.
But the second round was different the cattle a real challenge to the horse,
This time not too many would complete the entire course.
Henry Clifton had won the Quilty with Yarraween Jewel Spur in ‘95
And just missing out last year had really given Henry drive.
No one with any brains ever rules old Henry out,
This year belongs to Hayclif Sambo!  Was there ever any doubt?

Another chapter was written but an episode ended in 2008,
No more will trucks and floats stream through Avondale’s gate,
There’d been eight previous winners on the Avondale course,
This year would see the ninth Coolup Quilty winning horse.
The judge was Cody Law from Inverell, New South Wales,
And of his drafting exploits I’d heard quite a few tales.
The first round with Friesian’s gave most a pretty easy run,
But things would be different ere the second round Brahmans were done.
Big Drew riding Carrot was making sure things went down to the wire,
While Spoon cast his eye over the camp, hoping his mare Impulse would fire.
And fire she did getting a ninety and putting the yak through the gate,
Heaths old man Stewy, and Mick had long ago been mates.
So congratulations Spoon your connections to the Quilty’s and this draft are strong.
And with only one point in it Drew, I’m sure it’ll be your turn, before too long.

A new venue greeted the drafters for the Quilty of two thousand and nine,
And for the third year running, I had the ride on Balaka Shine.
The first round was run with Friesians and some runs were pretty hot,
Me and Michael Percy led the field, and 87 was what we got.
There were a few on 86; one was John Edgley on Balaka Ser,
Like the Snowy river pony he had courage and was no cur.
The Yandeeyarra Brahmans for the final seemed to have pace to burn,
And a horse needed to be fleet of foot to get these steers to turn.
Perc got another 87, but John and Ser got an 88,
The gutsy grey showed pace to complete the course and get the gate.
The Quilty was going right down to the wire with two on one seven four,
There would have to be a run off to decide the winning score.
They say you can’t beat age and experience and John would prove that true,
As the sun was going down he and Balaka Ser once again pulled through.
Now John is dual winner of the Quilty for he had won back in 2005,
And even though he is in his late seventies I think the dream is still alive.

The evening was fast approaching; the sun was low in the sky,
The Quilty Draft of twenty, ten with thirty five horses to give it a try.
Michael Wilson from the east to judge, the arena was watered down,
Hughie Scott was the commentator as the riders tried to get ‘em round.
Now this draft has always been a spectacle and was again this year,
With some previous winners competing, like John Edgley and Trevor Beer.
Then of course there was Henry Clifton, who never fails to be there about,
This year would be no different as he set about a camp draft rout.
Big Drew had set the pace with a first round of ninety one,
But he like everyone was aware that Henry’s never done.
A winner in ’95 and ’07 the veteran was still at the top of his game,
Hayclif Sambo would ensure the shield once again bore the Clifton name.
A three time winner now, oh yeah a champion there can be no doubt,
No matter which horse he’s riding you would be a fool to rule Henry out.

The twentieth running of the Quilty, would be one of the closest we had seen,
The judge was Mr. Allan Young from the New South Wales town of Aberdeen.
It was the 26th November 2011, late evening and the sun was going down,
When the first of 39 contestants started putting the Friesian bullocks around,
Henry Clifton and Hayclif Sambo with a 90 had set a real read hot pace,
`Stop the press` the newsmen cried `you had better watch this space.
28 went through to the second round and here we saw a change of cattle,
The easy runs were over, now the spectators would witness a real tough battle.
But then the lead kept changing hands as smoke and gloom descended,
To win the twentieth Quilty buckle every effort would need to be expended.
Drew hit the lead with a 162, then it was old Bob with a hundred and sixty four,
Then Joe Pederick and Obsession posted a two round 166, the winning score.
Congratulations Joe, a most deserved winner of another Quilty run and won,
And after 20 verses perhaps I should call it quits and say this poem’s done.

This year saw a new competitor come on the Quilty scene,
As far as previous performances Eric Walmsley’s slate was clean.
I believe the judge was Jim Daley; he’d travelled from the east,
He was a previous winner and had once tamed the Quilty beast.
I’m told there was a tie Hurtle and Postscript had an even score,
So Eric and Frank Angel would have to do the course once more.
Social media tells me it was Hurtle, who won the twenty first running,
Most drafters seem to think that lately Eric’s form has been stunning.
Now I am unable to go into detail because you see I wasn’t there,
For just the previous Sunday, an accident, I was left in great despair.
I lost the horse that I hoped would one day win the Quilty prize,
So please excuse me if as I write this verse I’m a little misty in the eyes.

-to be continued.
© Corin Linch    1992 -2012

THE QUILTY ROLL of RENOWN’  

(Parron Place)
1992    Brown Chanway -      Gerald Kilpatrick
1993    Peringa Serenade - Jim Daley
1994    Moola Bulla Majestic- DickNorthcott
1995    Yarraween Jewel Spur         - Henry Clifton
1996    Peringa Elite - Ben Daley
1997    Dandilla Campass - Peter Daley

 (Cantabilling  Springs)
1998    Myona Rivoli - Freeman Armitage
1999    Celeste - Leigh McLarty

(Avondale Coolup)
2000    Kebaringup Klaim - Brock Shepardson
2001    Fernvale Prospector - Roger Shepardson
2002    Stanton Stud Bay Fay         - Kym Edgley
2003    Fernvale Prospector - Roger Shepardson
2004    Cooks Rock the Wagon       - Steve McDowell
2005    Balaka Park Ser - John Edgley
2006    Moray Monty   - Trevor Beer
2007    Hayclif Sambo - Henry Clifton
2008    Impulse - Heath Stewart
2009    Balaka Park Ser – John Edgley
2010    Hayclif Sambo – Henty Clifton
2011    Obsession – Joe Pedrick
2012    Hurtle - Eric Walmsley
2013    Dakota Skip Sekoya (Carrot) - Drew Gibbs

The Quilty Memorial Campdraft 2013

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                   The QUILTY 2013

In twenty-thirteen we would witness real epic Quilty battle,
As nigh on forty horses tried to tame the Coolup cattle.
As the camp work began in earnest, the sun drifted lower in the sky,
For the twenty second running the competitor’s expectations were high.
The judge was Mister David Wilson sitting there quietly on his horse,
He was ready to give or deduct points depending on how they ran the course.
All outside scores would progress on to the second and final round,
But when it was over a tie; a runoff, before the winner could be crowned.
Saltriver CC, *Carrot and Zac all had two scores with a total of 172,
The riders Leigh McLarty, Heath Stewart and my old Parron mate Drew.
Leigh and Heath had both been Quilty winners at least once before,
Drew had been close in the past and always seemed to be knocking on the door.
When the final run off was over and all the adding up formalities complete,
Drew and *Carrot had the trophy and I assure you that’s no mean bloody feat.
                                                                     © Corin Linch 24/11/2013

*Carrot a.k.a Dakota Skip Sekoya

Thank you Allister Butcher for the photo's of Drew Gibbs in action.



A Tribute to an Old Drover - Ron Cody

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                      A TRIBUTE to an OLD DROVER

Australia lost some more of her bush history, just the other day,
When an old outback drover named Ron Cody, sadly passed away.
A stranger to me, although I spoke to him on the phone one time,
After his son Bill asked me to put some of his Dad’s story into rhyme.

From Dandenong to Winton via Muranji and all country in between,
Ron saw many things of which blokes like me can only dream.
For his yarns I would have gladly paid a yearly subscription price,
Hearing about the old days and perhaps getting an old stockman’s advice.

These days many believe his was a romantic, easy way of living,
On the road with cattle, away for months in country most unforgiving.
No doubt he followed the tracks of legends, along the Muranji for one,
That hollow, empty ground where bullocks spook with the setting sun.

His later years weren’t easy caused by a shortness of breath,
Something that stayed with him right up until his death.
Perhaps caused by cigarettes or the choking air behind a mob,
Lungs filled with cattle dust, it was just part of the drover’s job.

He’s droving somewhere different now, where stock routes are full of grass,
And there’s always a friendly wave for the drovers as they pass.
There is no more riding watch at night!  No, it’s yarns around the fire,
The bullocks they just feed about as though held in by strands of wire.

Let Ron’s passing not go unnoticed outside the boundaries of Winton town,
Cattlemen one of our own has gone, so fill a glass and throw it down.
Let’s drink to the days of the drovers, when cattle walked Australia wide,
When Queensland men crossed the Territory to Kimberley on the other side.

The feats of the past are misunderstood except by some still in the game,
Many of these men were pioneers but history does not record their name.
Ron Cody may you Rest in Peace, may the horses you ride be good,
And may I say you lived the life that I dreamt of while in my childhood.
                                                                                       Sleep easy Ron!

Ron Cody went to new stock routes on Friday September 24th 2010.
                                                                        © Corin Linch 28/9/2010

Below is the first poem I wrote about Ron at his son bill's request.

FROM DANDENONG to WINTON via the MURANJI TRACK
The STORY of RON CODY a Drover

I was looking at an old faded photo of a drover from yesteryear,
Thinking I’d like to meet him and maybe with him share a beer,
Sit down by a camp fire and listen to the droving stories he had to tell,
How early in the morning he’d listen for the sound of a Condamine bell.

“That’s Ron Cody” someone said “you most likely don’t know his name,
Lives in Winton now, born in ’26, long retired from the droving game.”
He was brought up on a Dandenong dairy; he enjoyed life on the land,
Left school at thirteen and while milking his working future he planned.

Fifteen bob a week was his wage, but he thought of Australia’s north,
So saying `Goodbye` to his mother for Brisbane he sallied forth.
On good advice he headed west, arriving in Cloncurry in 1941
He’d been assured there’d be work on one of the big stock runs.

He got a job with Fred Quinlan droving 10,000 wethers to JuliaCreek,
It was a hard life for a lad that only had a fifteen year old physique.
Then the stock camp at Alcala; George Cummins and bullocks on the road,
A tough life for a kid but a good grounding and in his later life it showed.

Nugget Quinlan was buying horses for Vesty’s; they had to go to Waterloo,
Ron signed up for the trip and became a part of Nugget’s crew.
They spent some time breaking in before they could get under way,
A total mob of four hundred horses, something you won’t see today.

The trip would take nineteen weeks, doing eight to ten mile a day,
A day’s duration depended on the conditions they found along the way.
From the ‘Curry to Wave Hill, via Newcastle Waters and the Muranji,
There among the Bulwaddy and Lancewood the bodies of dead men lie.

Men killed riding night watch while trying to stop a mad stampede,
It was no place for the faint hearted, on that all drovers are agreed.
The hollow ground of the Muranji would often gave the stock a fright,
No fences then in that country, they had to watch ‘em close at night.

Some men got crook with Yellow Fever the mob got held up four days,
But no worries to Nugget, there was no hurry, and he was used to delays.
It was all good experience, although it was experience hard earned,
But lessons taught the hard way are never forgotten once learned.

Ron stayed on with Nugget sometimes working in the camp at Waterloo,
Or on the road to Wyndham with bullocks, helping to see them through.
Moving on, 1946 found him at Avon, ’47 at Alexandria for a year
Working throughout Australia’s north what was the last frontier.

As a horse tailor he went with Arthur Parker for five pound a week,
All the time learning about stock and the correct droving technique.
Bringing mobs into Winton he spent 22 weeks straight on the road,
It was all packhorses back in ’48, no trucks then to carry their load.

Around the age of 22, Ron met the woman, who was to be his wife,
But the call of the road was strong and he continued with the droving life.
He got a job with Pat Fogarty and was `Foges` horse tailor for a while,
As fat bullocks fed and walked the road to railheads, mile after dusty mile.

Things changed in nineteen fifty-six he got his own droving plant together,
Ron walked Kidman cattle to Winton through all types of weather.
Again things changed in the sixties, road transport became all the go,
And walking cattle to the rail heads was considered by many far to slow.

With trucks and a severe drought it seemed the drovers days were at an end,
So in nineteen sixty-three he sold his plant to Jack Stead a droving friend.
But over the years he made many mates on the stations near and far,
Now he swapped the bridle rein for a shovel, pliers and crowbar.

On Cork and Tulmur stations he started fencing; mile after endless mile,
And while tying wires or yard building he dreamed of his old lifestyle.
Walking and feeding cattle by day and watching them in shifts at night,
Singing quietly to the bullocks in the hope that none took fright.

Some names are legendary, perhaps some undeserving of their fame,
Now when the talk turns to drovers, be sure to mention Ron Cody’s name.
Because these men who walked the cattle where a special breed of men,
And sadly in this twenty first century we’ll never see their like again.

Theirs was a lonely vigil riding watch on the herd at night,
Beneath the open sky and stars, far from the cities neon light.
These men were my childhood heroes and they still are today,
Crossing a virgin country where now is a bitumen highway.

                                                                             © Corin Linch 4/2/2010
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