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Brady p. 2 TIMBARRA Timbarra flows sweetly through gold-bearing hills, That pay it in tribute a thousand bright rills, With its streamlets that dance in its fairy-like dells Where numberless song-birds their joys blithely tell, Where peace rules at eve and where joy wakes the morrow, We are happy and free on the banks of Timbarra. John Taite, (1863) p. 14 MALARA There is wealth untold impounded, by those rugged hills surrounded, And only those who’ve been there really know, So I ask you to believe me, if I lied my eyes deceived me, I can only tell of what to me they show. See the fat stock men deliver from that famous Rocky River When they bring to truck or sell them in our town, Off that well known creek, the Demon, on whose banks the cattle feed on Till it junctions with the river lower down. Lower still you’ll find “Millera”, is there any spot that’s rarer? Which grand old Sandy Stewart owned for years, Where his well-known worthy daughters often swam those Rocky waters In helping cross his bullocks, cows and steers. Roland Gunn, Tenterfield. C. 1920. p. 24 THE MAID OF TIMBARRA Timbarra flows sweetly through gold-bearing hills, That pay it in tribute a thousand bright rills, With its streamlets that dance in its fairy-like dells Where numberless song-birds their joys blithely tell, Where peace rules at eve and where joy wakes the morrow, We are happy and free on the banks of Timbarra. Timbarra has gold for the man who will toil, Scenes to enchant him and songs to beguile, Pure water to drink and clean air to inhale, Removed far away from the world’s care and sorrow, We are happy and free on the banks of Timbarra. Timbarra is crowded by a maiden divine, More precious than gold or bright gems from the mine, She is fairer that flowerlets adorning the hills, She is sweeter that wood-notes or murmuring rills, No gay decorations from art need she borrow, She is Nature’s pet child on the banks of Timbarra. So Nature is bounteous, what can we ask more? Bright gold, lovely scenes, a sweet maid to adore, A maiden whose form and whose angelic face Sheds round her halo of beauty and grace; Cold is the heart and the mind dark and narrow Who loves not the scenes and the maid of Timbarra. John Taite, c. 1863. p. 28 “HEATHER” She’s alone and she reminds us, Of that well-known “Stewart Clan”. Her mother was a daughter O that grand “Millera” man. He owned also Billirimba, Wonglebung and Strathalpine. What mighty, beauteous holding, Stocked with everything bovine. As he proudly watched his daughters, Ride in the hills he loved so well, In his vision was his son’s face, Gone with Him in Heaven to dwell. And a heartache often saddened Days that brought to others joy, As he once again remembered His well-loved only boy. Young Heather, his grand-daughter, Gladdened days that could be drear If it was not for the comfort Of a child to him so dear. Heather rode, and in the muster, Kept the pace with Alf and all, Who were noted as stock riders. Used her whip, her spurs, her call. Down steep hillsides, over gullies, On her foam-flecked steed she sped If the cattle broke, or wandered Where the wild-eyed leaders led. Now that’s past, and she had married One of nature’s gentlemen, Reared their sons to men and settled To the lot destined to them. God took home, so very early, He that had been hers for life, Leaving many happy memories To a true, devoted wife. Working for the poor and sickly, Helping those in dire distress, Doing jobs that others “side-step”, Never seeking to impress. “Snobs” amuse her, and she sees us, Through her honest, kindly eyes That strip us of pretence, and show us Where the path of honour lies. She’s a friend in the meaning, That this tiny world implies To the most impressive “Top-Knot”, And to him who’s “not so wise”. Lucky, those who have her friendship, A smile, as she hurries by Warms the heart and makes us wonder, Could we be like her? We’ll try. Mona Kelly. pp. 38 - 39 “FRIENDLY NEIGHBOURS” When you pour from this old tea-pot, Let’s hope they drink the brew, Realise the folk who made it Are “Good neighbours” through and through. Sorts that help poor stranded travelers, Give a friendly welcome too, And with tea, bath, bed and breakfast, Hand a toothbrush, that’s brand new. Now! Don’t laugh about the tooth-brush, ‘Twas a comfort, unexpected By those muddy, shoeless people, From Mc’s quagmire resurrected. And a last humane addition, To the balm supplied that day By the Billirimba Tomkins”. To bogged neighbours by the way. May many heated thirsty players When the summer’s sun is hot, Quench their thirst and toast “The Tomkins”, With some tea from this old pot. Mona Kelly. pp. 43 - 44 “THE DIGGERS SONG” Give the dish a twirl around, Let the water swirl around, Man’s the sport of circumstance, however he may wish – Fortune! Are you there now? Answer to my prayer now, Drop a half-ounce nugget in the bottom of the dish. Barcroft Boake. p. 52 “THE DIGGERS SONG” Scrape the bottom of the hole, gather up the stuff, Fossick in the crannies, lest you leave a grain behind! Just another shovelful, and that’ll be enough – Now we’ll take it to the bank and see what we can find. Barcroft Boake p. 85 “WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE” Oh! Who would paint a goldfield, And limn the picture right, As we have often seen it In early morning’s light; The yellow mounds of mullock With spots of red and white, The scattered quartz that glistened Like diamonds in light; The azure line of ridges, The bush of darkest green, The little homes of calico That dotted all the scene. Henry Lawson p. 92 “THE ROARING DAYS” The rough bush roads re-echoed The bar-room’s noisy din, When troops of stalwart horsemen Dismounted at the inn. And oft the hearty greetings And hearty clasp of hands Would tell of sudden meetings Of friends from other lands; When, puzzled long, the new-chum Would recognise at last, Behind a bronzed and bearded skin, A comrade of the past. Henry Lawson. p. 133 NIGHT MAIL Past studded rock and moorland boulder, Shovelling white steam over her shoulder, Snorting noisily as she passes Silent miles of wind-swept grasses, Birds turn their heads as she approaches, Stare from the bushes at her blank-faced coaches, The sheep-dog cannot turn her course, He slumbers on, with paws across; In a farm she passes, nobody wakes, But a jug in the bedroom gently shakes. W. H. Auden. p. 143 ABANDONED SELECTIONS The night winds are chanting above you A dirge in the cedar trees Whose green boughs groan at your shoulder, Whose dead leaves drift to your knees; You cry, and the curlews answer; You call, and the wild dogs hear; Through gaps in the old log fences They creep when the night is near. I stand by your fenceless gardens And weep for the splintered slaves; I watch by your empty ingles And mourn by your white-railed graves; I see from your crumbling doorways The whispering white forms pass, And shiver to hear dead horses Crop-cropping the long grass grass. Will Ogilvie. p. 159 NO TITLE When young Jim started out in life, Soon after he was wed, He bought a line of female calves At fifteen bob a head; He leased a patch of virgin scrub, And after many days He felled and burned and planted it With pumpkins and with maize. - G. Hall. p. 173 NO TITLE My boys, I have a feeling, That, once again I’ll ride, And yard the wild scrub cattle On old Coombadja’s side. Come, let’s get our saddles; Take our bridles off the wall; Look to girths and cruppers; Have a through overhaul. The sturdy ponies on the flat As fat and sleek once more, They’re quite as staunch and hardy As in the days of yore. They’re fit to run for kingdoms, The taffy and the grey, The chestnut colt is faultless And will show all the way. Old Harry, Dick and Kanky Joe Will come and join the fun, We’ll teach the boys a host of tricks, Before our race is run. Banjo’s Snowy River man Will surely envy us When he hears about the wild stampeding Of the cattle in the bush. I’m growing Old, my race is run – It’s no use sitting idle, Just once again before I die, I want to feel the bridle. To feel the sting of bush leaves As they brush against my face The thrill and exhilaration As the grey puts on the pace. It wouldn’t be so bad to die If the angels would agree To let the good old riders Come in and talk to me. Henry Holder. pp. 178 - 179 LIONSVILLE They sing of Cootamundra, Of Gundagai and Rome, But never a word have I ever heard, Of Lionsville, “Home sweet home”. It nestles ‘neath the mountain, This dear old town of mine, Its fame was high, when men went by, In days of Auld Lang Syne. The drowsy Washpool murmurs, Neath sighing she-oaks’ shade. Beside the stream, the lovers dream – A man and blushing maid. Lionsville is growing old, I’m sorry, but its true, The gold is done, both lost and won – My song has ended too. Henry Greenberg. p. 188 THE GHOSTS OF DRAKE When the busy day is over and the stars are shining bright, When the bees have left their clover and the jackass laughed good-night, When the silver moon is riding, far and fair and very high, Then I see the white wraiths gliding on their broomsticks in the sky; When the westerlies are blowing, with the white clouds in their wake, In their tunnels, dark and winding, they are sleeping through the day, Sometimes coming, sometimes going, fly the sleeping through the day, Spirits with no bodies binding them to fetid ties of clay. Do then dream of old romances, of a girl that they loved best – Velvet nights and old-time dancers gone forever to their rest? W. R. 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