Poems Extracted from - Paul Clacher



Poems Extracted from

FORGOTTEN COUNTRY

The story of the Upper Clarence Gold Fields

By Isabel Wilkinson

1980

ISBN 0 9593763 0 5

Presented by Paul Clacher

No Title

From ranges walled, through gates ajar

A Copmanhurst and Yulgilbar

Pours down the Clarence from afar

His noble tide.

E. J. 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. Layton, Drake. p. 229

Wilkinson, Isabel. ‘Forgotten Country The story of the Upper Clarence Gold Fields’, Northern Rivers College of Advanced Education, 1980.

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