Memory is a wonderful gift and as I reflect back to my childhood days in Bowen, Queensland, when I was around eleven years of age, I recall knocking up a guitar of wood and fishing line strings and putting the top of a mop on my head and doing my best to imitate the Beatles.  These were my earliest musical memories. 

     Then when I was around sixteen years of age, my family had moved out to Roma in Western Queensland and I befriended some boys who had a band.  They called themselves the “Peace Ov Mind” and the bass player, Ian Mulgrew, taught me a few basic chords.  It was around this time that I bought my first acoustic guitar and the first song I learnt to play was Van Morrison’s, Gloria.

     Those teenage years were associated with mainly Pop music and Televison shows such as “Happening 70” and the magazine Go-Set, long hair and flared jeans.  Overseas bands like Led Zepplin, Jethro Tull, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, and artists such as Jimi Hendrix and Janice Joplin to name just a few were the rage.  Australian bands such as The Zoot, The Valentines, The Sect, The Master Apprentices, Max Merit and the Meteors, Billy Thorpe and the Aztecs, and individuals such as Doug Parkinson, Russell Morris and Ronnie Burns, John Blanchefield, Wendy Saddington, again to mention a few, were the home grown favourites.

     Then in the seventies, I was living in Toowoomba, Queensland, and bought my first electric guitar.  I tried my hand at writing my first song and if I recall rightly it was called, “Why Must People Die.”  As teenagers, we had looked up to so many artists as mentors and sadly a number of them had died as a result of depression, drugs and drink.  We thought they had it all and couldn’t understand why they died so young.

    A couple of years later I was married and along came four children and a busy life of raising the family.  My wife’s dad was an old Drover and we went back to live in Roma and he began to take me under his wing and taught me how to break in horses and bush work.  I guess after some years in the bush, the stories of Slim Dusty began to have an influence on me and I loved the Australiana influence in his songs.

     In the late eighties I began to have an interest in Genealogy and set about researching my mother’s fathers family and came across so many good stories that I thought there had to be a way to preserve them.  My guitar playing was pretty limited and my vocals weren’t that crash hot so my new mentor around that period was Keith Garvey who was a great Yarn Spinner and Rhyming Poet and it seemed to me that, rhyming verse could be the way to keep these stories alive.

     I began writing poems about my experiences in the bush and penned my first poem, “The Beneficial Duffing.”  Soon there was a whole swag of poems and I published them in my first book of verse called, “Tales of Uncle Jim.” in 1996.  I then became associated with the Australian Bush Poet’s Association and began performing my poems at competitions around the countryside. 

     Chris joined me after a while and between us we did very well over the years and began performing our own show of Bush Poetry and Yarns.  I eventually published eight books of verse and yarns and between Chris and I we were seven time finalists in the Australian Bush Laureate Awards in Tamworth.  We also recorded four bush poetry albums together.

       My first trip to the Tamworth Country Music Festival, which incorporated Bush Poetry, was in 1996 and I began to meet many of the Australian Bush Balladeers and they started an Association themselves.  In 2005 Chris and I were invited to the Katherine Country Music Festival to perform Poet’s Breakfasts and I decided to enter the lyrics to a song that I had written in the Lyrics Only Section of their written competition and to my surprise I won it.  The next year I entered some more lyrics in the Tamworth Songwriters Association’s National Country Music Competition and picked up three out of the five finalist nominations in the lyrics only and won.  The following year 2006, I won the lyrics only again at the Katherine’s Northern Territory Song Writing Competition.

      Since my debut at the T.S.A. awards in Tamworth and entering the lyrics only section in 2006 I have picked up seventeen out of the forty-seven finalist spots available in 2006/7/8/9/10/11 /12 and 13 and won the section in 2006/7/9/10/11.  I have recorded six albums since 2004, which feature my bush ballads and bush verse and we enjoy performing them in our Bush Poetry, Ballads and Yarns shows at various Festivals.  In 2012 my song ‘I Never Cried for Elvis but I Shed a Tear for Slim’ was included in the Not So Dusty 2 album released by Nulla Nulla Records. 

         The following are a collection of the songs that I have written over the years and to date I have had some of them recorded by Denise Brooks and Bobby Magee, Meagan Webster, Alan Luscombe and John Battle, John Smith and Lynne Bennett.  Throughout my life and travels I have found that there are some wonderful stories out there to be told and it has given me great pleasure to put them to lyrics and to find a melody, for others to enjoy.

  Bush Poet and Songwriter/Balladeer

 Mervyn John Webster

R.M. WILLIAMS - A MAN WHO HAD TRIED

© Merv Webster

     Not long after the passing of Slim we would lose another great Australian in R.M. Williams on the 5^th November 2003.  Chris and I had the opportunity to met Reg one night whilst performing at the Barcladine Heritage Centre.  We had a chat after the show about bush poetry and his involvement over the years and the one thing that he mentioned was that he would like to be remembered as a man who had tried.

    This though then inspired me to write the above lyrics to a man who had tried and achieved so much in his lifetime.  The song was released on “The Bushman & The Balladeer EP/CD in 2004 and also on the “Bard to Balladeer” album in 2006.  It was also included in the “Bush Verse and Ballads” album in 2010.

CHASING BUTTONS

From his home-made wooden rocker my dad beckoned with his hand,
as his wasting frame would not allow the dying man to stand
and he handed me two buttons, that were worn and on a chain, 
then he whispered of their origins while grimacing with pain.
"These two buttons were my father's lad and from a prison shirt
that dad wore because he'd beat a man who'd treated him like dirt
He was placed in solitary and that added to his shame
so to stay sane in that darkness … well he played this little game.

"He would throw those two white buttons in the black void of that room
and he'd search until he found them in his quest to beat the gloom.
Yes he'd throw those two white buttons and they kept the poor man sane,
till they finally released him and my dad came home again.

"When I met your darling mother son I felt right from the start
that this girl was something special and I knew deep in my heart
that we'd marry and have family and son the dream came true,
but it broke me when I lost her, after she gave birth to you.
"Though I had you to remember her, I nearly lost my mind
and I'd ask God in my darkened room why was life so unkind.
But my dad came to the rescue and placed in my hand one day
two white buttons and revealed to me a game he used to play.

"Yes I'd throw those two white buttons in the black void of that room
and I'd search until I found them in my quest to beat the gloom.
Yes I'd throw those two white buttons and they somehow kept me sane
till I found a little peace of mind and was your dad again.

"Still we've shared a lot of years since then and son you're now a man
and I know you love your family and do the best you can.
I do not have much to leave you just these worn out buttons lad
and the knowledge that I loved you and was proud to be your dad."
Then his hand slumped off the rocker and dad's spirit left that night
and him lying there and free of pain was such a peaceful sight.
Though at night I'd sit there in the dark, depressed and feeling blue,
till I took to throwing buttons, just like my dad used to do. 

Yes I'd throw those two white buttons in the black void of that room
and I'd search until I found them in my quest to beat the gloom.
Yes I'd throw those two white buttons and they somehow kept me sane
and I thanked my dad and grandpa for those buttons on that chain.

© Merv Webster

     Whilst visiting the Dubbo Jail some years back, I listened to a recorded message coming from an isolation cell of a supposed inmate.  He told how the Traps purposely goaded inmates into misdemeanours and then placed them in solitary.  He said many went mad in the dark, but he’d pull the buttons off his shirt and throw them in the cell and look for them to maintain his sanity.  This inspired the above song.  It was a Finalist and Winner of the Lyrics Only section of the 2005 Northern Territory Country Music Songwriting Awards.   Also a finalist in the Tamworth T.S.A. Lyrics Only in 2006.

SON PLAY ANOTHER COSTER SONG

The old man clutched his walker as he slowly shuffled by, 
Then paused and turned towards me with a glint in his old eye 
I sensed he liked the Coster song that I was knocking out
And something 'bout the way he smiled sure left me in no doubt. 

Then as I strummed the final chord he winked and smiled some more
And something told me this old man loved ballads that's for sure.
He threw three gold coins in my case and wished me all the best,
Then with a frail and feeble voice he whispered this request.

"Son play another Coster song and make an old man's day.
I haven't many up my sleeve or so the Doctor's say. 
You sing and paint the pictures lad of words Stan put to pen 
And let me share the memories of a life I lived back then.

I said old man I'd feel real proud to sing this one for you,
'cause surely it's my fav'rite song and mate perhaps yours too. 
He closed his eyes and drifted off and it was plain to see 
that this old man was warming to a gidyea memory.

The years spent out on stock routes with a creaking wagonette,
a pair of dusty moleskins and those mates you don't forget.
Black tea and camp made damper and a swag wrap for a bed
and all the while the old man's words were ringing in my head. 

"Son play another Coster song and make an old man's day.
I haven't many up my sleeve or so the Doctor's say.
You sing and paint the pictures lad of words Stan put to pen 
And let me share the memories of a life I lived back then.

He tipped his old Akubra back and reached out with his hand
And though the years had sapped his strength his grip was mighty grand.
"Son Coster had a gift you see to tell things how they were,
His ballads reached the hearts of folk, to this I can concur.

We miss the old mate and his wife; god bless their mortal souls,
So keep the mem'ries burning like a fire of gidyea coals.
Then as I watched him shuffle off, I treasured what he said,
'Cause that wise man was my old dad. God bless his old grey head. 

"Son play another Coster song and make an old man's day.
I haven't many up my sleeve or so the Doctor's say.
You sing and paint the pictures lad of words Stan put to pen 
And let me share the memories of a life I lived back then.

© Merv Webster

     Tracy Coster and her dad Stan [in photo]

I never personally got to meet Stan Coster, as he had passed away by the time I began to have an interest in the Bush Balladeers scene, but I had an appreciation for his songs.  I wanted to write a tribute to the old mate and the above was the result. 

     It received a finalist nomination in the Lyrics Only of the S. E. Qld. Branch of the T. S. A. Songwriting Awards in 2006 and was placed 3^rd.  Picture below:  John and Eleanor Briskey Sundown Music.

GRANDAD'S CRUSTY DAMPER

I squatted 'neath the willow tree and memories came back
of childhood days with grandpa and the way he had the knack
of knowing how to pick a spot to cast your fishing rod
and luring out his fav'rite catch the good old murray cod.
He taught me how to clean my catch and how to bake it too
inside an old camp oven like his dad taught him to do.
We'd bake spuds in their jackets, but the thing that got to me'
was grandads crusty damper, cockey's joy and billy tea.

Yes golden crusty damper with some cocky's joy's a treat 
and washed down with some billy tea is really hard to beat.
He had a knack with most things, but the thing that got to me'
was grandads crusty damper, cockey's joy and billy tea.

This round-yard brings back memories I vividly recall,
my first ride on that young bay colt and how I took a fall.
Gramps taught me how to get back up, to take it in my stride,
despite my tattered ego and my bruised and battered pride.
I shared the dusty musterings, the branding in the yards
and how to cook bush oysters by the fire was on the cards.
I reckon they were chewy, but the thing that got to me'
was grandads crusty damper, cockey's joy and billy tea. 

Yes golden crusty damper with some cocky's joy's a treat 
and washed down with some billy tea is really hard to beat.
He had a knack with most things, but the thing that got to me'
was grandads crusty damper, cockey's joy and billy tea.

Returning to old 'Corkdale' now that grandad's passed away
has mustered many mem'ries of a bygone yesterday.
He was my friend and mentor and he taught me all I knew,
and the last word's that he whispered were, "I've left 'Corkdale' to you."
We had the wake just yesterday and Cat'rers made the spread
with lots of tasty sandwiches all made on shop baked bread.
I really liked the fillings, but the thing I missed you see
was grandads crusty damper, cockey's joy and billy tea.

Yes golden crusty damper with some cocky's joy's a treat 
and washed down with some billy tea is really hard to beat.
He had a knack with most things, but the thing I missed you see
was grandads crusty damper, cockey's joy and billy tea.

     I recall having had some great times fishing with my grandfather Jim Martyn in the McIntyre River at Goondiwindi and thought about how many others would have learnt things from their granfather’s as well.  These thoughts inspired me to write the above song.  The lyrics were entered in the Northern Territory Country Music Songwriting Awards and picked up a finalist spot and won in 2006. 

     This song was also included on the “From Bard to Balladeer” album in 2006 and the “Bush Verse and Ballads album in 2010.

     Back in the eighties I was working as an Electrical Linesman and one Sunday night we were called out to a property called Maintop west of Injune that had lost power.  The owner Waverly Jackson was away and had just killed some beef so we were able to help restore power.  Some years later while Emcee at the Surat Battered Bugle I actually got to meet him.  Wave was a ballad writer and had written a number of songs that had been recorded by Slim Dusty.

     As I began to go to various Bush Balladeer Festivals we became good friends and in 2005 Wave and Jeff Brown picked up a gold guitar for Wave’s song “Where the Yellow Kapocks Bloom”.  Wave then recorded his own album “A Snapshot of Queensland.”  In a lot of cases songwriters often write a tribute after the person dies so I thought I’d write a tribute for Wave while he was still with us. 

     “The Maintop Balladeer” was a finalist and winner in the 2005 Lyrics Only section of the Tamworth Songwriters Association’s National Country Music Songwriting Awards and recorded on the “Bard to Balladeer” album in 2006 and the “Bush Ballads and Verse” album in 2010.

          Wave Jackson           

THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE

 All those years of droving cattle 
hell they surely were a battle 
as my back hurts something woeful 
and I’m up near half the night. 
And I carry scars from busters                 
earnt in wild and wooly musters 
in the back blocks of this country 
where mad scrubbers take to flight.
       
And the years of bare back riding 
where my frame took a real hiding
and I gained the limp I live with
all those many years ago.
But my aches and pains all faded 
and I sat there kind of jaded 
when I heard our darling Sophie 
had been dealt another blow. 

You’re too young to have to suffer 
and your pain is so much rougher, 
but we see you as our hero
and the bravest of the brave. 
So dear Sophie keep your spirit 
and sweet angel please believe it 
When we tell you little darling 
you’re the bravest of the brave.
 
I recall how I was shattered
when I first saw how your battered
body fought to overcome the scars
of burns and loss of limbs.
In the outback I have ridden
with tough men I’ve known who’ve hidden
any sign of pain as weakness
and despite things looking grim.
 
But you’re tough as old boot leather
and I can’t say I have ever
seen such courage in a youngster
like you showed through that ordeal.
There are millions in this Nation
who hearts live in expectation
and we know your fighting spirit
will win out and help you heal.
 
You’re too young to have to suffer
and your pain is so much rougher,
but we see you as our hero
and the bravest of the brave.
So dear Sophie keep your spirit
and sweet angel please believe it
when we tell you little darling
you’re the bravest of the brave.

© Merv Webster

     On December 15 2003 Sophie first came to the attention of the public when she and Molly Wood, both two years old at the time, were badly injured when they were trapped under a burning car which had crashed through a gate into the Roundhouse Childcare Centre at Fairlight in Sydney, Australia. Sophie suffered burns to 85% of her body and lost feet, some fingers, and her right ear.

     Then on May 5, 2006 Sophie made national headlines a second time when she was again badly injured in a road accident. While being pushed across a pedestrian crossing in a wheelchair (by her nanny with her service dog Tara by her side) near her home in Sydney's northern beaches, she was hit by a car and thrown 18 metres. Sophie suffered a heart attack, a broken jaw and shoulder bone, bruising to her head, numerous rib fractures and a tear to her left lung.  Despite all this Sophie survived and continues to get on with her life.  Pictures below.

     I was inspired to write the tribute above to a very brave little girl.  The song was recorded on the “Bard to Balladeer” album in 2006 and also the “Bush Ballads and Vers” album in 2010.

SOPHIE DELIZIO

BOONDOOMA'S BALLADEER

In the back blocks of the Burnett there’s a Homestead by the road, 
where for one old white haired balladeer it once was his abode. 
Too today its restoration is a yoke he’s proud to wear 
and its pioneering mem’ries are a thing he loves to share.

You will often find him with an adze or broadaxe in his hand 
as he forms a piece of timber to the shape that’s in demand. 
His old clothes are soiled and tardy and his hat is battered too, 
but it shows where this man’s heart is and you sense that he’s true blue.

He’s the spirit of Boondooma, he’s its heart and soul as well 
while his ballads share its hist’ry and as far as I can tell; 
Buddy Thomson you’re its heartbeat and we’ll raise a glass and say 
that Boondooma’s Pioneer fam’lies would be proud of you today.

You’ve rekindled all those mem’ries through your sweat and toil old son
and the Homestead takes us back in time to when it all begun.
All your lyrics share the stories of those folk of long ago,
like the Lawsons, old Ted Potter, dear Jane Ann and George Munro.

Every picture tells a story and each room it has a tale
And the shop has many souvenirs available for sale.
While each building shares an era from our pioneering past
And Boondooma’s singing balladeer has made the mem’ries last.

He’s the spirit of Boondooma, he’s its heart and soul as well
while his ballads share its hist’ry and as far as I can tell;
Buddy Thomson you’re its heartbeat and we’ll raise a glass and say
that Boondooma’s Pioneer fam’lies would be proud of you today.

Now in April folk all muster and they go there in their throngs
keen to share the bush experience and listen to the songs
of the balladeers who join him and the poets too as well
and it’s one all mighty shindig and the crowds all think it’s swell. 

If you’re ever in the back blocks then please knock upon the door
and go share their hospitality, you’ll love it that’s for sure.
Take a tour back into history and reminisce a while
and perchance you meet old Buddy say g’day and crack a smile.

He’s the spirit of Boondooma, he’s its heart and soul as well
while his ballads share its hist’ry and as far as I can tell;
Buddy Thomson you’re its heartbeat and we’ll raise a glass and say
that Boondooma’s Pioneer fam’lies would be proud of you today.

© Merv Webster

 Buddy Thomson

    Boondooma Homestead was the centre of the original Boondooma Station, which was settled in 1846 by three young Scotsmen. It was originally bounded by the hill east of Proston, Brovinia Creek to the north, Darr Creek to the south, and the Dividing Range to the west – a total of nearly 1,000 square miles. The homestead is one of the few remaining examples of an elegant wooden home built 1854-55. Visitors can walk through several buildings constructed in the 1850s, and spend time in the gardens, enjoying trees and vines also dating from the 1850s.  Many/some people find connections with family members who lived or worked on Boondooma Station in years gone by.   South-east Queensland's premier balladeers' event is held every year to coincide with Heritage Weekend. It is held over five days, and always includes the fourth Saturday of April.      

     The first ‘Spirit of the Bush Balladeers' Muster’ was held in 2001. Work had started to restore the Stone Store and the Homestead. So, Buddy Thomson and his partner Lynne Bennett, being Bush Balladeers, organised this event as a fund-raiser for Boondooma Homestead. Six caravans arrived. Additional visitors stayed for the whole day and were entertained by balladeers who donated their time, free of charge. It was such a success, that it grew to a five day event. There is bush camping for 700-800 vans. The Poets' Breakfast begins each day, followed by invited artists and walk-up performers. There is only one stage, so most artists give only two items at a time and return later.  There are various stalls and displays. Volunteers prepare and cook a variety of food which are available for sale all day. We also operate a bar for a faithful few.  In the old homestead we display entries for our competitions for Art, Poetry, and Photography. (There is always a section for photos taken at the Boondooma Homestead complex.) Another popular event is the walk-up poetry and balladeers contest held on the front verandah of the homestead. This muster is always held on the week that includes Anzac Day. We have a good turn-out with a marching line that is long, and speeches that are short. On the Sunday we have an old-time church service at the homestead, with old hymns.   My tribute to Buddy was recorded on the Storyteller album.

SO MANY ROADSIDE EPITAPHS

Have you ever felt the freedom that just goes down hand in hand,
when you venture long the hi-ways and the bi-ways of this land?
There's the beauty of our coastlines and the vastness of the plains;
all the magic of the outback and those rugged mountain chains.

But I sense for some this freedom mate; it comes at such a cost, 
as the easements of our roadways show that many souls are lost.
All the endless names of loved ones etched in black bear witness to
all the heartache and the trauma that some families go through. 

How so many roadside epitaphs cry out to you and me,
that the freedom we all yearn for can exact a gruesome fee.
Don't ignore the chant, just listen, so that no soul died in vain 
and their constant plea may save you and your loved ones all the pain. 

All the names that flash before me on the backgrounds painted white,
stay like snapshots in an album and are such a haunting sight.
Then I'm constantly reminded that they all had played a role
and were precious sons or daughters and each one a loving soul.

Too perhaps some grieving fam'ly they have lost their mum and dad
or their grandma or grandfather and I find that kind of sad.
So when passing by these sentinels I'm forced now to reflect 
on the gift of life God gave us and to treat it with respect. 

How so many roadside epitaphs cry out to you and me,
that the freedom we all yearn for can exact a gruesome fee.
Don't ignore the chant, just listen, so that no soul died in vain 
and their constant plea may save you and your loved ones all the pain.

THE BALLAD OF FAYLENE ANDERSON

In one corner of a women’s cell in Wentworth’s squalid jail 
stands a frightened Faylene Andersen so pale and rather frail. 
She weeps tears amid the prayer she says and cannot understand 
why one singing Christian praises on a corner could be banned.

She was sentenced to a prison term of eight days by the judge 
and despite her lawyers pleadings the old codger wouldn’t budge.
The Salvation Army uniform revealed the young girl’s creed 
and her singing in the streets was deemed a blatant, lawless deed.

How the sight of that girl touched me as she stood there in that cell 
and the slim and prayerful figure was so frightened I could tell. 
Oh Faylene it seems unjust my dear that you should bear the shame 
for the act of singing publicly and praising the Lord’s name.

It would seem that other leaders of the Christian faiths ‘round town 
had seen fit to seek an ordinance that all good folk should frown 
on displays of public preaching and accept their righteous view, 
but I sense your faith just showed them up for what they couldn’t do.

You would suffer for their jealousy and face indignity
and you served not just one sentence, as I think they totalled three. 
Still I sensed your Master warned you of the trials that you might face 
and you carried your own torture stake with elegance and grace.

How the sight of that girl touched me as she stood there in that cell 
and the slim and prayerful figure was so frightened I could tell. 
Oh Faylene it seems unjust my dear that you should bear the shame 
for the act of singing publicly and praising the Lord’s name.

© Merv Webster

BLUEY'S REFLECTIONS

Blue was feeling melancholy and was far from feeling jolly 
by the window of his quarters on that moonlight night in May.
The old mate was broken hearted since young Jess and he had parted; 
that's the Jillaroo from Bancroft who had jilted him that day.

And old Blue would really miss her, as she was a bonzer kisser,
and he told this to a large green frog perched on the window ledge.
This poor Ringer felt quite horrid, as his hand held up his forehead,
and he gave the frog the run down like it was some privilege.

"Do you have a girlfriend froggy that just leaves your mind all foggy
When she puckers up to kiss you and she makes you feel on high?
As a kisser Jess was real hot and I reckon by a long shot, 
she was up their with the best of them … except perhaps for Di.

"She's the blonde girl that's a Nanny, on the place where my mate Danny
breaks in horses every summer, and a looker that's for sure. 
Mate this Di she was a goer and I'm glad I got to know her,
as that girl could suck your lips off and she'd leave you wanting more.

"But we broke up in the summer, which I thought was a real bummer,
so I hitched up with her cousin who'd come out to stay a while.
This gal was a city floozie and her name I think was Suzie
and her tongue it darned near choked me, but she certainly had style.

"Then she went back to the city, which I thought was a real pity,
still I met young Katie Swenson at the rodeo that night.
Sucking face was that girl's passion, but I soon went out of fashion,
as I found she kissed near anything that came within her sight.

"So it's hard mate just to pick one that I fancied as the best fun,
as they all bring back fond mem'ries, but they all slipped through my grip."
He just sat there quite dejected and it came quite unexpected
when a moth alighted on the top of poor old Bluey's lip.

The frog's tongue flew into action, but his aim was down a fraction
and it rattled the old tonsils in the back of Bluey's throat.
The old Ringer's eyes went teary and his sight went kind of bleary
and the words that bushman uttered I'm afraid I cannot quote.

To this day it's told by bush folk and believe me this is no joke,
It is ritual when Bluey goes to town and hits the grog;
That he tells the same sick story, how no girls can much the glory
of that moonlight night in May when he was tongue kissed by a frog.

© Merv Webster

     I was watching a frog on the kitchen window sill one night and saw how he went about catching a moth on the window.  Kind of blew me away how long his tongue was and then the imagination started running riot and penned these lyrics.  I recorded the song on the “Storyteller” album in 2008.

FLOWERS ON A FRIDAY

It was bucking bulls and cowboy busting broncos
And the challenge that accompanied each ride
That consumed the heart and mind of my young cowboy
And this fact my Buddy never tried to hide. 
I recall the time we met in Kelly's diner
He was busted up and feeling rather sore
But the cheque that paid the tab that I presented
Seemed to him to somehow even up the score.

He had eaten there that week and got acquainted,
And I somehow got to know this cowboy's mind
while the flowers that he gave me on that Friday
Surely showed beside his toughness, he was kind.
We were married in the summer six months later,
On a Friday I recall so very well,
Because Fridays he would always buy me flowers
And then go and ride those bulls and broncs from hell.

Buddy always bought me flowers on a Friday
As he knew I feared the rides that lay ahead
But my man his heart and soul was in his riding 
And my heart felt for this cowboy that I'd wed. 
Yes he always bought me flowers on a Friday
And I loved this cowboy that I planned to wed.

All our friends had shared that special evening with us
And we raged and partied well into the night,
Then we slipped away to share the morning hours, 
Til the dawn rose and revealed its splendid light.
We both showered and had breakfast at the roadhouse
Laughed and shared the joy that comes with wedded bliss, 
But I sensed a certain tiredness in my Buddy
And I prayed he'd give the ride that day a miss.

Buddy drew the brindle bombshell riders hated
And that beast exploded when it left the chute,
Twisting left then right and suddenly it stumbled
And my Buddy he was crushed by that great brute.
When it came to say goodbye to my sweet lover
There was one thing that I vowed I'd always do 
I would always bring him flowers on a Friday
And I'd tell his child about his father too.

Bud I'll always bring you flowers on a Friday
That's the one thing that I vow I'll always do.
Cause you always brought me flowers on a Friday
And your child will always bring you flowers too. 
Yes I'll always bring you flowers on a Friday
And your child will always bring you flowers too.

© Merv Webster

     For many years young men have put their skills against some of the meanest bulls there are to offer and sadly some of them have lost their lives doing it.  With that thought in mind and seeing a roadside sign that said “Flowers every Friday’ I was inspired to write the song.  It was a finalist in the 2006 Lyrics Only section of the Tamworth Songwriters Association’s National Country Music Song Writing Awards and also the Lyrics Only section S. E. Qld. Branch of the Tamworth Song Writers' Assoc.  It was recorded by my daughter Meagan on the “Storyteller” album in 2008.

 

KEEPING THE CULTURE

Since the founding of this nation all those many years ago
it's tradition to share stories 'round a campfire's warming glow.
From the ancient times of dreaming, right down to our very day, 
folk have shared our Aussie culture and each one in their own way.

But my heart yearns for the ballads that the rhyming poets pen 
and their skills in keeping mem'ries that they bring to life again.
Too the balladeers who play them in a good old pick and strum,
that I never find gets boring or just down right wearisome.

So then roll your swag and join us there'll be lots of fun for sure,
Out at Widgee and Boondooma or down South at Bungendore.
There'll be Balladeers and Poets sharing tales and singing songs
And you're welcome mates to join us and to be among the throngs.

There were those who went before us and they pioneered the way.
Men like Henry and The Banjo, who penned ballads in their day.
Too the likes of our mate Coster and the legendary Slim.
They all left a fine tradition that proved no mere passing whim.

'Cause that legacy still lingers with the young and not so old, 
and it's shared among the genders; they're a rather special mould.
They will keep the campfires burning so the dream can stay alive
as I sense they'll keep the culture and bush ballads will survive. 

So then roll your swag and join us there'll be lots of fun for sure
Out at Widgee and Boondooma or down South at Bungendore.
There'll be Balladeers and Poets sharing tales and singing songs
And you're welcome mates to join us and to be among the throngs

© Merv Webster

     Over the years I have enjoyed the association of many of Australia’s Bush Balladeers and joined many of them at the many festivals held throughout Australia.  One always wonders if this particular style of music will carry on in future generations, though I’m happy to say it has been great to see many youngsters taking it to heart and keeping the campfires burning.  Thought I’d write a few lyrics about it.

     In 2007 it was a finalist in the T.S.A.  Lyrics Only section of the Tamworth Song Writers Association’s Song Writing Awards and recorded on the “Storyteller” album in 2008.

DOWN ON DOGS AND DUCKS

You ask me why I’m playing here in Tamworth town today;
well simply put some best-laid plans can sadly go astray.
The box guitar I’d played for years was looking rather beat,
so thought I’d earn a dollar mate by singing in the street.

That’s when I saw beside me this Lion’s raffle being run;
a duck race worth a thousand bucks; a truly tidy sum.
Of course I bought a ticket, ‘cause I had in mind a scheme
to win that race so I could buy my long awaited dream.

My plan was using a pet carp that I’d bought for a steal
and figured when those plastic ducks were let loose on the Peel
I’d give that fish the drum you see what number to seek out
and he would guide my floating friend to victory no doubt.

I had it in the bag for sure I simply couldn’t lose,
so ducked down to the music store and then began to choose.
I’d have to max my credit card, but what the heck I thought,
tomorrow’s win will soon pay off this Taky that I bought.

The crowds were gathered long the Peel that balmy summers day
and then the starters gun went off; those ducks were on their way.
That’s when I clued my pet carp up and let the old mate go
and prayed like mad he’d find my duck and take him undertow.

He found him straight away of course and took him to the lead
and ducked around the floating sticks and lots of slimy weed.
But then he hit a submerged log and things were looking grim
as ducks now in their hundreds were all closing in on him.

Then as they drew beside him he then nudged him free at last
and once again he took the lead and swam near twice as fast.
The crowds were cheering wildly now, but not as loud as me;
just three more metres left to go and we had victory.

But from amidst the cheering crowd emerged this ball of fur,
that jumped into the flowing stream and then that mongrel curr,
he grabbed my little yellow duck and disappeared from sight
and suddenly I kissed my dream and win that day goodnight.

So that is why I’m playing in the street from morn to dark,
as paying off that credit card is looking rather stark.
Don’t ask me though to sing a song about a dog or duck
‘cause you’ve got Buckleys chance old son you’re simply out of luck.

© Merv Webster

     “Down On Dogs and Ducks” was a finalist and winner in the 2010 Lyrics Only section of the Tamworth Songwriters Association’s National Country Music Song Writing Awards and recorded on the “It’s Tough To Be a Kelly” album in 2010.

WHERE'S THE WATER GONE

There's a rather sad phenomenon that's plaguing our great land 
And just like the wary gambler it's about to play it's hand. 
All the signs have been quite evident and 'round now for a spell 
But we've fobbed them off, ignored them all, as far as I can tell.

From the times of early childhood when my fam'ly drove around 
All the creeks were full of water and the bores were rather sound, 
Sure enough the droughts they came and went but mate, I have to say
that our Nations running kind of dry, hard times are on the way.

Hey I think we've done our dash old son 'cause what is going on. 
All our dams and bores are getting low and where's the water gone.
We will have to make some changes and mate make them pretty fast,
as the water's disappearing and it sure as hell won't last. 

Though we've held bad hands in years gone by we've always lived in hope,
that the rains were some where in the deck and til then we would cope.
But the evidence is ominous and looking rather bleak
and we'd do well to consider all the havoc it could wreak.

We need each and every one of us to play a vital role,
as we're playing for high stakes here and there's need for self-control.
All will have to change the lifestyles that they've been accustomed to
And we'll have to play our hands right and seek out an Ace or two.

Hey I think we've done our dash old son 'cause what is going on.
All our dams are bores are getting low and where's the water gone.
We will have to make some changes and mate make them pretty fast,
As the water's disappearing and it sure as hell won't last.

© Merv Webster

MIDST THE MULGA

We were westward bound past Quilpie town and touring with our show
when we stopped to boil the billy mate and strike me don't you know;
there was nothing much but mulga on a drought strewn gibber plain,
when I wondered how folk lived out here and managed to stay sane.

Then I spied this Ringer mending fence, who waved and said, "G'day"
and I couldn't help but quiz the man,"What keeps you out this way?"
He just paused and tipped his soil, stained hat and yarded in his mind
pens of memories he'd mustered and he answered in a kind. 

Once you've lived out midst the Mulga mate and drunk from the Bulloo,
folk say something gets into your blood, there's little you can do.
No one knows what causes it old son, it's just a mystery,
so it's my guess you'll be back this way and that I'll guarantee. 

What that Ringer told me years ago proved pretty right you know.
We just keep on coming back this way and touring with our show.
They're a special breed of folk out here beyond the old Buloo,
as they make you feel real welcome and the country's magic too.

There's timelessness about the land, no need for push and shove
and the countless stars amidst the sky shine brilliantly above.
So then head out midst the mulga and experience the wealth
of this little piece of Queensland, hear the Ringer's words yourself.

Once you've lived out midst the Mulga mate and drunk from the Bulloo,
folk say something gets into your blood, there's little you can do.
No one knows what causes it old son, it's just a mystery,
so it's my guess you'll be back this way and that I'll guarantee. 

SOMETIMES I FORGET

As I peer into the gidyea coals before me
there are memories that drift back into mind.
Yes I see your laughing blue eyes oh so clearly
and your sweet smile surely was one of a kind.

I still feel my arms around you as we danced dear
too the time I kissed you out behind the hall.
But the time we both walked down the aisle together
is the memory I treasure most of all.

But then Annie when I turn to share those moments
how your absence leaves me sitting here upset.
As the fact you fell to cancer still slips by me. 
and some times dear Annie … some times … I forget

Still the fire’s dancing sparks that rise before me
tend to bring to mind the children that we reared.
How you taught them right from wrong throughout their childhood
whilst your tender nurturing showed me you cared.

And the vision of you standing in the kitchen
with your fav’rite apron strapped around your waist.
Brings a tear as I recall the cakes and biscuits
that our family just couldn’t wait to taste. 

But then Annie when I turn to share those moments
how your absence leaves me sitting here upset.
As the fact you fell to cancer still slips by me. 
and some times dear Annie … some times … I forget

As my hands reach out to feel the glowing embers 
it reminds me of the home we made our own. 
Yes I know you found it hard when all the children
had to leave our nest as they were now full grown.

But together we would travel this great country
and would share the beauty of this bounteous land.
We would often share a fire like this together;
share a cuppa and would hold each other’s hand.

But then Annie when I turn to share those moments
how your absence leaves me sitting here upset.
As the fact you fell to cancer still slips by me. 
and some times dear Annie … some times … I forget

© Merv Webster

     Over the years I have met many folk who lost a love one and years later recalled doing something they had loved doing together and went to tell them only to realize they were gone.  I personally had this experience as my dad had enjoyed his later years travelling with us to various festivals and after he died there were times when I would turn to my wife Chris and say I must tell dad about this and she would remind me, “Dad’s not here Merv.”  These lyrics are not meant to be a dirge or overwhelm folk with sadness but I wanted them to appreciate what wonderful things memories are.  I recorded this on my Ït’s Tough To Be a Kelly”” album.

THE TIMES HAVE CHANGED SO QUICKLY

There’s a gentle breeze that’s blowing midst the pine trees here tonight
as I watch the shadows dancing to the campfire’s flick’ring light.
Parked beside me are the comforts of a brand new four-wheel drive
and a modern pop-top caravan to help us folk survive.

Then my thoughts they slowly drifted back to days of long ago;
to the creak of drays and wagons and the cry of Cobb & Co.
Though your battling pioneer spirit is a thing I do admire,
sadly all we share in common is a cosy roadside fire.

How the times have changed so quickly as the cent’ries slip away
but in awe we trace your footsteps with the mod cons of today. 
And I sense beside the campfire there’s still something else we share.
Yes the pride in this great Nation that advanced Australia Fair.

With your bullocks and your horses you trudged down the long red road
always heading further westward searching out a new abode.
And you bore the searing summers heat the chill of winter too
till you found a piece of country where you made your dreams come true.

But just like the wand’ring turtle our home follows close behind,
With our fridge and gas stove with us and a beer or wine in mind.
We enjoy the air conditioning or the heater in our van
Though like you I share a campfire by the roadside if I can.

How the times have changed so quickly as the cent’ries slip away
but in awe we trace your footsteps with the mod cons of today.
And I sense beside the campfire there’s still something else we share.
Yes the pride in this great Nation that advanced Australia Fair.

© Merv Webster

     The inspiration for these lyrics came to me while returning from the Mildura Country Music Festival.  We decided to head up the Kidman Way and one night camped on the southern side of Cobar.  After setting up camp and lighting a fire, the thought came to me of the old Pioneers who would have travelled this way in early years and after considering how they travelled and the conditions they would have faced it became apparent to me that the only thing we had in common was the campfire. 

      In 2009 it was a finalist in the T.S.A.  Lyrics Only section of the Tamworth Songwriters Association’s Songwriting Awards and recorded on the “It’s tough To Be a Kelly” album in 2010.

AUSTRALIA'S BECKONING CALL

Can you hear the distant echo of the haunting didgeridoo 
as it pulses through the airwaves … yes my friend it's calling you. 
To this land beneath the Southern Cross … it welcomes one and all 
and its drone spells out a message … can you hear its beckoning call?

So come share our hospitality and shake an Aussie hand.
Mate, enjoy a trip down under … share the culture of our land.
It abounds with natural beauty from its coasts to Uluru 
and you'll share our nation's freedom just like we have learnt to do.

You're invited friends to join us … on a wondrous holiday 
where the sun, our surf and golden sands are yours in which to play. 
We've the Opera House and Harbour Bridge, The Reef and Kakadu 
and experience the magic of a Darwin sunset too.

Can you hear the distant echo of the haunting didgeridoo 
as it pulses through the airwaves … yes my friend it's calling you. 
To this land beneath the Southern Cross … it welcomes one and all
and its drone spells out a message … can you hear its beckoning call?

Come and cuddle a Koala, feed our unique kangaroo
see our Emu and our wombat and our talking cockatoo. 
Boil a billy, bake a damper, share a campfire's flickering light, 
in our vast Australian outback on a glorious star filled night.

See the paintings and the craftwork of the aboriginee
and experience the stories of their dreamtime history.
More than anything you do here or wherever you may roam
we'd just like to say you're welcome and please make yourself at home.

Can you hear the distant echo of the haunting didgeridoo 
as it pulses through the airwaves … yes my friend it's calling you. 
To this land we call Australia, which welcomes one and all
and its drone spells out a message … can you hear its beckoning call?

© Merv Webster

     I was inspired to write this song as there was a National competition that required a song to express the spirit of Australia to overseas tourists.  Never got around to entering it but it was recorded by Denise Brooks and Bobby Magee on their album “The Balladeer and the Sailor”.

HARD HAT HEROES

There's a breed of Aussie hero who have served this nation well,
and they don a yellow uniform to face the fires of hell.
When day temperatures are soaring and high winds blow at a gust,
when our bush land is ignited; it's in them we place our trust. 
Yes, you're all somebody's daughter and you're all somebody's son; 
you are mothers and you're fathers. Hard hat heroes everyone.

When their mates are in the hot seat and they need a helping hand,
they will volunteer their services from stations 'cross this land.
Whether country towns or cities or a small bush fire brigade;
they will gladly throw their hats in and will offer their mates aide.
Yes, you're all somebody's daughter and you're all somebody's son;
you are mothers and you're fathers. Hard hat heroes everyone.

Do you owe your home or property, your very lives perhaps? 
To the selfless, honest, efforts of these bold fire-fighting chaps. 
Or still sadly you lost everything, but proudly can attest
to their fierce determination as each brave soul did their best. 
Yes, you're all somebody's daughter and you're all somebody's son;
you are mothers and you're fathers. Hard hat heroes everyone.

So I ask you all to join me, as we stand and raise a glass
to the courage and the spirit of this fire fighting, class;
and I'm sure you'd love to join me as this message we impart, 
"You're all true blue hard hat heroes and we thank you from the heart."
Yes, you're all somebody's daughter and you're all somebody's son;
you are mothers and you're fathers. Hard hat heroes everyone.

© Merv Webster

     After watching and hearing of the many devastating fires that ravaged communities over the years, I was watching a procession in Sydney in honour of all the Fire Fighters.  The one thing that stood out in the procession was all the coloured white and yellow hard hats they wore and it inspired me to write a tribute to these folk.

     The song was also recorded recorded by Denise Brooks and Bobby Magee on their album “The Balladeer and the Sailor”.  Denise did the vocals and Bob added the melody.  It also received the Poetry Soup International Award of Excellence in the Outstanding Poetic Achievement Poetry Soup.

THE ROSE FROM THE GARDEN

From the garden of life I was handed a rose.
though a bud yet to blossom
I loved her God knows.

And for years she was mine, gave me pleasure in life,
Always stood there beside me
In good times and strife.

There were thorns on the stem but then everyone knows
They both add to its beauty.
together they grow.

In this time she had blossomed unnoticed by me,
how she cried for attention,
"Please love me!" cried she.

Then a friend he had noticed her there on the shelf
And admiring her beauty
desired her himself.

So he watered and nutured her behind my back;
my poor rose she was hurting,
her petals turned black.

In a desp'prate last bid she then cried in despair,
to her owner and lover,
"Please show me you care!"

Then I saw how I'd hurt her, been callous and cruel,
I had near lost my rosebud;
you poor stupid fool.

Oh the pain in my heart how it cut like a knife
for that rose from the garden
was you, my sweet wife.

© Merv Webster

     Sadly, over the years I watched as my friend’s marriages broke up, as the passing of years had bred familiarity and contempt.  Often it was a so-called friend who took advantage of one of the wounded parties for their own selfish ends.  Happily in some cases, the deep seated love for each other was enough to bring them to their senses and mended their wounds.  These thoughts inspired the lyrics to this poem and it was recorded by Bob Magee on their album “The Balladeer and the Sailor”.  Bob did the vocals and added the melody.

THE SAILOR AND THE BALLADEER

This man in black with his guitar is just one half of me
as once I was a Sailor who enjoyed a life at sea.
My love was singing country and bush ballads weren't my style,
but then I met this balladeer, which made it all worthwhile.

Yes I'm the balladeer who changed his life I'm proud to say;
a girl who sings bush ballads in our own Australian way.
I grew up in the back blocks and I'd never been to sea
as sailing was too scary for a country girl like me.

Though music was a kindred thread that helped us compromise;
the Sailor's playing Ballads to the Balladeer;s surprise.
And cupid's dart can change one's heart, she's sailing too these days
and now we love to share life's stage in oh so many ways.

My life is so much diff'rent now though I've not one regret
as life with my sweet balladeer is good as life can get.
We share our love, our music and occasionally the sea.
What more could this old Sailor want? I'm happy as can be.

I learnt in life that dreams come true as I am living mine
and singing with my man in black is surely something fine.
I sense he loves his country and still talks about the sea,
but now I know that Sailor man is more in love with me.

Yes music was a kindred thread that helped us compromise;,
the Sailor's playing Ballads to the Balladeer;s surprise.
And cupid's dart can change one's heart, she's sailing too these days
and now we love to share life's stage in oh so many ways.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster

After releasing their “The Balladeer and The Sailor” album Denise Brooks and Bob Magee told me the story behind the title.  Bob had been a Sailor and loved Country music while Denise was a country girl and loved bush ballads.  With this knowledge I was inspired to write a theme song for them and they recorded it on their “Brooks & Magee – On Tour” album.

I WISH I WAS A CROCODILE

We were gathered at a barbie down at Bazzas by the bay
and the blokes were watching Rugby on a World Cup Saturday.
But the lounge became a henhouse where the girls hung out that night,
though a dozen giggling sheilas are a rather sick'ning site.
They were gathered 'round the tele and they watched a video
where that blond haired bloke in khaki says, "Hey Crikey ... here's a go!"
He would sneak up on a crocodile and wrestle that large brute
and the girls would cry excitedly, " Oh Steve you are so cute!"

Yes they'd sigh and gasp in concord when Steve Irwin cracked his smile
and a dreamy eyed expression was implanted on each dile.
Then a loud resounding chorus echoed out in harmony, 
"Oh I wish I were a crocodile and Steve would wrestle me!"

Now we reckon if they want a smile that's manly; well then shucks; 
they should cop George Gregan's pearly whites their worth a million bucks.
And that cuddling poor old crocodiles to us was really tame; 
let him try to maul a Kiwi or a Springbok if he's game.

And that sickly untucked Khaki look, it really is a joke, 
but the green and gold looks ripper and real bonzer on a bloke.
Still the banter fell on deaf ears and us blokes we were ignored,
while Steve's antics kept them mesmerized and far from being bored.

Yes they'd sigh and gasp in concord when Steve Irwin cracked his smile
and a dreamy eyed expression was implanted on each dile.
Then a loud resounding chorus echoed out in harmony, 
"Oh I wish I were a crocodile and Steve would wrestle me!"

So us blokes we cheered more loudly when the Wallabies went in
and we'd drown their girly chorus with our raucous, rowdy din.
That was 'til the Springboks beat us and our cheers went out the door
and the beer went flat and tasteless and we couldn't take no more.

We all went into a huddle with a beer can in our hand,
then we marched into the lounge room to play out what we had planned.
Just as Steve jumped on a whopper and cried, "Crikey here's a go!"
All us blokes we chucked the towel in and we sat and watched the show.

Yes we sighed and gasped in concord when Steve Irwin cracked his smile
and a dreamy eyed expression was implanted on each dile.
Then a loud resounding chorus echoed out in harmony,
"Oh I wish I were a crocodile and Steve would wrestle me!"

© Merv Webster

     I’m not sure what inspired these lyrics but I think the Rugby World Cup was on at the time and Steve Irwin was a larger than life character, who became an Aussie icon for his love of wildlife and his endeavour to save their ecosystems.  You either loved or loathed Steve’s antics and I obviously thought he was the choice of character to include in the song “I Wish I Were a Crocodile”.  Sadly Steve was killed while diving on the Great Barrier Reef doing what he loved best on the 4^th December 2006.  Photo below:  Steve Irwin

     The lyrics won a finalist spot and took out second place in the Lyrics Only section S. E. Qld. Branch of the Tamworth Song Writers' Assoc. in 2006.  It was also a finalist and overall winner of the 2007 Lyrics Only section of the Tamworth Songwriters Association’s National Country Music Song Writing Awards.

MY POCKET FULL OF DREAMS

From the time I was a child with curly tresses 
I recall to mind what all the folks would say. 
How to them I was a little ray of sunshine
That would beam on down and brighten up their day. 
Oh I had so many dreams tucked in my pocket 
But I found in life that dreams can disappear 
And the love I thought I'd have in life forever
Well his love it wasn't what you'd call sincere.

Yes the sunshine in my world had all but vanished 
Clouded out by all his dark and nasty schemes. 
'Cause I feel betrayed and oh so broken hearted 
As he took with him my pocket full of dreams. 

He seemed sweet and made of what all girls would fancy
But he then revealed a darker side to me.
Soon the warmth and joy that we had shared together
Was a faded and a worn out memory.
He had slowly sapped the joy folk found infectious
For the mind games that he played were dark and cruel.
And the hurt was more than I could somehow manage,
I was sick and tired of playing out the fool.

Yes the sunshine in my world had all but vanished 
Clouded out by all his dark and nasty schemes.
'Cause I feel betrayed and oh so broken hearted
As he took with him my pocket full of dreams. 

In this world they say that time is the great healer,
But I felt that I could never love again,
Then you walked into my life and now my darling 
How your presence has extinguished all the pain. 
It's so nice to know my dreams have not been wasted
And I am so proud to be your loving wife 
How I love it when you whisper to me sweetly 
I'm the little ray of sunshine in your life.

Yes the sunshine in my world has reappeared now;
No more clouds with any dark and nasty schemes.
I no longer feel betrayed or broken hearted
You have given back my pocket full of dreams.

© Merv Webster

     The dreams of little girls should come true but sadly for some they don’t eventuate straight away and they experience years of pain before they do. The experience of a fellow singer songwriter inspired me to pen these lyrics.

I UNDERSTAND MATILDA

There’s a Cairn beside the highway near the creek in Drillham town
where I stopped to rest a moment and to lay my body down.
How the silence soothed my tiredness and it helped me to unwind
when the sound of children’s laughter seemed to echo through my mind.

But the laughter turned to silence, followed by a young boy’s cry,
then a mother’s constant weeping and I sat up wond’ring why.
Soon the answer lay before me on the plaque set there in stone
and the sad and tragic story well it cut me to the bone.

Now I understand Matilda why you weep the tears you do
as four children drowned that evening and they all belonged to you.
You would lose your three sweet daughters and your eldest son in play
‘neath the cold and muddy waters of the creek that fateful day.
Now I understand Matilda why you weep the tears you do.

You had left your home in Germany to start a brand new life
and then Charles F. Roehrig asked you if you might became his wife.
You would purchase land in Drillham back in eighteen eighty four
as your man worked on the railway to keep hunger from your door.

It took place that day in Janu’ry of eighteen ninety three,
after lunching with your husband and your growing family,
Who’d have guessed the sound of laughter could destroy a mother’s soul
and the Weir that sunny evening how it played a luring role.

Now I understand Matilda why you weep the tears you do
as four children drowned that evening and they all belonged to you.
You would lose your three sweet daughters and your eldest son in play
‘neath the cold and muddy waters of the creek that fateful day.
Now I understand Matilda why you weep the tears you do.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster

THE RANKINE RUSH DEBATE

There's a tale I find amusing that I'd kind of like to share
'bout two Ringers in the top end and a query they solved there.
Both the men had been debating in the Rankine Store one day
about animals and rushes, but t'was in a friendly way.

One lay claim that any animal would rush without a doubt,
though the other Ringer questioned him and finally spat out
That domestic animals don't rush, the tale it was absurd;
and it was the darndest bush debate that I had ever heard. 

It was true that some old drunken cook swore black and blue he'd seen,
up around McArthur River way a rather dubious scene.
He'd observed with his own eyes one day some thirty cats or more 
that had rushed inside a meat house and took out the west side wall.

Then while heading back to camp that ave they passed the old goat shed,
where the publican housed all her goats and then one chap he said.
"Mate let's settle this rush business here with Mrs Fowler's herd".
And it was the darndest bush debate that I had ever heard. 

He then climbed onto the iron shed and cried, "Mate here's your proof!"
and then gave the biggest bellow as he jumped on that old roof.
The result was instantaneous and devastating too
as them goats they flattened one side wall and then they all shot through.

The old Ringer he had proved his point and settled that debate,
but next day down at the Rankine Store Ma Fowler was irate;
as it was the only wat'ring hole, they never said a word,
though it was the darndest bush debate that I had ever heard.

THE DEBUT DEBACLE

I am sure that we’ve all had a dream or two mate 
that’s been waiting to see light of day
and I don’t mind admitting I had one myself
but misfortunate near stole it away.
For some years I had dabbled in playing guitar
and had written a lyric or two .
I just needed an offer to play on a stage;
some occasion to make my debut.

Then my moment arrived when a big show hit town
and they sought out a local to star.
I was nervous as hell when I walked on that stage
just myself and my old box guitar.
With the whole town in view and my family too
how I prayed that I’d nail my first song. 
So I sucked in a breath and I tipped back my hat 
and just hoped that I’d do nothing wrong.

But my debut debacle it was quite a sight,
as my thumb pick got caught in a string.
Then the microphone drooped and I had to squat down
and I sure found it awkward to sing.
The old nerves they were shot when the E string went snap
and my capo it broke right in two.
I was way out of key but continued to play; 
oh what else was a poor bloke to do. 

Man it’s sure hard to smile when you’re crying inside 
and you wish that the curtain would fall.
When it ran through my mind that perhaps old Slim too 
would have probably gone through it all.
But the show must go on, as the old saying goes, 
and I’ve only the chorus to go. 
Would they throw things and boo or pull me off stage 
for the mess that I made of the show. 

Though the crowd didn’t mind and they all sang along 
and it suddenly made all things right. 
So I ran with it twice and it sure proved to me 
that they treated me kindly that night.
Well I’ve played a few gigs since that night way back then
and my dream has now seen light of day. 
Still for all of you folk who might have dreams as well
there are hurdles to jump on the way.

Yes my debut debacle it was quite a sight,
as my thumb pick got caught in a string.
Then the microphone drooped and I had to squat down 
and I sure found it awkward to sing. 
The old nerves they were shot when the E string went snap 
and my capo it broke right in two.
I was way out of key but continued to play;
oh what else was a poor bloke to do. 

IT'S TIME WE WENT TO TOWN

His aged eyes showed a twinkle 
that I hadn’t seen in years.
He’d been so used to starving stock,
the endless drought upon his block,
and long hot nights just fighting off the tears.

For eight straight years he’d struggled,
cut mulga to survive.
He’d watch each day the cloudless sky
while creeks and dams went slowly dry
and wondered if he’d keep the cows alive.

It’s great to see him smiling
now the Monsoons have come down.
“The creeks are full” I heard him cry 
and grass is waving stirrup high;
so get dressed love it’s time we went to town.

We hadn’t spent a razoo 
on ourselves through all that time.
It went on supplememts and hay
and carting water ev’ry day; 
believe me it has been an up hill climb.

It’s part and parcel sadly,
with living on the land.
But when it’s all you’ve ever known
and all your dreams are all bush grown;
that’s life mate and you simply take a stand.

It’s great to see him smiling
now the Monsoons have come down.
“The creeks are full” I heard him cry 
and grass is waving stirrup high;
so get dressed love it’s time we went to town.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster

WHEN YOU OUTLIVE YOUR DREAMS

I met him while performing at a nursing home 
and sensed he wished to share a thought it seems.
He whispered I’ve reached ninety and feel so alone. 
How can you get to outlive all your dreams?

This man had spent a lifetime making them come true 
though sadly he had lost them ‘long the way.
This bushman’s vivid mem’ries; just torment him now. 
But still the mental pictures fill his day.

It’s sad when in a lifetime you outlive your dreams; 
the ones who shared your journey ‘long the way. 
Your wife and all your children, workmates and your friends 
You outlive all your Dreams of yesterday.

No stimulating friendships amid these city folk. 
Just aging souls who have their struggles too.
Three meals a day and nursing; day in and day out. 
That’s all a bloke in this place gets to do.

I thought about the quandary the old man put to me 
and made a promise that I meant to keep.
I sat with him each Wednesday, for a month or two 
until one morn he found sweet peace in sleep.

It’s sad when in a lifetime you outlive your dreams; 
the ones who shared your journey ‘long the way. 
Your wife and all your children, workmates and your friends 
You outlive all your Dreams of yesterday.

© Bush Poet and Ballad Writer - Merv Webster

     Some years ago while performing in a nursing home I met an elderly gentleman who had lived his life in the bush, but had lost his wife and children and most of his friends and was now living in the city in the nursing home.  He told me his story and how lonely life was.  This inspired the song.

MY MOTHER'S NAME WAS FRY


The Doctor stood by the old man’s bed and he somehow had no doubt
this Bushman knew the chips were down, his time was running out. 
His weathered face and his wiry frame, told a tale that in his day;
He’d travelled down the road of life, met tough times ‘long the way.

The Doctor asked in a gentle voice have you kin at all old mate.
A mum and dad or wife and kids; to keep the records straight.
My wife and child have been gone some time, as I lost them years ago
and as regards my parents well there’s little that I know.

Some say my dad was a Ringer Boss though he could not read or write
and poison in a water hole had claimed his life one night. 
While others say that he died of fear that some ghost caused him to die
but one fact that I’m sure of is my mother’s name was Fry.

I never drank throughout my life and I worked on Properties
I’d rake and ride those twisters Boss and rope and plait with ease.
I’ve tracked lost men who’d been lost at night and I counter lined as well
old saddles for a quid or two when out of work a spell.

My mother died so the story goes when I turned the age of five
and I was raised by Mission folk that’s how I stayed alive.
The girl I wed was a lovely lass and our son his name was Snow,
but as regards my father’s life there’s little that I know.

Some say my dad was a Ringer Boss though he could not read or write
and poison in a water hole had claimed his life one night. 
While others say that he died of fear that some ghost caused him to die
but one fact that I’m sure of is my mother’s name was Fry.

©Merv Webster 

     Some years ago Joe Daley wrote a song that he gave to Slim Dusty and after working on it Slim recorded it and called it Trumby.  It became a big hit and it was often played as a cover version by many artists.  Some time later Stan Coster wrote a sequel that he called Trumby’s Ghost. 

     The lyrics very cleverly threw in a twist, in that the writer suggests that he had heard an old man say that Dogger Fry’s may have run off with Trumby and left it at that.  Now that both these great songwriter’s are no longer with us I thought I’d like to keep the sequel thing going and was inspired to write these lyrics.

  The song was recorded by Alan Luscombe in 2010 on his ’’Outback country Style” album  .