g writer -  ERV WEBSTER

                                                                          The songs below are registered with APRA.

If you are looking for songs then please contact me.

                                                                          Merv Webster:     thegrey@tpg.com.au

                                                                          Phone:                07 4159 1868

* Finalist or winning lyrics in various song writing competitions.

*Lyrics that have been put to music and recorded

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R.M. WILLIAMS - A MAN WHO HAD TRIED

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

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I NEVER CRIED FOR ELVIS BUT I SHED A TEAR FOR SLIM

Perhaps I'd heard it wrong somehow that quiet September day,
     But no, the words rang in my head. Slim Dusty's passed away.
I knew the old bloke had been crook and not that well of late.
     Still, legends live forever … though … it seems I'm wrong old mate.

Like Lawson you could tell a tale about the average bloke,
     Though sung them in the ballad style backed by a guitar stroke.
Your songs portrayed an image which aroused our Aussie pride
     And most of us we shed a tear when poor old Trumby died.

                    So rest in peace for now old friend until the trumpet calls;
                    The spirit of your ballads, mate, ring through life's memories halls.
                    A lifetimes dedication proves you were no passing whim;
                    I never cried for Elvis, but I shed a tear for Slim.

 You walked a mile or two we know, through muddy tracks and dry
      And entertained a lot of folk and made them laugh or cry.
 You pioneered an industry and did the real hard yards
      And kept alive the sentiments of yesterday's bush bards.

A myriad of campfires echoed tunes that bore your brand.
     The Pub With No Beer, Duncan; just two that come to hand.
You made us feel Australian with a sense of wrong and right.
     The city bloke, the bushy, whether brindle, black or white.

                    So rest in peace for now old friend until the trumpet calls;
                    The spirit of your ballads, mate, ring through life's memories halls.
                    A lifetimes dedication proves you were no passing whim;
                    I never cried for Elvis, but I shed a tear for Slim. 

They said goodbye in style that day and gathered in their throngs 
     And old St Andrews echoed to a melody of songs.
Your passing's left us empty mate, we've lost a true blue friend
     And no one lives forever, but the memories will not end.

I know we lost an icon, but his family lost much more,
     A father, grandad, soul mate, of that I am quite sure. 
We stand and we salute you Slim despite the fact we know
     The final curtain's fallen on the last Slim Dusty show. 

                    So rest in peace for now old friend until the trumpet calls;
                    The spirit of your ballads, mate, ring through life's memories halls.
                    A lifetimes dedication proves you were no passing whim;
                    I never cried for Elvis, but I shed a tear for Slim.

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ON ANY OF THE ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

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Behind many singers of songs are the songwriters and one man who has dedicated a life time to writing ballads is Wave Jackson.  I've known Wave for some years now and felt I'd kick the old tradition of waiting until someone moves on before they write a tribute to them.  My tribute to a man who continues to enjoy his song writing.

THE MAINTOP BALLADEER

There's a bloke I'd like you all to know whose Aussie through and through,
From his felt hat to his R.M. boots, he ridgy didge, true blue.
He was born in Roma, Queensland, back in nineteen thirty-three
And his parents were from sturdy stock, a pioneer family.
Station life was in this young man's blood and one can understand
Why he took to writing lyrics based on things he knew first hand;
Those loved tales of some lad's 'Silver Spurs', the 'Rutland Rodeo'
And 'A Time When I Was Mustering' he penned so long ago.

Chorus
Yes, his heart is in his lyrics this tall man from Injune way
And he's had his songs recorded by top artists in his day.
Yes, Wave Jackson loves his ballads and mate let me make this clear
He's admired in music circles as the Maintop Balladeer.


Old Mac Cormack and Joe Daley both wrote lyrics by the score
And along with Wave and Coster … hell they made an awesome four.
They all had their songs recorded by Slim Dusty through the years
And these men are all respected to this day by all their peers.
Wave continues this tradition and he still writes to this day
And now picks and strums a Maton in the true bush ballad way.
You will find him at most Musters and he's happy as can be
As today he shares his talents on his very own CD. 

Yes, his heart is in his lyrics this tall man from Injune way 
And he's had his songs recorded by top artists in his day. 
Yes, Wave Jackson loves his ballads and mate let me make this clear 
He's admired in music circles as the Maintop Balladeer.

Wave has travelled 'round Australia and he'll tell you that he's sold
On the fact there lots of songs out there just waiting to be told.
He then proved this down in Tamworth when he won a gold guitar
And of all his fine achievements it's the best he says so far.
It has been a wondrous innings for this gentleman of song
And I hope things will continue and his journey will be long.
He's a real true blue Australian and they are but far and few
And I'm proud to have him as a mate and share his song with you.

Yes, his heart is in his lyrics this tall man from Injune way 
And he's had his songs recorded by top artists in his day. 
Yes, Wave Jackson loves his ballads and mate let me make this clear 
He's admired in music circles as the Maintop Balladeer.


©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ON THE ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

                                   Wave Jacksony[Right]             Finalist/ Winner  2006 TSA Song Writing Awards - Lyrics Only

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CHA

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SWhile visiting the Dubbo jail we listened to a recording of an inmate placed in solitary confinement and he went on to tell us that the only way he could stay sane in the dark was to tear the buttons of his shirt and throw them in the room and go looking for them to keep his mind active.  Sometimes in life we face many confronting issues and often try to look for complex solutions to solve them when perhaps all we need to do is do something simple like chasing buttons.

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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

Finalist and winner of  Lyrics Only  at 2005 Katherine Country Music Muster Northern Territory Country Music Awards & Finalist  2006 TSA Song Writing Awards Tamworth.
But my dad came to the rescue and placed in my hand one day
two white buttons and revealed to me a game he us[TOP OF THE PAGE]e

d to play.

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"Yes I'd throwose two white buttons in the black void of that room
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.

CHORUS 

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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

Finalist and Winner of the Lyrics Only at the 2006 Northern Territory Songwriting Awards at the Katherine Country Music Muster.

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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.

Chorus
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.
.
Chorus
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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Finalist in 2006 Lyrics Only Section T.S.A. Song Writing Awards and Finalist in the 2006 Lyrics Only Section of the S.E. Queensland T.S.A. Song Writing Awards

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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.

CHORUS

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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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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.

CHORUS 

"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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ON ANY OF THE ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

Tracy Coster and her dad Stan [photo]

3rd Place in Lyrics Only at 2006 S.E. Queensland Branch T.S.A. Song Writing Awards

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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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Poetry Soup International Award of Excellence in the Outstanding Poetic Achievement Poetry Soup

Recorded by Brooks and Magee on their CD 'The Sailor and the Balladeer'. Awards July 2006.

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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!"

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

22nd Place in Lyrics Only at the 2006 S.E. Queensland Branch T.S.A. Song Writing Awards 

Finalist of the Lyrics Only section the 2007 Tamworth Songwriters's Association Songwriting Awards

Winner of the Lyrics Only section the 2007 Tamworth Songwriters's Association Songwriting Awards

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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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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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?

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded by Brooks and Magee on their CD 'The Sailor and the Balladeer'.

CLICK ON ICON ABOVE TO LISTEN

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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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded by Brooks and Magee on their CD 'The Sailor and the Balladeer'.

CLICK ON ICON ABOVE TO LISTEN

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 whThe drought of 1902-03 was very severe in sout-west Queensland and the poem above was based on a real experience.  Bush folk are a resiliant lot and today the young man's sons carry on the tradition of raising beef cattle in the district.   Piccaninny Dawn won the Inaugral Bush Lantern Award for written verse at the Bundy Mob's Bush Poets Muster.

ite buttons and they somehow kept me sane
PICCANINNY DAWN

The old man and his grandson viewed 
A barren bladeless ground, 
When to his left the young lad's eye 
Saw bleached bones scattered 'round. 
'Twas more than one beast's bones that lay 
There exposed to the sun. 
It seemed more like a battlefield 
Where only death had won. 

The old man saw the young lad wince, 
He reined in close behind. 
As memories of what took place 
Came flooding through his mind. 
A century turned, but not his luck 
For rains had failed again. 
He slowly watched the dams dry up 
While cattle died in pain. 

A little water still remained, 
Though sought by feral stock. 
Some brumbies which came down at dawn 
Still often used the block. 
In good times no one cared that much, 
But not so any more. 
The young lad's dad and this old man 
Both knew what lay in store. 

A high log fence closed off the dam; 
The timber they had sawn. 
Suspended gate it lay in wait 
For piccaninny dawn. 
Then as the last mare ambled through 
Wood gate it dropped like lead. 
A wood rail race seemed their escape, 
But death lurked there instead. 

Their capital had all dried up, 
No cash for lead and gun. 
To execute the feral stock 
Took knife and old man's son. 
With legs astride the wood rail race 
Son grimaced as he drew, 
That blade of death 'cross jug'lar vein, 
Then slapped the victim through. 

Each fleet foot spirit faltered there 
A hundred yards away, 
While blazing eyes showed fear of death; 
Mouths gave a weakened neigh. 
Then one by one their weak frames fell 
Onto the dusty ground. 
The racing hearts of those poor beasts 
Then gave their final pound. 

The slaughter did not save the stock 
For all the dams went dry. 
It finally broke the old man's son, 
He watched the grown man cry. 
All this the old man told the lad, 
The picture was now drawn. 
On why his dad then took his life 
One piccaninny dawn.

The young lad lifted from his head
His father's sweat stained hat,
Then wiped the tears from both his eyes
And said, "Gramps thanks for that.
I guess til now I'd had my doubts
About the way dad died.
But now I now the truth at last
I'll wear this hat with pride.

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
Available in Book - A Muster of Verse and Yarns  

Book - A Muster of Australiana 

CD - Chris & The Grey

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As a young boy, I guess I was like the lad in the story. The years though have mellowed me and having been on the receiving end of theft more than once it has opened my eyes to the fact that those, who take from others do not always appreciate they have in fact taken down a fellow Australian. In most cases, from those who could probably ill afford it. It is a very selfish act and truly, not Australian. 

IT'S NOT AUSTRALIAN

It had not changed a bit 'cept the paint job was new 
And the sign ... 'Gen'ral Store' ... how it stood out in blue. 
Then I thought to myself ... no, it couldn't be so; 
He'd be eighty at least; He'd have died years ago. 

But I wandered inside on the chance he'd be there, 
The old man that I'd known with the head of white hair. 
How the memories flowed when I walked through the door, 
As the inside was still as I'd known it before. 

I near choked on emotion and held back a tear, 
When the wrinkled stooped frame of a man did appear. 
It was him! 'Twas old Digger, my mentor and friend, 
He instilled in me hope, when my world seemed to end. 

For the moment I kept to the side and observed, 
The old man I revered and just watched as he served, 
When I noticed a lad slip the smokes in his coat 
While his mate bought a drink with a five dollar note. 

I then followed him out having seen what he'd done 
And I called to the lad, "Have you got a sec son? 
Would you take a seat here on this bench for a while?" 
And the smile that he had disappeared from his dial. 

"Do you know the old man in the store there my lad?" 
"No I don't," said the boy, "is the old bloke your dad?" 
"Wish he was," I replied. "For the man in the store 
He has fathered more boys than his wife ever bore." 

"I don't know what you mean," said the boy with a frown. 
"Should I care? What's your drift? Tell me what's going down." 
"The old man's name is Digger and years ago son 
Just like you ... did not know him ... that's how it begun." 

"I had lost both my parents, they died in a crash, 
And I lived on the streets, eating other folk's trash. 
I was only sixteen, 'twas my birthday in fact, 
When I robbed the old man, but got caught in the act." 

"Though he never pressed charges ... instead gave me work 
And a room of my own; man I felt like a jerk. 
It was Digger old mate, who put hope in my life 
By the fact he was able to keep me from strife." 

"He had lost his dad too back in nineteen sixteen, 
Then the Second World War claimed his sons, Rick and Dean. 
From that time the old man, he took on the odd stray; 
Gave them hope and a future and help on the way." 

"No, he's not my old dad, but a true friend of mine, 
And to steal from the man would be right out of line, 
For old Digger is eighty and failing in health 
While this store is his life line, the sum of his wealth." 

"So do give it some thought where you go now from here, 
For the smokes in your pocket won't break him I fear; 
It is not the offence which would hurt the old man, 
But the fact that you failed, to be Australian." 

©Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
Available in Book - You're Joking! Milk In Billy Tea 

 Book - A Muster of Australiana 

CD - Pull Up A Stump & Listen

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This tale was related to me by an old friend. Apparently it took place in Northern Queensland, but the names have been changed. My wife when she read the poem asked what eventually happened to Bart. My reply was, “No one really seemed to care. Sadly, there have been lots of Sarah's in this life. To their memories.   Sarah won the Men's Serious Section for written verse at The Australian Bush Poetry Championships at Yarrawonga-Mulwala in 1999.

SARAH

Head stockman for Ned Price her father worked on Magnet Downs; 
A loner and a bushman who'd a phobia of towns. 
He loved the isolation of the far north station runs, 
While Sarah she played carer to his motherless three sons. 
Year in, year out she kept his house, though yearned a female friend; 
The long hot nights and lonesome days, they never seemed to end. 

For sixteen years she played that role her childhood passed her by, 
Instead of girlish laughter Sarah sought somewhere to cry. 
Her clothes were men's fare ... shirt and pants ... her hands were callused too; 
Oh how she longed to get away and live like townsfolk do. 
She dreamed of dresses, dances and the company of friends, 
But morning light would render all her dreams to dreary ends. 

A stranger stopped to stay a while for Ned had found him work, 
His ways were flash and carefree, while his smile was more a smirk. 
He sensed the insecurity which plagued poor Sarah's life, 
Then played upon her heartstrings, though his song was penned with strife. 
So masterful the melodies, they stole sweet Sarah’s heart, 
Within the month she’d left with him; this man she called ... her Bart. 

For near nine months they lived as swells and tasted town delights; 
Till deep in debt and desperate they fled like frightened kites. 
Bart headed for the Bloomfield, where he'd mined for tin before, 
And home would be a shanty isolated from the law. 
Exhausted and her child near due poor Sarah lived in dread 
Of life in isolation and the gloom which lay ahead.

She raised her first born daughter by the Bloomfield's Upper Arm 
And Bart the artful lover ... well ... he’d lost his luring charm. 
He'd fossick for their livelihood, which sometimes paid quite well, 
But Bart would go on drunken sprees and leave them in that hell. 
So often left with little food, bush tucker was their fare 
Until her demon reappeared. Complain? She did not dare. 

She'd been the subject of his rage on more than one account, 
So for her little daughter's sake, this ploy was paramount. 
Her lot was further burdened for within her womb there lay, 
The miracle of life once more; a son now on his way. 
'Twas just another mouth to feed ... was what filled Sarah's head, 
No sparkle filled this mother's eyes; salt water welled instead. 

Most fathers would be jubilant to have a new born son, 
But love was some forsaken thing and Bart had room for none. 
He often binged in China Camp for rum had claimed his brain, 
While Sarah's isolation slowly sent the girl insane. 
Like feral creatures of the bush her infants roamed at will 
And Sarah's soul just pined away till slowly she grew ill. 

'Twas in the early part of June, the day she turned eighteen, 
That drunken creature known as Bart returned upon the scene. 
He found the shanty empty and devoid of human form, 
The silence ... like a deathly calm which comes before the storm. 
From constant bingeing on the rum Bart thought his head would burst, 
So staggered down towards the creek to quench his fiery thirst.

Then as he cupped its contents, which was cold and crystal clear, 
Bart's face became so ghostly white, his eyes were filled with fear. 
For in its depths he saw three forms all pale and void of life; 
The family he'd never known ... his children and his wife. 
He buried them beside its bank, then simply walked away 
And where Bart went ... well no one cared ... not even to this day. 

It seems poor Sarah lost her mind and did what she thought best; 
She drowned her infants, then herself. She found eternal rest. 
An old man just some months ago recalled this tale to me, 
I know it made me cry a lot. Did it do that to thee? 
And LORD ... when it comes time to judge the living and the dead ... 
Please think of Sarah and her kids ... you saw the life they led. 


©Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
Available in Book - You're Joking! Milk In Billy Tea 

Book - A Muster of Australiana 

CD - Pull Up A Stump & Listen

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THAT MOTEL WHISKY DREAM

I was lying in the motel feeling down and kind of blue,
though the whiskey kind of numbed the pain that I was going through.
Hell just one more second longer and I'd had that outlaw beat
But that bay from hell knew diff'rent and he'd thrown me from my seat. 

I was feeling pretty hazy as I lay there on that bed
when this white horse and a rider, who'd a gold crown on his head,
came a riding with a bow in hand and it appeared to me
that his heavenly war was righteous and he gained a victory. 

Hell I think I'm going crazy, I've got horses on the brain
And rough riding's got me rattled and a bloke has gone insane.
Lord I pray I haven't lost my mind or worse my self-esteem. 
Hey, perhaps the whiskey's playing tricks and this is just a dream.

But another fiery red horse it appeared upon the scene
And the rider seated on him held a sword that looked right mean.
He was granted to take peace away and wage war here on earth,
But unrighteous man made slaughter and had little or no worth.

Then I saw and look a black horse and the rider he held scales
And he spreads a sick'ning message while he rides and loudly wails.
"It is famine! it is famine! that I bring to all the land;
So be sparing with the wine and oil and keep a stock on hand!" 

Hell I think I'm going crazy, I've got horses on the brain
And rough riding's got me rattled and a bloke has gone insane.
Lord I pray I haven't lost my mind or worse my self-esteem. 
Hey, perhaps the whiskey's playing tricks and this is just a dream.

But the pale horse that came following it took away my breath,
'Cause the rider looked quite gruesome and his name was simply Death.
Hades followed close behind him and he played his ghastly role,
As he gathered every victim who had forfeited his soul.

Then I woke from mid the visions that had played upon my mind
And I saw the empty bottle and a black book of some kind.
It was open at Apocalypse and something deep inside
Said, son do a little research on the horseman you saw ride. 

Hell I think I'm going crazy, I've got horses on the brain
And rough riding's got me rattled and a bloke has gone insane.
Lord I pray I haven't lost my mind or worse my self-esteem 
And I'm giving up the whiskey and I'll check out that there dream.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Finalist of the Lyrics Only section the 2007 Tamworth Songwriters's Association Songwriting Awards

Recorded by Brooks and Magee on their CD 'The Sailor and the Balladeer'. 

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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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ON ANY OF THE ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

SOPHIE DELIZIO

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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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Finalist of the Lyrics Only section the 2007 Tamworth Songwriters's Association Songwriting Awards

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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

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Finalist of the Lyrics Only section the 2007 Tamworth Songwriters's Association Songwriting Awards

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Available on C.D. Soon

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. 

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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THE LADY IN THE LOCKET

From the cool of my verandah, on that morning in July 
how the scream of hubby's chainsaw brought a tear to my old eye. 
One by one the branches toppled from the Pepperina tree 
where the lady in the locket 'round my neck would play with me.

Oh her smile was so infectious and her laughter filled the air;
she would push me on the old rope swing that daddy had put there.
I would hide beneath it's branches when we both played hide and seek; 
yes the lady in the locket who was gentle, kind and meek.

How I cherished all those precious years we shared both you and I
and the magic of those moments they still tend to make me cry. 
You were always there to guide me through the good times and the strife.
My sweet lady in the locket. Yes the mother in my life.

Through my teenage years you nurtured me and gave me sound advice
on the values of relationships and that was rather nice. 
When I married you were there for me and for my children too
and their love for that dear lady in the locket how it grew.

You're house was always home to us and filled with warmth and love
and we know you're in the book of life and known by God above.
But I miss you darling mother and you'll always be to me
that sweet lady in the locket and a treasured memory.

How I cherished all those precious years we shared both you and I
and the magic of those moments they still tend to make me cry. 
You were always there to guide me through the good times and the strife.
My sweet lady in the locket. Yes the mother in my life.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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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
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded by Brooks and Magee on their CD 'On Tour'.

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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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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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. 

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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HOW TWO BOYS LIVED THEIR DREAM

In those hills north-west of Kempsey town, ‘round Nulla Nulla Creek,
two lads began a friendship there that truly was unique.
They had been good friends through school boy days and shared a common dream
that wasn’t milking dairy cows or separating cream.

They would play them old Hillbilly tunes and knew right there and then;
their futures were in music and for them their dream began.
Now a showman needs a fancy name that tends to flatter him,
so Edwin took on Shorty while young Gordon took on Slim.

In their teens they busked at rodeos and any local Show,
then pestered every radio to give them both a go.
They would tour with Hayden’s Circus crew, Magician Dante too
and played the Mayfair Theatre down in Kemspey, what a doo.

How the pages of our history bears testimony too
the accolades those two boys won and shared with me and you.
And today a Nation stands in awe and folk hold in esteem
those boys from Nulla Nulla Creek who got to live their dream. 

With the gift of writing their own tunes they proudly sang their songs;
And each would share their endless tales of both life’s rights and wrongs.
Though in time they went their sep’rate ways with gifts they were endowed;
their legacy of country songs they sure do both men proud.

They would marry two fine Aussie girls and both have families
though still pursued their love of song in varying degrees.
Hosts of artists would record the songs that Shorty put to pen
while Slim would tour the countryside and time and time again.

They are honoured in the hands of fame that’s down in Tamworth town
and now they stand immortalised as icons of renoun.
But despite their crowning glories and their truly gifted traits
to most true blue Australians, Slim and Shorty were our mates.

How the pages of our history bears testimony too
the accolades those two boys won and shared with me and you.
And today a Nation stands in awe and folk hold in esteem
those boys from Nulla Nulla Creek who got to live their dream. 

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Finalist in the Lyrics Only at  the 2008 Tamworth Songwriters's Association Songwriting Awards

Finalist in the Lyrics Only  at the 2008 Katherine Country Music Muster Northern Territory Country Music Awards

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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
The Goondiwindi Grey

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HOW 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.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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IT'S NOTHING SHORT OF MAGIC

That big old moon is smiling’
on the Homestead down below
where a southern breeze is blowing
all the buffel to and fro.
The dams are full of water 
that reflect the old moon’s light
while the herd of fattened cattle
they sure make a pretty site.

It’s hard now to imagine
all those years of endless drought
and some had the impression
that this land was plumb worn out.
The chance of good rains falling, 
well, one’s hopes were rather dim
and seeing new grass growing
too was looking mighty slim.

But the heavens fin’ly opened
and the Monsoons dropped their rain,
bringing changes to the landscape
that induced a loud refrain.
“Mate it’s nothing short of magic!”
and it brought the biggest smile.
“Yes it’s nothing short of magic!”
‘cause we’ve waited quite a while.

It’s warms the heart immensely
and a grin comes to one’s face
to see young calves all playing
as you drive around your place.
The sight of wild fowl numbers
lifts the old soul that’s for sure 
and grass that just looks greener
than it ever did before.

It truly is a contrast
to when things were looking bad;
where starving stock would linger
seeking handouts to be had.
The sleepless nights tormented
by the thought of shooting stock
and all those moments worrying
if you might lose your block.

But the heavens fin’ly opened
and the Monsoons dropped their rain,
bringing changes to the landscape
that induced a loud refrain.
“Mate it’s nothing short of magic!”
and it brought the biggest smile.
“Yes it’s nothing short of magic!”
‘cause we’ve waited quite a while.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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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 Goondiwindi Grey

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A TRUE BLUE HOME GROWN LOVE SONG

I remember old Bill Shakespeare wrote a story years ago 
about a girl called Juliet who loved this Romeo.
It would seem their getting married was opposed by one and all
and ended rather tragically I somehow do recall.

But Downunder we’ve a legend that I’d like to share with you
a tender lover’s story and what’s more folk it is true.
It was ‘round the nineteen thirties when two sweethearts took a stand
against the tribal customs of the people of their land.

Yes this tale is one of courage and survival at its best
where love wins out against all odds, survives each stringent test.
It’s a true blue homegrown love tale that will surely touch your sole,
about these two young people who lives get to play this role.

In the Gibson Desert Country of the Mandildjara tribe
dwelt Warri and Yatungka and these two you would describe
as truly star-crossed lovers, though by law their skin was wrong.
But these two tribal youngsters found their love was far too strong.

They would flee into the Desert to escape from tribal law
and live in isolation for some forty years or more.
And despite the harsh survival they raised children in that place,
But let them wander back in time to folk of their own race.

Yes this tale is one of courage and survival at its best
where love wins out against all odds, survives each stringent test.
It’s a true blue homegrown love tale that will surely touch your sole,
about these two young people who lives get to play this role.

But for Warri and Yatungka they could not go back again
for fear of being punished; so they stayed in that domain.
But the drought back in the seventies caused others now to send
a search party to seek them out; led by a childhood friend.

They would fin’lly find the couple, just in time too so they say,
and after reassuring them no harm would come their way.
They’d go back ‘mongst their people, where they both lived out their lives
and now within our Nation this amazing story thrives.

Yes this tale is one of courage and survival at its best
where love wins out against all odds, survives each stringent test.
It’s a true blue homegrown love tale that will surely touch your sole,
about these two young people who lives get to play this role.

© Bush Poet and Ballad Writer -Merv Webster

Finalist in the Lyrics Only at  the 2009 Tamworth Songwriters's Association Songwriting Awards

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IT'S SECOND BEST TO HEAVEN MATE

We enjoy the many places, ‘round this great big land we roam
and we love to share the laughter and the tears of this our home.
We have told our tales in hotels and in tourist parks each night
and at many Music Musters, where it’s been a sheer delight.

But the thing that we love most of all, between the gigs we do,
is relaxing by a waterhole, with nature in full view,
Then pulling out the fishing gear; our fav’rite chair as well.
Hey, it’s second best to Heaven mate; as far as I can tell.

Yes it’s second best to Heaven mate as far as I can tell
and to have the missus by your side is special too as well.
Even if she lands the most, with me that too is fine,
I’m just happy for the chance old son to stop and wet a line.

Like old Coster we’ve caught yellowbelly in the old Barcoo
and the Moonie River near St George supplied a jew or two.
We’ve pulled fish from out the Darling down at Tilpa and at Louth
and at Wentworth where it fin’lly joins the Murray further South.

We have grilled them on the open fire or fried them in a pan
like the pioneers of old have done since settlement began.
There is nothing like a feed of fish; a tinny too as well.
Hey, it’s second best to Heaven mate; as far as I can tell.

Yes it’s second best to Heaven mate as far as I can tell
and to have the missus by your side is special too as well.
Even if she lands the most, with me that too is fine,
I’m just happy for the chance old son to stop and wet a line.

© Bush Poet and Ballad Writer -Merv Webster

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HOW THE ALICE CAME TO US

We headed west for Broken Hill when, there before our eyes,
a dusty bank of storm clouds from the Centre filled the skies.
The man upon the radio gave warnings to the town
that gale force winds were threatening and folk should batten down.

The storm it sure caused havoc and thank God we sat it out
‘cause when we reached the outskirts there was debris strewn about.
Then late that day more dust filled clouds stormed in from out the west 
and soon the sky was filthy brown from this unwelcome guest. 

The thunder roared and lightning flashed across that darkened sky
and dust from Alice Springs soon dropped as mud before our eyes. 
I’d never seen that outback town and mate what haunts me still
Is how the Alice came to us that day at Broken Hill.

For folks out there those storms that day they roused the townsfolk’s fears
as all expressed they hadn’t seen their like in twenty years.
I thought the rain it might have washed the dust from off the car,
but now it looked some ten times worse and dirtier by far. 

The local car wash made a kill as cars queued up all day,
and after looking ‘round the place we then went on our way.
We’ve still not been to Alice Springs but folks they sure do warm
to how we killed two birds that day with just a single storm.

The thunder roared and lightning flashed across that darkened sky
and dust from Alice Springs soon dropped as mud before our eyes. 
I’d never seen that outback town and mate what haunts me still
Is how the Alice came to us that day at Broken Hill.


©Bush Poet and Balladeer
Merv Webster

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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.

©Bush Poet and Balladeer
Merv Webster

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IT'S TIME TO STOP THE RUMOURS LADS

My name is Father Gibney and I am a Catholic Priest 
who can’t abide false rumours and that’s to say the least.
It’s time I spoke about the facts and how I played a part
in finding Daniel Kelly and his side kick Steven Hart.

To all and sundry who proclaim those two boys lived and fled
you’re ill informed because that day I found the two lads dead. 
I saw them lying side by side and looking quite composed
and sensed the final chapter of these two lad’s lives now closed.

It’s time to stop the rumours lads and let the truth be heard. 
I know folk love conspiracies but these tales are absurd.
It’s time to let those two boys be and let them rest in peace 
and all this laying claim to fame in their names has to cease.

They lay there fully stretched out with their armour off one side,
some bags served them as pillows and that’s gospel how they died. 
The Constable James Dwyer said he saw the boys as well
and recognized Dan’s wounded knee, that’s how that he could tell.

He swore at the Commission that he recognized young Dan.
His black hair and complexion sure identified the man. 
So all of you pretenders, and there has been more than one,
leave Dan and Steve to rest in peace you’ve had your bit of fun. 

It’s time to stop the rumours lads and let the truth be heard. 
I know folk love conspiracies but these tales are absurd. 
It’s time to let those two boys be and let them rest in peace 
and all this laying claim to fame in their names has to cease.

There’s more to these boys’ story than the outlawry they played.
It’s more about life’s Battlers and how they were betrayed. 
I don’t condone the methods they were pressured to play out
and God himself will judge those folk of that I have no doubt. 

I sense that all the families have suffered long enough
and having their names used in vain is really pretty tough.
It might be good for tourism to stir the billy mate,
but I prefer to tell the truth and set this matter straight. 

It’s time to stop the rumours lads and let the truth be heard.
I know folk love conspiracies but these tales are absurd.
It’s time to let those two boys be and let them rest in peace
and all this laying claim to fame in their names has to cease.

©Bush Poet and Balladeer
Merv Webster

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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

©Bush Poet and Balladeer
Merv Webster

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IF THE MEMORIES LAST

I recall that I’d met him some years ago now
in this pub called the Wellshot out Ilfracombe way.
He had spent all his life in a saddle, he claimed,
pushing cattle down routes for a pittance of pay.

The old bar there before him was rather unique;
it was made from wool presses, old timers for sure.
And his seat was a saddle, with stirrups to boot,
that was mounted on pipe and secured to the floor.

You could tell by the look in the old timer’s eyes
he was back on a stock route reliving the past.
For his frame in that saddle sure touched me that day
and you sense life goes on if the memories last.

Then the Barmaid she tapped the old man on the back
and he looked up in fright for a moment or two
to recall where he was and just where he had been,
then she poured him a rum and a beer chaser too.

“It’s a shout for you Sam from that bloke over there,”
and she pointed to me as I walked from the scene.
He then dipped his old hat and he smiled with a grin,
but then drifted on back to the place he had been.

You could tell by the look in the old timer’s eyes
he was back on a stock route reliving the past.
For his frame in that saddle sure touched me that day
and you sense life goes on if the memories last.

It had been near ten years since I’d been through this town
and one lesson I’ve learnt as the years slip away
is the fact that the images fresh in your mind
can become like Sam’s memories of yesterday.

I just stood there a moment surveying the scene
as I’d hoped to at least shared that saddle a while.
But like Sam it was gone and the best I could do
was to treasure the mem’ry and savour a smile.

You could tell by the look in the old timer’s eyes
he was back on a stock route reliving the past.
For his frame in that saddle sure touched me that day
and you sense life goes on if the memories last.

©Bush Poet and Balladeer
Merv Webster