CATHERINE [KATE] BUCHANAN

Her father called her Kitty this 
Young lass with lustrous hair; 
Worn long around an oval face 
And eyes ... the brownest pair. 
She was the apple of his eye, 
His right-hand man and bright; 
And once she rode ... no word of lie, 
Some sixteen miles ... 'twas do or die, 
To save her dad one night. 

A tall dark stranger rode one eve 
Into the Gordon's camp; 
And Cath'rine felt quite drawn to him, 
She rather liked his stamp. 
Seemed Nat Buchanan felt the same, 
For cupid shot his dart, 
And from that time he often came 
Til Katie Gordon took his name; 
She'd won this bushman's heart. 

Nat loved Kate's gentle manner while 
Her soft voice had its charm, 
Compassion and her Christian faith 
Both walked 'round arm in arm. 
Tenacity and courage lay 
Deep down within her soul. 
Much needed when Nat was away 
Off blazing trails ... Old Paraway, 
Though Kate too played her role.


She was the first white female to 
Inhabit 'Bowen Downs;' 
A pioneering marvel as 
There were no nearby towns; 
Then in the year of sixty-four 
Kate bore her Nat a son, 
Young Gordie, whom they'd both adore, 
As Kate and Nat would have no more; 
He'd be their only one. 

Kate understood Nat's passion to 
Shift outposts further out 
And though it meant his absence her 
Comportment sure was stout. 
So often she would play the role 
Of waving Nat good-bye, 
But with young Gordie by her side 
She'd watched with pride as Nat did ride 
Out where the dead men lie. 

Across the gulf for near twelve months 
He drove twelve hundred head, 
'Twas hard enough with Nat away, 
Then news ... Kate's dad was dead. 
No sooner did she have him home, 
When Nat was asked to shift 
Some twenty thousand head of stock 
To Lyons and Fisher's Glencoe block; 
Her bushman had a gift.

Then Gordie fin'ly finished school 
And seized his boyhood dream 
By riding to the Kimberleys, 
As part of his dad's team. 
With both her men out blazing trails 
The months would drag on by 
And sometimes, when she had not heard, 
Poor Kate would pray til she got word; 
Relief came with a sigh. 

Seemed Nat always had on his mind 
To one day find a home, 
Where he and Kate could settle down 
And need no more to roam. 
He'd set his heart on old Wave Hill 
Up in the Territ'ry, 
But fortune did not smile one day, 
For treachery would have its way, 
His dream was not to be. 

'Twas some time later Gordie took 
Up Flora Valley in 
The Kimberley with Watt and Hugh 
As both of them were kin. 
Then Kate was reunited with 
The men she loved so dear. 
She brought a certain brightness to 
The homestead as most women do 
And filled the place with cheer. 

Nat fin'ly made his homecamp down 
On 'Kenmuir' with his Kate; 
Among New England's ranges, but 
He left his run too late. 
She buried Nat at sev'nty five 
And said her last farewell 
And though they spent much time apart 
Kate loved her Nat with all her heart; 
‘Twas not too hard to tell. 

Today Kate lies beside her man 
In Walcha, New South Wales. 
He roams no more her Paraway, 
But lives on in men's tales. 
If ever loyalty could be 
Embodied Kate within a mould 
And overlaid with purest gold; 
'Twould have to be of thee. 

Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
A Muster of Australiana  

Since meeting Bobbie Buchanan on our 1997 trip to Camooweal and reading her book - ‘In the Tracks of Old Bluey’ - the story about her great grandfather, Nat Buchanan, I have held the man in high regard. There have been many tributes paid to him over the years in many different forms, but sadly like many pioneering women, Kate has had little said about the role she played. This is my tribute to her.

REMINISCING WITH HENRY

There's little left now, Lawson mate, of your home by the hill; 
Except, a guarding sentinel, the chimney stands there still. 
To some it's just another site for tourists passing through, 
Perhaps they've never read your works ... how sad, but maybe true. 

Eurunderee and childhood days, please tell me if I'm wrong, 
Instilled in you mixed memories and feelings, oh, so strong. 
Yes, monumental moments mate; the hardship and the joy. 
They brought to mind old childhood days when I was just a boy. 

Is that your Dad with shouldered axe and wand'ring off somewhere? 
His cross-cut saw with him as well. I'm sure it's him, I swear. 
The dark haired lady on the log and scribbling on a pad; 
Your Mum I guess at work on verse; she taught you well my lad. 

Old grandpa Albury's visiting and dons his greasy hat. 
I know it's him, no other soul could ever shout like that. 
The muck on brother Charlie's face. It's not Jim Nowlett's brew? 
He surely can't believe that tale, 'cause none of it is true. 

I see young brother Peter mate is tending cows again. 
You mentioned how they liked to stray. You're right, they are a pain. 
Is that a horseman riding up and pack horse by his side? 
It can't be old Dave Regan. No! They told me he had died. 

If Billy Grimshaw's teams passed now, his bales of wool so high, 
He couldn't swear from being bogged; the bitumen runs by. 
The gold has long but disappeared, though grape vines grow here still; 
Red wine is known around the world; I know, I've had my fill. 

I can't stay any longer mate; I've got a way to go; 
To join up with my poet friends, up Queensland way you know. 
I'm glad though that I stopped a while to reminisce with you, 
Like Banjo mate, deep down within, I saw you as true blue.

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
Available on CD  - Chris & The Greye- A Selection of Bush Versey - A Selection of Bush Verse 

IT'S TOUGH TO BE A KELLY

Being of Irish descent, I have always felt for the plight of the battler and though many stories have highlighted thestruggle of Ned's life, I felt it was time to let his mum have a word. My tribute to a pioneering lady, who found not only the physical and economic nature of the colony a struggle, but also the social, justice and class structures as well. 

Born County Antrim, Erin, in eighteen thirty-two; 
The colour of my hair was black, my eyes were greyish blue. 
My mother's name was Mary while my father was James Quinn 
And Ellen was my name in life, one of eleven kin. 
We sailed on board the 'England' as dad planned to immigrate 
Down under to Port Phillip, where he planned to relocate. 
Those childhood days at Moonee Ponds among the woods and hills 
Were precious times to sing and roam, naive to life's cruel ills. 
Our move to Wallan further north would make life bittersweet, 
For there I met an Irishman, who swept me off my feet. 
'Round eighteen years of age I was when I would marry Red 
And when my parents disapproved; we then eloped instead. 
It's tough to be a Kelly, but a Kelly, that I am. 

My first child was sweet Mary Jane we baptised at Kilmore. 
We had her, then we lost her; we had our child no more. 
Red joined the Kilmore diggings then in eighteen fifty-three 
And made enough by Christmas time to come on home to me. 
The month before my man returned I'd bore our daughter Anne; 
Then Red bought land at Beveridge, a whole new life began. 
December eighteen fifty-four brought joy into our life, 
For our son Edward joined the world and I was one proud wife. 
Poor Red he had his ups and downs, as times were rather tough, 
But always had a home for us and that was love enough. 
Our Margaret born in fifty-six, they say to some degree, 
Showed such a certain will to live she was so much like me. 
It's tough to be a Kelly, but a Kelly, that I am. 

In eighteen fifty-nine Red built a home that was brand new 
And there young James and Daniel, along with Cath'rine too, 
Would join the growing Kelly clan of which I was so proud 
And here we'd build our future dreams for which I prayed aloud. 
But soon the simple life we lived was threatened by police 
As charges laid against our clans were now on the increase. 
Red shaken by the goings on moved us to Avenel, 
But hard times and the alcohol would take its toll as well. 
In August then of sixty-five our Grace was to arrive, 
Though in that year I Iost my Red; he was but forty-five. 
Some said my Red had failed in life, but that is just not true. 
He was my husband whom I loved, his children loved him too. 
It's tough to be a Kelly, but a Kelly, that I am. 

I know my temper boiled at times, which made me volatile, 
But widowhood and poverty were hard to reconcile. 
Red's sister Anne and I then clashed and what was the result? 
The Magistrate at Avenel would fine me for assault. 
That was the last straw so to speak, I'd make a move henceforth 
To join my two grass-widow aunts in Greta further North. 
A heavy load then fell on Ned to play a manly role 
And so he did from that time on; God bless the poor child's soul. 
We shared the shanty with my aunts, till in a drunken state 
James Kelly burnt the darn thing down, 'cause he'd become irate. 
I moved to Wangaratta where I worked from my abode, 
Then found a home near Greta on Eleven Mile Creek Road. 
It's tough to be a Kelly, but a Kelly, that I am. 

My residence was simple fare, though housed my kids and I 
And board from thirsty travellers would help us all get by. 
My Annie married Alex Gunn in eighteen sixty-nine, 
Then two months later gained my lease and things were looking fine. 
Sad News then come from Glenmore that my dad had passed away; 
Another blow which hit me hard and left me in dismay. 
Young Ned he went off bushranging with Harry Pow'r himself, 
But came home dirty, poor and lean devoid of any wealth. 
They took my Ned before the courts, though never proved a thing 
And some felt he betrayed old Pow'r, but Ned would never sing. 
Persistence though was on their minds, they'd nab him anyhow 
And sent my Ned to Beechworth goal on two occasions now. 
It's tough to be a Kelly, but a Kelly, that I am. 

Bill Frost had came into my life and slept oft' by my side, 
Though never kept his promises and his child Ellen died. 
My Annie's Alex went to jail and while he was away 
One Earnest Flood, the Constable, found Annie easy prey. 
The joy of Anna's birth late spring would sadly end in grief, 
As Annie's unexpected death left us in disbelief. 
Then poor Jim not yet fourteen years went up for cattle theft, 
While Ned was sent to Pentridge jail to serve the term still left. 
Around that time a stranger came, who'd share part of my life. 
George King from California and I'd become his wife. 
We named our first child Ellen and our second child was John 
And all the joy now in my life I had not counted on. 
It's tough to be a Kelly, but a Kelly, that I am. 

In Feb'uary of sev'nty-four my Ned had gained release 
And had come home a diff'rent lad and planned to keep the peace. 
Life was as good as it would get and though times still were tough; 
Both George and I we paid our way and got by well enough. 
The Squatters 'round the district though and law enforcers too 
Were quite intent to bring us down and that we Kelly's knew. 
Their constant goading forced Ned's hand and he and George as well, 
Would take the bait, retaliate and give them merry hell. 
My Jim came home with two new friends; young Sherritt and Joe Byrne. 
Two boy's who would befriend my Ned as I was soon to learn. 
Then Dan was sent to jail once more, which left Ned rather wild, 
And George would walk out of my life and leave me there with child. 
It's tough to be a Kelly, but a Kelly, that I am. 

Ned built the home he promised me while Dan served out his time, 
Then once again Jim was in jail, horse theft they say the crime. 
My Alice came into the world, but little did I know; 
What lay ahead would change our lives; Fitzpatrick's little show. 
That incident then lit the fuse to one almighty fray, 
Which caused my Ned and Dan to flee and I to jail that day. 
Sir Redmond Barry was the judge who satisfied his scorn, 
By handing down a three year term on that October morn. 
Both Ned and Dan said they'd exchange themselves instead of me, 
But now the law saw sweet revenge and just ignored their plea. 
I sat there in my Beechworth cell with sweat upon my brow 
And sensed my boys they would play up, there would be murder now. 
It's tough to be a Kelly, but a Kelly, that I am. 

The next time I set eyes on Ned some twenty months had passed 
And sensed his time left here on earth was dwindling rather fast. 
We spoke in Pentridge hospital and then before he died, 
But once back in my dreary cell I cried and cried and cried. 
My Dan was dead, poor Steve Hart too, and young Joe Byrne as well; 
I can't condone the things they did, but life for them was hell. 
My fam'ly were no angels pray and we paid for our crimes, 
Though justice was denied to us so many, many times. 
In Febru'ry of eighty-one I found myself released, 
Though things at home were volatile and hatreds had not ceased. 
The constable young Robert Graham called in one day for tea 
And in good time I came to see the past was history. 
It's tough to be a Kelly, but a Kelly, that I am. 

They held a Royal Commission and Traps lost the ranks they prized, 
As treatment t'ward the Kelly clan was strongly criticised. 
My Jim he had his one last fling, which saw him back in goal, 
Though came on home a better man, God bless his weary soul. 
My dear, dear Kate would marry too and raise a family; 
Poor Maggie died in ninety-six, my Jim looked after me. 
In tragic circumstances I would lose my dear Kate too, 
Though Jim and I would raise her kids; the least that we could do. 
Sweet Grace wed young Ned Griffiths, and in my failing years 
My mind goes back to bygone days, which ends up bringing tears. 
I sit here now at ninety-one beside a cosy fire 
To let the poet tell my tale ... my wish and last desire. 
'Twas tough to be a Kelly, but a Kelly, that I was. 

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
Available in Book - Excuse Me!  It's the Gidyea  

THE RAINMAKER CALLED WRAGGE

In nineteen hundred and two, Queensland was in the grip of severe drought when Clement Wragge suggested he could use Stiger Vortex guns to induce rain. The above poem tells the story of what took place. In 1947, some forty five years after the event, one of the guns was retrieved and fired during Charleville's Centenary celebrations and later again when the C.S.I.R.O. were conducting experiments in seeding clouds. One of the guns survives to this day and can be seen standing near the tourist information centre.

At Crohamhurst Observat'ry one Clement Wragge esquire, 
A meteorologist of note, did willingly aspire, 
To render his assistance to the Queensland Government, 
Whose voters were in grip of drought and rather discontent. 

This plague of nineteen hundred and two was raging o'er the land 
When Wragge, who had been overseas, now claimed he'd heard first hand 
How grape growers in Italy fired guns into a storm, 
In hope the hail would be dispelled and condensation form. 

Herr Stiger who was German-Swiss designed this vortex gun 
And Wragge felt rather confident this new phenomenon 
Could play a part to paralyse the long-prevailing drought, 
If only Queensland's government were willing to help out. 

The western town of Charleville showed int'rest in the scheme 
And soon the local Aldermen had banded as a team; 
To ascertain from Mr Wragge the possibility 
Of testing out the vortex guns in their vicinity. 

Conjecture was that Charleville was suitable indeed, 
Which saw a motion fin'lly passed and Aldermen agreed 
To buy a batt'ry of six guns with funds they hoped to raise; 
Provided Wragge's known expertise would guide them through this phase. 

The Minister, John Leahy, then promised to provide 
Free transport of the vortex guns and also would confide 
With Government to seek request that should Wragge too be sought 
To travel west to give advice; then certainly he ought. 

The guns were wrought iron, riveted, and conical in shape, 
Allowing for the mortar blast to make a grand escape. 
Some thirteen feet six inches long this cannon did extend, 
Two feet three inches 'cross the mouth; nine inches at its end.

A plate fixed to three iron legs secured the gun in place 
And stood some twenty inches high above a wooden base. 
The Brisbane firm of Harvey built the guns for eight pound each, 
While powder was provided free by Philp for each gun's breech. 

Each had been christened with a name, an individual tag, 
Like Stiger, Philp and Leahy and Suschnig, Harvey, Wragge. 
Though in the bush the drought pressed on and folk were tiring fast 
And if the rains delayed much more they simply wouldn't last. 

Reaction to the enterprise by folk out in the west 
Had dwindled to mixed sentiments and therefore would attest 
To queries made in articles placed in the local rag, 
Requesting where subscriptions went. Where were the guns and Wragge? 

Then finally the guns arrived and kegs of powder too 
And rumour had it Wragge would come within a week or two. 
September saw Professor Wragge arrive in Charleville 
Prepared to share with folk out there his expertise and skill. 

Wragge sensed a certain lethargy when he arrived in town 
And thought the Mayor discourteous and felt somewhat let down. 
Though sev'ral townsfolk and the Mayor, who'd helped to raise the funds, 
Escorted Wragge in search of sites where he could fire the guns. 

T. Meadow's, Ormston's, Billington's and Birstow's would be swell, 
While Spencer's and the Rifle Range were jotted down as well. 
Wragge's lecture at the Albert Hall did not attract the Mayor 
Or many other folk it seemed, which Wragge thought quite unfair. 

Offended by their lethargy Wragge had refused to stay, 
Though helped erect the vortex guns, then set off on his way. 
He left a letter for the Mayor, which stated his disgust, 
Insisting his discourteousness belied his public trust. 

The firing of the vortex guns did not induce the rain, 
But desperate to break the drought the townsfolk tried again. 
The blasts blew holes in two guns sides on that September day 
And still the rains eluded them much to the folks dismay. 

The townsfolk blamed Professor Wragge, who left them on a limb, 
While Wragge blamed failure to comply to guidelines set by him. 
It seems Herr Stiger wrote to Wragge, when he was told the tale, 
Berating him as he'd designed the guns to dispel hail. 

Since then the droughts have come and gone, the floods and fires of hell, 
But towns like good old Charleville have stood up pretty well. 
If some bloke claims he can make rain what goes through bushies minds, 
Is blokes like that are just like things which hang from sheep's behinds. 

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
Available in Book - Excuse Me!  It's the Gidyea 

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