MERV

A MUSTER OF AUSTRALIANA

FINALIST BOOK YEAR 2004

A 290 page book with a selection of verse and yarns from my previous six books:

*In Days Gone By[Biography]
*Tales of Uncle Jim,
*A Muster of Verse and Yarns,
*Laughter and Tears from the Bush,
*You're Joking! Milk in Billy Tea and
*Excuse Me! It's the Gidyea.

Below is a selection of poems from the book.

SUPPORT PROVIDES INCENTIVE FOR CREATORS TO CONTINUE TO CREATE NEW MATERIAL

ALL WORKS ARE COPYRIGHT AND USE OF WORKS MUST BE SOUGHT BY THE AUTHOR

BIOGRAPHY - IN DAYS GONE BY - 1997 - FINALIST IN THE 1998 GOLDEN GUMLEAF AWARDS IN TAMWORTH

The true story of a lad born in England in 1906. With his mother deceased and his father at war, Charlie is sent to be cared for by his Uncle and Aunt. At sixteen, his heart is set on fulfilling a dream in the new colony of Australia. He works his way around New South Wales in the 1920's and as the depression takes hold he and a mate walk from Warren, in New South Wales, to the Gulf of Carpentaria to realise that dream.

THE BEGINNING - THEY SAY - A NEW LIFE - THE BULLY - LIFE AROUND MUDGEE - 'NANAMI' - A REST IN THE CITY - EMU PARK - DROUGHT - THE RIVERINA DISTRICT - THE 'BUNDURE BREW' - THE NORTH-WEST - ACROSS THE BORDER - BASHER BROGAN'S PRIDE - THE CENTRAL WEST - THE BASALT COUNTRY - MAD JACK - AROUND THE GULF - 'WROTHAM PARK' - THE SNAKE THAT HAD ENOUGH - TIN MINING - THE BLOOMFIELD - WHERE IS MY HEART? - A VISIT TO ENGLAND - HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS - THE BARTLE FRERE GOLD RUSH - BACK TO 'WROTHAM PARK' - THE BOMBINGS - A LADY IN MY LIFE - THE FAIR AND GENTLE SEX - CONCLUSION.

THE BUNDURE BREW

'Twas Christmas time on old 'Bundure' and with our boss away,
The Super' was the top dog there, a bloke called Boofhead Bray;
It's fact that men grow restless souls with nothing much to do,
But cook resolved our problem though; he had some Bundure brew.

It surely took one's breath away and killed a blokes IQ,
For soon the lads were full as ticks and planned on shooting through.
When Nugget yelled, "Let's go to town!" The men all raised a cheer.
"Like hell you are!" old Boofhead cried, "you're gonna all stay here!"

The men defied the Super's cries and climbed aboard a truck,
For now the brew had taken hold they planned to run amuck.
"Jerilderie or bust!" we cried and sang our way to town,
As Christmas time demanded cheer, we would not let it down.

Two days we stayed there on a spree till all our pay was spent,
But cook had worked a scheme up though; a cunning little gent.
He promised turkeys to the folk with half the cost up front.
"We run them on 'Bundure'," he said. The lying little runt.

That kitty too was then drunk out, which left us rather shot,
While morning found us heading home, a sore and sorry lot;
Old Bray said,"Lads you've done your jobs, I'm gonna dob you in."
'Twas surely only fun, we thought, except for cookies sin.

When Monday came, and time to work, the super' called us out,
Then read out loud a list of names ... our jobs were gone no doubt.
"Your cheques are at the house," he said, "then find a new abode."
Though first we got cooks recipe, then hit the frog and toad.

BASHER BROGAN'S PRIDE

I tramped on down to Dawson's place. He owned old 'Gumajong'.
The last shed's cheque had been cut out, it didn't last that long.
My luck was in, he took me on, I'd get my hands in wool,
Then spotted Basher Brogan mate; the raging mallee bull.

This Brogan was a shearer who'd been working sheds for years,
From Queensland down to New South Wales, a gun he was with shears.
His reputation was well known, though not for shearing sheep.
A proud man who would pick a mate, then leave him in a heap.

He loved to rib the new chums like and throw his weight about
And if a bloke should take a stand; he'd simply knock him out.
Men hated working sheds with him, but work was hard to find,
So brushed aside his vulgar ways and put them out of mind.

Next morning Dawson lectured us before the shed kicked off;
A decent sort of cove he was, no high faluting toff.
The morning passed and all was well till Basher hollered out.
He'd found himself some poor new chum. A local rouseabout.

For days he gave the young lad hell, his sights were set in him;
We’d have to help this poor lad out as things were looking grim.
'Twas obvious he'd not give up until he picked a brawl.
We told the boy to play along and take a dying fall.

Then sure enough straight after work our hunch was proven right.
He'd followed the young rouseabout and goaded him to fight.
The young lad stood and made a stand as Basher let one drive.
It hit the young chum on the chin; he wisely took a dive.

His frame it looked a lifeless form; I knelt down by his head.
"Can't say I feel a pulse!" I cried, "I think the young lad's dead!"
The others knew the gibe was on and played along with me.
"He's dead alright," another said, "as dead as one can be."

Poor Brogan's face went white as flour; a lump formed in his throat.
'Twas good to see old Brogan squirm for normally he'd gloat.
We carried the young rouseabout and laid him in a hut,
Advising Basher he would hang; the case was cut and shut.

They covered the young rouseabout, who played his part real well.
Poor Brogan he just sat and moaned, too ill to really tell.
"Old Dawson's told the cops," they said,"they're coming out from town."
The bully Brogan felt remorse and paced on up and down.

Now Dawson knew the gibe was on, he'd heard old Basher rave,
Next morn he told the men to dig the poor young lad a grave.
For hours they dug and Basher helped, he never said a word.
Till suddenly he cried aloud, his words by all were heard.

"What foolishness is this I've done?" he whimpered out aloud,
"I've on my head a young lads death, for being ,oh, so proud.
If only I could bring him back. I'd be a better man.
I only seek forgiveness LORD. Please do it if you can."

" I think old Basher's had enough," said Dawson to the men.
You've got your wish my foolish friend the lad will live a'gen."
The hut door squeaked and opened wide; the rouseabout walked out.
Poor Basher thought it was a ghost; the men all gave a shout.

He knew he had been gibed that day, but learnt from what he'd done.
The rouseabout and he 'come mates. Like father and like son.
On 'Gumajong' there lies a grave with headstone there to read.
At Rest Lies Basher Brogan's Pride ... you bullies all take heed.

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TALES OF UNCLE JIM - 1996

A young city lad, who upon losing his parents in an accident, goes to live with his only living relatives, Uncle Jim and Aunty Pat, on a property in Western Queensland. Green to country life, Jim and a few other bush characters give the boy a bush education.

THE BENEFICIAL DUFFING - THE WEDDING - THE ART OF MILKING - OLD BLACKIE - UNCLE JIM'S COOKING - GINGER'S DEBT - THE WITNESSES - THAT OLD GOAT SMELL - THE CHASE - THE OLD COW - JIM'S FEAR OF MUTTON - - BALANCING THE BOOKS

THE BENEFICIAL DUFFING

Old Uncle Jim lived in the bush out Moonie river way
And finished stock on prickly pear, but balked when folk would say.
"Why don't you sell them loc'lly Jim; the money's best right here."
While others pressed, "Try Brisbane mate; the money's there I fear."

As muster time come 'round again the stock had to be sold,
So saddling up old Jim prepared to ride off in the cold.
Then as he searched the paddock, where he thought his stock should be,
He could not find a single beast and went right off his tree.

"They've cut me fence!" was what Jim roared "and duffed the lot by heck!
Just let me find the thieving curs, I'll wring their flam'in necks."
"They've tried to hide their tracks as well by burning off I see.
They'll rue the day when it comes time to meet the likes of me."

He picked their trail as best he could though night got in his way.
"I'll sleep right here" said Uncle Jim, "but rise at break of day."
Though stiff and sore old Jim was up before the crack of dawn
And swore that when he caught the crooks they'd wish they’d not been born.

I have a hunch thought Uncle Jim on where they plan to go,
And on his face a cheeky grin revealed he might just know.
His hunch was right the stock were there in wagons at the rail.
"Now how to find these thieving crooks?" He'd put these blokes in jail.

Jim walked towards the railway yards to see what he could find,
And straight away he spied the boys the ones who robbed him blind.
Most bushman would have done their blocks and dropped them on the spot,
But Jim he was a thinking man, he'd teach these boys a lot.

He strode towards the boys he knew his face gave nought away,
But all the time he'd on his mind just how these boys would pay.
"You lads have done a mighty job, it seems you've read my mind;
To bring the stock down to the rail; the thought was rather kind."

"I'm giving you a pound a piece, for surely that is fair,
And when you get to Brisbane lads you'll meet the Agent there.
We'll have a talk on your return, I'm sure you've lots to say.
Now off you go and do the job and get things underway."

They did the job and came on home their faces rather red,
Apologised and told the tale of how they got misled.
"We have two girls we'd like to wed as we do love them so;
That's why we stole the stock from you. 'Twas stupid now we know."

"I see your plight," said Uncle Jim, "and think I understand,
Though don't condone your efforts though to win a lass' hand.
I'd like to help your dreams come true, here's forty pound apiece,
But never let me hear of you at odds with the Police."

They took to heart what Jim had said and both lived happy lives,
But kept the secret to themselves and never told their wives.
One day perhaps they'd tell their sons, if tempted they should be,
The beneficial duffing tale old Jim had told to me.

THE WITNESSES

"You know them folk?" I asked old Jim and watched them walk away.
"They both seemed pretty friendly like and had a lot to say."
"Oh they're Jehovah's Witnesses, they often make a call;
Some folk say they are nuisances and don't like them at all."

"I've often contemplated lad what life is all about;
The world is going mad alright, of that there is no doubt.
They say the Bible tells it all and seem to know it well,
Perhaps they might be right you know, it's rather hard to tell."

"Some folk go on about them as if calling was a crime.
My minister has never called; I'm glad they take the time.
But if I'm kind of busy like they say they'll call again,
Though if I've got a moment free it stimulates my brain."

"Not many folk got past the gate when Ginger was around,
Though always let the Witnesses; he never stood his ground.
Old Ginger was astute you see; he let them good folk be.
I guess he sensed them ridgey didge and that was fine with me."

"I still recall the first young lad who called here years ago.
My attitude was diff'rent then and put on quite a show.
I growled at him, "How fast old mate can you get to the gate?"
He did just that, returned, then said. "How did I go old mate?'"

"I figured with a wit like that and as Ginge let him walk;
The lad could not be all that bad, so said that he could talk.
I listened to the things he said and much of it made sense.
"Big change ahead," the young lad said, "one can't sit on the fence.'"

"My next door neighbour skited how he'd chased the same young lad,
But when the boy called 'round again he told me I'd been had.
It's true he'd called in at his place, but ev'ry soul had flown
And figured they had all gone out and he was there alone.

"As nature called he reasoned on how good folk would not mind,
If he should use the outhouse there; no one was that unkind.
He tried to pull the door ajar ... seemed caught upon the floor;
Then wond'ring if it might be stuck he peeked around the door."

"And there they were, to his surprise, the fam'ly one and all;
Down hiding in the outhouse to avoid the young lad's call.
I failed to see the neighbour's point or his plan of attack
By hiding from a Christian in his outhouse down the back."

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A MUSTER OF VERSE AND YARNS - 1998

THE WIFE'S REVENGE - REMINISCING WITH HENRY - PICCANINNY DAWN - THE COURAGE OF THE GREY - GUNLOM AT KAKADU - TO HAVE LOVED A FRIEND - BITTER SWEETS - THE TRAGEDY OF EMMA'S DREAM - FOR I'VE HIS BLOOD IN ME - THE SECRET'S OUT

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 fin'ly 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
Piccaninny Dawn was awarded 1st place in the Bundy Mob's, Inaugural, Bush Lantern Award for written verse.

THE SECRET'S OUT

The Mullumbimby blokes new bull
Was looking kind of poor,
He shunned Ray's Jersey milking cows
And serviced them no more.

To buy this so-called champion
Poor Ray had saved for years
And seeing him the way he was
It near brought him to tears.

Ray thought ... I'll ring the local vet
To come this very day,
If any one can perk him up
He'd surely know a way.

The vet he looked him up and down,
Then handed Ray a pill.
"This ought to do the trick," he said,
Then handed him the bill.

That pill it did the trick all right
His vigour was now back.
Ray fed his mate a pill a day
To keep the bull on track.

The neighbour viewed the goings on
And sought the secret out.
Ray then revealed, "It's in a pill,
A miracle no doubt."

"So what does this pill look like then?"
The neighbour sought a hint.
"It's big and white," Ray then replied,
"And tastes like peppermint."

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LAUGHTER AND TEARS FROM THE BUSH - 1999

I'M NOT RIDING SIR - THE CURING OF YOUNG FRED MCPHEE - WALTZING MATLDA-AN ALLEGORY - BERT'S WILL - SWEET MADELINE -A SURE THING - SARAH - THE BALLAD OF THE BLOWFLY - DIVINE JUSTICE - I'LL NE'ER FORGET THAT DAY OLD MATE

I'LL NE'ER FORGET THAT DAY OLD MATE

My heart was pumping hard that day I faced the maddening crowd,
Despite the spinning in my head I stood there mighty proud.
Though racked with pain my reddened hand acknowledged them a wave
And to this day I've ne'er forgot, the accolades they gave.

It was a dream come true you see to stand there in that ring,
For rodeo was in my blood and one day I'd be king.
The beast I drew was mean and lean ... no Chainsaw I admit,
But still if I could just ride time I'd show them I had grit.

I'd limbered up behind the chute preparing for the ride,
Well knowing what was just ahead, but took it in my stride.
The chute boss called, "You've drawn chute five, get down and make it quick."
Then as I eyed the beast below ... I suddenly felt sick.

That brute it tried to climb the gate and bellowed cries of fear,
While chute hands fought to organise the necessary gear.
I felt the violent quiver of the hide between my chaps,
The smell of sweat, the cry of men ... a change of mind perhaps?

Too late I felt the rope pulled taut and shoved within my glove,
I thought it's now or never mate and sent a prayer above.
Then as I pulled my Colly down I yelled out, "Let him go!"
The gate flew open ... it was on ... 'twas time to rodeo.

With whites of eyes all full of hate that beast did twist and turn,
'Twas obvious my frame aboard was something he did spurn.
Eight seconds on this beast from hell seemed like eternity,
For ev'ry muscle which I owned screamed out in agony.

Between the jars and twists and turns I heard the crowd all cheer,
Then at long last that blessed sound of hooter in my ear.
The pick up man then pulled me clear and was I proud ... not half!
I'll ne'er forget that day old mate I rode that poddy calf.

My very first ride at a rodeo was at Stanthorpe in south-west Queensland at around twelve years of age. In reality I never made it across the vehicle track in front of the chute and got hung up and dragged around for a few minutes until I pulled myself free. I figured I’d take poetic license and make the story a little more interesting.

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.

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.

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YOU'RE JOKING! MILK IN BILLY TEA - 2000

TODAY IT ISN'T SO - GUNSYND - THE GOONDIWINDI GREY - THE PARK BENCH RECONCILIATION - CATHERINE [KATE] BUCHANAN - G'DAY - I'M KING OLD MATE - YOU'RE JOKING! MILK IN BILLY TEA - IT'S NOT AUSTRALIAN - A LOO[WD] CONVERSATION - A BUSH KID'S PLEA - THEY DON'T BITE LIKE THEY USED TO

THE PARK BENCH RECONCILIATION

The scent of spring lay in the air and sun's rays soaked the lawn,
Inviting me to ... rise my son! Come greet another dawn!
Already townsfolk bustled by ... I bid them... "How’d you do!"
Then sat upon my fav'rite bench with clothes still wet from dew.

Three long and lonely nights I'd camped there in the city park,
Though only slept spasmodic'ly, as somewhere from the dark
The scream of sirens echoed, making statements through the night;
It's murder, theft and overdose! The end of some soul’s fight!

The lure of lights and city life, enticed me, filled my head,
With notions of new freedoms ... for the bush was surely dead.
So boring, so predictable, the same old crowd of friends;
With life styles going nowhere and their futures down dead ends.

And that was just three months ago and now it's come to this;
My savings gone, no sign of work and most of all I miss ....
The Mum I took for granted, who was always there for me,
But selfish desperation made these facets hard to see.

'Twas then I glimpsed the presence of a woman drawing near,
Which commanded my attention, for her features laid so clear,
A certain sense of emptiness - so etched upon her face,
And watched her tie the bouquets to the bench with yellow lace.

My presence of no consequence, I heard her gently say.
"How are you John and you too Mark, 'tis such a lovely day?
I miss you two... you both know that... this year has gone so fast.
I'm doing rather nicely John, I've found a flat at last."

"The boys from down the R.S. L. ... your mates from Vietnam ...
Had heard you'd lost the battle love and feared I'd come to harm;
So found a flat ... it's lovely John ... and not too far from town
And when I need a few things love, I don't mind walking down."

"I understood your trauma dear, the torments of your mind
And how you fought the phantoms of that war you left behind.
The demon drink, the vagrancy, 'til fin'ly in the end
You lost your fight on this park bench ... alone, without a friend."

"Young Mark was only just sixteen and could not understand
The hand life had dealt out to him and often would demand;
An explanation why his Dad was no part of his life ...
I lost him John; he hit the streets where heroin was rife."

"For weeks I searched the streets in vain, 'til finally I read,
Some kids were dealing in the park, or so the paper said.
Then just as you found peace of mind, one dark and lonely night;
They found our Mark upon this bench. He too had lost the fight."

At that she rose, then paused a bit, and said "Adieu my men;
Until this time next year my loves, when we will meet ag'en."
Then took a step, but paused again, to look me in the eye.
Her final words. "Go home my son. You're much too young to die."

Many of us can probably relate to the words above, as aspects of the story may have touched our own personal lives. I know they have mine and many of my friends. I look forward to the day when the words of Revelation 21: 4 and 5 become a reality on this earth. ‘And he will wipe out every tear from their eyes, and death will be no more, neither will mourning nor outcry nor pain be anymore. The former things have passed away.’

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."

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.

A LOO[WD] CONVERSATION

The sound of country music rang down town in old Peel street,
While once again I set up camp, amid the throbbing beat
Of guitars, drums and didg'ridoos beside Frank Turton's chooks,
To share with folk my love of verse and sell my tapes and books.

Then strike me pink old nature called, so had to slip away,
And being air-conditioned like Grace Bros. saved the day.
The toilet there was unisex, but thought I was alone,
When to my right I heard a ring ... a flam'in mobile phone.

Some voice then answered, "Campware here. Oh hello Miss McBride."
When stone the crows ... another ring ... but from my left hand side.
A woman's voice said, "Hosiery, Miss Makim, how'd you do,"
And there I was perched on the throne, caught right between the two.

It's really hard to concentrate with all that in your ear,
In fact I had to come to grips with why I'd come in here.
The conversations going on both had a diff'rent theme,
Which had my mind a wee bit tossed, confusion reigned supreme.

"Two padded bras," Miss Makim asked, "they both must be the same."
"But room for three," campware replied, "with self supporting frame."
"Your pref'rence is convertible and satin finish too."
"Though shade cloth inserts are a must, to let a breeze blow through."

"And do we have some knickers which would match the bras - in black?"
"Of course they've got the bottoms in and zip up front and back."
"You want some with elastic in, but something that will last.."
"We have a range that slip up quick and come down just as fast."

Then as I heard the cisterns flush, I thought ... hell what a pain;
Transacting business in the loo can really be a drain.
I reached out for some toilet roll to wrap up why I came,
When spare me days 'twas nothing there, but cardboard roll and frame.

What was a bloke to do I thought, I'm stuck here all alone,
When suddenly it crossed my mind ... I'd brought my mobile phone.
I dialled the information line to seek the number out,
Then figured I'd ring toiletry, they'd have some rolls no doubt.

But when I punched the numbers in I heard a ring near by.
That's strange, I thought, then heard a voice say, "Toiletry, it's Di."
"Oh Di," I said, "it's Mervyn here, I'm stuck here in your store,
I'm in your loo and out of rolls so could you bring some more."

There was a sudden silence for the phone went kind of dead,
But somewhere close I heard a scream as some sweet voice then said,
"Hey Merv I'd like to help you out, but sweetheart this is true,
You see I'm only two doors down and out of paper too.

While at the Tamworth Country Music Festival, I was sitting outside Grace Bros. in Peel street Tamworth promoting my new book and our tape, both of which had made the Bush Laureate Awards, when I felt the urge to write a poem. I pondered on what to write about when, from among all the noise and confusion, I came up with the above. Must have been the combination of the Panamax and the Coke!

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EXCUSE ME! IT'S THE GIDYEA - 2001

THE BATTLING LITTLE BILBY - THE BALLAD OF A NATION - MURDER! BLOODY, MURDER! - IT'S TOUGH TO BE A KELLY - THE APPRENTICE BULLOCKY - THE BALLAD OF NO EXCUSE - THE PASSING OF STUMPY SHORE - EXCUSE ME! IT'S THE GIDYEA - THE RAINMAKER CALLED WRAGGE - PAY DAY DILEMMA - VICTOR STANLEY JONES

MURDER! BLOODY MURDER!

From Hornsby down to Campbelltown, from Penrith to Bondi,
Each suburb 'round old Sydney town had heard the newsboy's cry.
"It's murder, bloody, murder folks, it's ten who've come to grief!"
And even folk from Redfern way would cringe in disbelief.

There was a ghastly pattern to this madman's mixed up mind,
For all his victims up till now were barbers of a kind.
They all were found with bloodied throats, yes, slit from ear to ear;
The weapon found at ev'ry scene was razor sharp I fear.
No gilded youth would dare set foot in any barber's shop
And long hair was a common thing on ev'ry Sydney cop.

The barber's union secret'ry got calls of, "Help us please!"
While rumour has it Stefan's left and ducked off overseas.
Detectives were in search of clues and combed computer files,
Profilers sat and scratched their heads relying on their wiles.
Was jealousy the motive then to thin the barbers ranks?
Or were the killings sweet revenge, a payback for their pranks.

The coroner then found a clue beneath the victims nails;
Some facial hair of quite some length, the kind you find on males.
Forensic hoped to crack the case with new technology,
Revealing its genetic code to solve the mystery.
A little band of scientists were soon to ascertain
The facial hair was known to them, a rather unique strain.

It matched the hair some peeler kept of some up-country chap;
Some barber tried to cut his throat and caused a violent scrap.
They say it was a harmless joke, done simply for a lark
And records showed the victim was from up at Ironbark.
Detectives then swooped on the town and searched from house to house
And took a sample from the beard of ev'ry youth and spouse.

To their surprise they found a match and strike me don't you know;
It was the grandson of the man those many years ago.
They took him in to custody and found beneath his beard
A livid mark from ear to ear just as they all had feared.
It seems that ruckus years ago had traumatised the mind
Of ev'ry male his granddad bore, according to his kind.

And so another case was solved ... but wait ... there's news 'round town
That Sydney had some arsonist now burning bike shops down.
Detectives say they've found a note which has them baffled still.
"My granddad hailed from Eaglehawk and suffered from a spill"

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Most of us were brought up on the verses of Banjo Paterson and enjoyed the humorous tales of 'The Man From Ironbark' and 'Mulga Bill's Bicycle'. Today's world is a very different place and the irony of it all is that the above scenario could possibly happen. Scary, eh!

The Passing of Stumph Shore was the winning poem in the 2003 Australian Bush Poetry's Associations Written Competition.

THE PASSING OF STUMPY SHORE

The Constable had found the man 'round five on Friday morn,
Apparently while on his shift from midnight through till dawn.
Two youths, with blood stains on their clothes, detained drunk in the park
Disclosed they'd rolled some homeless bloke, sometime just after dark.
As Sergeant in this country town I'd lived round here for years;
Observed some pretty callous things, but this left me in tears.
The aged and fragile frame lay slumped there in a pool of mud
And through his snow white hair and beard was clotted, crimson blood.

The Constable looked up and said, "There fam'ly we can call?
For surely someone knows him Sarge. You know the bloke at all?"
"He's know 'round here as Stumpy lad, been here a year or two.
Came out way back in sixty-three to work on Beetaloo,
Then worked his way to overseer and often came to town;
Was captain of the football team, a sportsman of renown.
He married pretty Sheila Clark and when his son was four
They called conscripts for Vietnam, which saw him go to war."

"A war of conflicts that would scar and traumatise the mind,
Confusing, cruel, and futile acts some failed to leave behind.
Inherent post traumatic stress was that war's legacy,
Together with the stump you see attached below his knee.
The old man lying there my lad is testimony too
A life spent fighting guilt and fear his mind could not subdue.
Poor Sheila shared his sleepless nights, the flashbacks and his pain,
But in the end she lost the fight as Stumpy left again."

"He camped in squats around the town and drowned his pain with wine,
Withdrew into his own quiet world, content now to resign,
From all of life's inequities, the company of folk,
But all the town saw Stumpy Shore, a harmless poor old bloke.
His Sheila raised their only son, who still lives here today;
Who cared for her through all those years until she passed away.
She'd told him of the man she'd known before he went to war,
So in his mind he held no grudge against old Stumpy Shore."

"In fact one day down by the creek, while Stumpy washed his socks,
He saved a lad from drowning as he'd dived onto some rocks.
The boy he saved that very day was his own grandson Kim;
Ironical, I guess eh lad, that Stumpy should save him."
"You know Sarge, when I found the man, I thought him just a bum
And judged the bloke on what I saw, but this has left me numb.
The facts are mighty sob'ring Sarge and now I feel real bad.
You reckon we can find his son?" ... "You're talking to him lad."

The experiences of integration back into society by many of Australia's returned soldiers were often only known by close family members, if that. Whether the result of today's open-mindedness, the plight of veterans lives after Vietnam has been more of an open book. Their stories are quite sobering, touching the lives of both city and country folk. Lest we forget.

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