60 Classic Australian Poems for Children (8 page)

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze.

He turned away the good old horse that served him many days.

He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen.

He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;

And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,

The grinning shop assistant said, ‘Excuse me, can you ride?'

‘See here, young man,' said Mulga Bill, ‘from Walgett to the sea,

From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.

I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows,

Although I'm not the one to talk—I
hate
a man that blows.

‘But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;

Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wild cat can it fight.

There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,

There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,

But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight.

I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.'

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,

That perched above the Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.

He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,

But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.

It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak,

It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek.

It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:

The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,

The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,

As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.

It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree.

It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;

And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek

It made a leap of 20 feet into the Dead Man's Creek.

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:

He said, ‘I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;

I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet,

But this was the most awful ride that I've

encountered yet.

I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's

shaken all my nerve

To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve

It's safe at rest in Dead

Man's Creek, we'll

leave it lying still;

A horse's back is good

enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.'

The Sydney Mail
, 1896

I have a trim typewriter now,

They tell me none is better;

It makes a pleasing, rhythmic row,

And neat is every letter.

I tick out stories by machine,

Dig pars, and gags, and verses keen,

And lathe them off in manner slick.

It is so easy, and it's quick.

And yet it falls short, I'm afraid,

Of giving satisfaction,

This making literature by aid

Of scientific traction;

For often, I can't fail to see,

The dashed thing runs away with me.

It bolts, and do whate'er I may

I cannot hold the runaway.

It is not fitted with a brake,

And endless are my verses,

Nor any yarn I start to make

Appropriately terse is.

'Tis plain that this machine-made screed

Is fit but for machines to read;

So ‘Wanted' (as an iron censor)

‘A good, sound, secondhand condenser!'

The Bulletin
, 1917

On the blue plains in wintry days

These stately birds move in the dance.

Keen eyes have they, and quaint old ways

On the blue plains in wintry days.

The Wind, their unseen Piper, plays,

They strut, salute, retreat, advance;

On the blue plains, in wintry days,

These stately birds move in the dance.

Collected Poems of John Shaw Neilson
, 1934

A pleasant shady place it is, a pleasant place and cool—

The township folk go up and down, the children pass to school.

Along the river lies my world, a dear sweet world to me:

I sit and learn—I cannot go; there is so much to see.

But Granny, she has seen the world, and often by her side

I sit and listen while she speaks of youthful days of pride;

Old Granny's hands are clasped; she wears her favourite faded shawl—

I ask her this, I ask her that: she says, ‘I mind them all.'

The boys and girls that Granny knew, far o'er the seas are they;

But there's no love like the old love, and the old world far away;

Her talk is all of wakes and fairs—or how, when night would fall,

‘'Twas many a quare thing crept and came!' and Granny ‘minds them all.'

A strange new land was this to her, and perilous, rude and wild—

Where loneliness and tears and care came to each mother's child:

The wilderness closed all around, grim as a prison wall;

But white folk then were stout of heart—ah! Granny ‘minds it all.'

The day she first met Sullivan—she tells it all to me—

How she was hardly twenty-one, and he was twenty-three.

The courting days! the kissing days!—but bitter things befall

The bravest hearts that plan and dream. Old Granny ‘minds it all.'

Her wedding-dress I know by heart: yes! every flounce and frill;

And the little home they lived in first, with the garden on the hill.

'Twas there her baby boy was born, and neighbours came to call,

But none had seen a boy like Jim—and Granny ‘minds it all.'

They had their fight in those old days; but Sullivan was strong,

A smart quick man at anything; 'Twas hard to put him wrong …

One day they brought him from the mine … (The big salt tears will fall) …

‘'Twas long ago, God rest his soul!' Poor Granny ‘minds it all.'

The first dark days of widowhood, the weary days and slow,

The grim, disheartening, uphill fight, then Granny lived to know.

‘The childer,' ah! they grew and grew—sound, rosycheeked, and tall:

‘The childer' still they are to her. Old Granny ‘minds them all.'

How well she loved her little brood! Oh, Granny's heart was brave!

She gave to them her love and faith—all that the good God gave.

They change not with the changing years: as babies just the same

She feels for them—though some, alas, have brought her grief and shame.

The big world called them here and there, and many a mile away:

They cannot come—she cannot go—the darkness haunts the day;

And I, no flesh and blood of hers, sit here while shadows fall—

I sit and listen—Granny talks; for Granny ‘minds them all.'

Just fancy Granny Sullivan at seventeen or so,

In all the floating finery that women love to show;

And oh! It is a merry dance: the fiddler's flushed with wine

And Granny's partner brave and gay, and Granny's eyes ashine …
²

'Tis time to pause, for pause we must: we only have our day:

Yes: by and by our dance will die, our fiddlers cease to play;

And we shall seek some quiet place where great grey shadows fall,

And sit and wait as Granny waits—we'll sit and ‘mind them all.'

The Bookfellow
, 1907

Far from the trouble and toil of town,

Where the reed beds sweep and shiver,

Look at a fragment of velvet brown—

Old Man Platypus drifting down,

Drifting along the river.

And he plays and dives in the river bends

In a style that is most elusive;

With few relations and fewer friends,

For Old Man Platypus descends

From a family most exclusive.

He shares his burrow beneath the bank

With his wife and his son and daughter

At the roots of the reeds and the grasses rank;

And the bubbles show where our hero sank

To its entrance under water.

Safe in their burrow below the falls

They live in a world of wonder,

Where no one visits and no one calls,

They sleep like little brown billiard balls

With their beaks tucked neatly under.

And he talks in a deep unfriendly growl

As he goes on his journey lonely;

For he's no relation to fish nor fowl,

Nor to bird nor beast, nor to horned owl;

In fact, he's the one and only!

The Animals Noah Forgot
, 1933