bush poetry ... (no, not THAT kind of bush)

Australia has a genre of poetry quite unlike anything I’ve encountered elsewhere (I’m still to decide if that’s a good thing or not). “Bush poetry” dates from the days of the early settlers, and, despite its often rough edges and hybrid language, it holds a lasting charm for many Australians as a reminder of when life was simpler.

These poets, unlike their gentler and more refined English cousins, represent a distinctive ‘action’ flavour, bordering on plain thuggery at times, yet they also capture the early essence of a hot dry land. They describe sporting events on parched grass pitches, divisions between developing social classes and the hard but happy life they lived in an often highly amusing way.

Here are my two personal all time favourites from the genre. Both are by the Australian bush poet A.B (‘Banjo’) Patterson (1864-1961):

“The Geebung Polo Club” (circa 1897)

It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub,

That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.

They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side

And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride;

But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash –

They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:

And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,

Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long,

And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub;

They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.

It was somewhere down the country, in the city's smoke and steam,

That a polo club existed, called "The Cuff and Collar Team".

As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success,

For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.

They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth and sleek,

For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.

So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame.

For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;

And they took their valets with them - just to give their boots a rub

Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.

Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,

When the Geebung boys going it was time to clear the road;

And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone

A spectator's leg was broken - just from merely looking on.

For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead.

While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.

And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die

Was the last surviving player - so the game was called a tie.

Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,

Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;

There was no one to oppose him - all the rest were in a trance.

So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance.

For he meant to make an effort to get the victory to his side;

So he struck at goal - and missed it - then he tumbled off and died

By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,

There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,

For they bear a rude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear,

For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here."

And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,

You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;

You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,

And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet,

Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub –

He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club 

 “Mulga Bills' Bicycle” (circa 1896)

'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 wildcat 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 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 steak,
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 twenty 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."