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“Clancy of the Overflow” a Poem
I had written him a letter which I had for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan years ago;
He was sharing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just on spec. Addressed as follows, “Clancy of the Overflow.”
And answer came directed in a writing unexpected
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
‘Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
“Clancy’s gone to Queensland droving, and we don’t know where he are.”
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And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of Tramways and the Buses making hurry down the street
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting
Come fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.
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And I somehow rather fancy
That I would rather change with Clancy.

insert a pic

“Mulga Bills Bicycle” a Poem
‘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 an air of pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, “Excuse me sir, can you ride?”

“See here , young man,” said Mulga Bill, “from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy’s gap to Castelereagh, 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.
Bit 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 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 the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
Bur 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 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 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 leap of twenty feet, into Dead Man’s Creek.

‘Twas Mulga Bill from Eaglehawk, that slowly swan 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.”.

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“Shouting! for a Camel” a Poem
It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator
Who was going down the township just to make a bit of chink
Went off to hire a Camel from a Camel propagator,
And the Afghan said he’d lend it if he’d stand the beast a drink
He was cheap, very cheap, as Dromedaries go

So the mining speculator made the bargain, proudly thinking
He had bested old Mahomet, had done him in the eye.
Then he clambered aboard the Camel, while the beast was drinking,
He explained with satisfaction to the miners standing by
“That ‘twas cheap, very cheap, as Dromedaries go.

But the Camel kept on drinking and he filled his hold with water
And the more he had inside him, the more he seemed to need.
For he drank it by the gallon, and his girths grew taut and tauter,
And the miners muttered softly, ”Yes he’s very dry indeed.”
But he’s cheap, very cheap as Dromedaries go.

So he drank up 20 buckets-it was weird to watch him suck it.
(And the market price for water was per bucket –half a crown.
‘Till the Speculator stopped him saying ”Not another bucket,
If I give him more there will be a famine in the Town.
Take him back to Mahomet, and I’ll tramp it through the town.”
There’s a moral to this story-in your hat you ought to paste it.
Be careful, whom you shout for when a camel is about
[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[

Deni Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis

“A Pieman.” A Poem
I'd like to be a pieman, and ring a little bell,
Calling out, "Hot pies! Hot pies to sell!"
Apple-pies and Meat-pies, Cherry-pies as well,
Lots and lots and lots of pies - more than you can tell.
Big, rich Pork-pies! Oh, the lovely smell!
But I wouldn't be a pieman if ...
I wasn't very well. Would you?
“Country Fellows.”a Poem
When Country fellows come to town,
And meet to have a chat.
They bring the news from Camperdown,
Birchip and Ballarat.
Wisely they talk of wheat and wool
From Boort and Buningyong,
From Warrugul and Warnambool.
From Junee and Geelong
Ted tells them how the crops are now
Well up round Bullarook,
And Fred describes the champion cow
He bred at Quambatook.
“If rain comes soon ’twill be a boon,”
Says Clive of Koo-wee-rup,
“To right,” says Nick of Nar-nar-goon;
“The grass wants fetchin up,”
And I who have been country bred,
And love the country still,
I listen wistfully to Ted
And George and Joe and Bill.
I see again the peaceful scene,
I hear them talk of paddocks green,
At Yea and Crogans Dam,
Koroit, Kerang and Moulamein
Then, dreaming of what might have been,
I go home in a Tram.
insert a shearing shed pic
Anonymous: “Click Go the Shears” a Song
Verse:
Out out the Board, the old shearer stands,
Grasping the Shears in his long bony hands,
Fixed is his gaze on a bare bellied “joe”
Glory if he gets her, won’t he make the ringer go.
Chorus:
Click go the shears boys, click,click.click
Wide is his blow and his hands move quick.
The ringer looks around and is beaten by a blow,
And he curses the old snagger with the blue bellied “ joe”
Verse:
In the middle of the floor in his cane bottomed chair,
Is the boss of the board, with eyes everywhere.
Notes well each fleece as it comes to the screen.
Paying strict attention if its taken off clean
Chorus:
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Verse:
The tar-boy is there ,a-waiting in demand,
With his blackened tar-pot and his tarry hand,
Sees one old sheep with a cut upon its back,
Hears what he’s waiting for ”Tar here Jack”
Chorus:
Henry Lawson“ Andy’s Gone with Cattle” a Poem

Our Andy's gone with cattle now -
Our hearts are out of order
With drought he's gone to battle now
Across the Queensland border

He's left us in dejection now
Our thoughts with him are roving
It's dull on this selection now
Since Andy went a-droving

Who now shall wear the cheerful face
In times when things are blackest
And who shall whistle round the place
When Fortune frowns her blackest

Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now
When he comes round us snarling
His tongue is growing hotter now
Since Andy crossed the Darling

The gates are out of order now
In storms the 'riders' rattle
For far across the border now
Our Andy's gone with cattle

Poor Aunty's looking thin and white
And Uncle's cross with worry
And poor old Blucher howls all night
Since Andy left Macquarie

Oh may the showers in torrents fall
And all the tanks run over
And may the grass grow green and tall
In pathways of the drover

And may good angels send the rain
On desert stretches sandy
And when the summer comes again
God grant 'twill bring us Andy.
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