I spoke to a modern writer
Of the hush and the old bush ways:
I told him some wonderful stories
Of the station and droving days
An old man's prosy stories, he said.
The old bush days are dead;
But he's never ridden the wings of a herd
Or steadied a thousand head.
He's never seen a piker break
Or watched a stockhorse wheel
At the twist of a deft brown bridle hand
And the thrust of a rowelled heal,
He's never mustered the mulga shrub
Or followed is rivers course;
Or taken his place on a drafting camp
Or loved an honest horse.
He's never ridden watch In the night,
In fear lest the mob stampede.
Or heard the thundering stockwhips fall
At a frantic turning lead.
He's never seen the red rowelled flanks
Or the reins that were white with foam
Or seen the filmy dust cloud rise.
Like a veil from the rich red loam.
He's never lain round the mustering camps
And watched the bright stars gleam
And the flames from the red embers leap high
And answer them gleam for gleam
He's never saddled when Goddess Dawn
Came forth with her golden spray,
When the sun was down and the last stars waned.
In the glory of breaking day.
He's never thrilled to the scent of the gums
And the bush flowers, laden with dew.
Or ridden the stretching plains
'Neath a canopy of blue.
An old man's prosy stories perhaps,
But while I have the gift of dreams
I'll follow the Queensland herds again
And camp by the western streams.
--GUMBALIE BRIDGE.
Notes
From the NSW Newspaper The Western Herald 1 Nov 1963 p. 14.