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Post by bushpoet on Dec 19, 2016 18:11:07 GMT -8
G'day Clark. Over the years I have enjoyed a friendship with a number of cowboy poets and enjoyed sharing the culture of our verses. My old mates Rod Nichols and Hal Swift, who are sadly no longer with us, shared a site called The Old Rockin R. I've enjoyed sharing some of my verses at the Bar D site as well. Over the years a number of my Aussie bush poets have ventured over to The States and Canada and met us with a number of cowboy poets and enjoyed their festivals. Look forward to sharing some of our culture with you and reading some of yours. Merv Webster. www.cowboypoetry.com/mervwebster.htmusers.tpg.com.au/thegrey/
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Post by bushpoet on Dec 19, 2016 21:24:04 GMT -8
WHEN THE EVIDENCE WENT MISSING
I was perched upon a wooden bench beneath a bottle tree
when this worn out wiry ringer stopped to rest his gammy knee.
I’d been touring through the outback and had sought to sit a spell
while the missus spent her hard earned cash and some of mine as well.
His grey hair was to his shoulder and his unkempt beard grey too
and he moaned, “Me old knee’s knackered and there’s nothing they can do.”
He’d suggested that a fall way back, while duffing some stray steers,
was responsible for his bad limp and pain all through the years.
“So it’s fair to say the adage then … crime does not pay …. is true
and the walking stick you carry mate is proof enough for you.
“With respect to that … perhaps old mate, but not the case always,
you see … once I beat the system … but back in my younger days.”
This old codger had me spell-bound, as a tale was on the boil,
and I figured if I stayed around he’d give me the good oil.
Bony fingers forced his hat back, which was battered, torn and old,
then he rubbed his wiry whiskers as the story did unfold.
“Old man Smythe from Yukeabilla sought assistance for his herd
as his property was bare of feed and he had just got word
that agistment was available down south at Myabode,
so he mustered all his cattle and he took them on the road.
“With his son Dave on the payroll they pushed past the neighbour’s block,
but they somehow gained an increase to the numbers of their stock.
Then again as they passed Brucedale, the Smythe herd it grew some more
and it wasn’t natural increases: I know that, mate, for sure.
“After weeks of choking dust and flies they reached their journey’s end
where they left the stock to fatten and return a dividend.
Back up north the local stock squad warned all cockies ‘round that way
should they sight the stolen cattle, they should ring without delay.
“The old manager on Myabode was taken by surprise
when he recognised the stolen brands, but instantly got wise
as to how the mob had got there and then rang Detective Brown,
who impounded them as evidence and trucked them to this town.
“All the cattle in the yarding pen were supervised at night
while their day trip to the Common proved to be a frequent sight.
With the native tracker out in front and driving his old ute,
this small motley herd of cattle learnt to follow in pursuit.
“All their comings and their goings were so closely scrutinised
as the prosecution’s trump card was the evidence they prized.
Though the wily prosecutor gathered facts to build his case,
some old bushmen too were scheming and a plan was put in place.
“They were crafty, artful dodgers, who’d been slipped a quid their way,
and could see to it the evidence might somehow go astray.
The bold band then took advantage of the absence of the guard
for some twenty or so minutes and then broke into the yard.
“In the small hours of that morning they absconded with the stock
and the speed of the audacious theft had left police in shock.
These bold Bushmen used a vehicle which, much to their delight,
lured the cattle through the darkened streets and quickly out of sight.
“All available policemen joined the search to find their trail,
but their roadblocks and sheer numbers proved to be of no avail.
Then at sunrise the black constable, a tracker of renown,
traced the mob out to the stockyards on the outskirts of the town.
“All the cattle had been slaughtered and not one ear could be seen
and a piece of hide was missing, where the owner’s brand had been.
Still the heads and hides were proof enough … or so the lawyers thought,
but the judge dismissed the evidence and threw it out of court.
I just sat there flabbergasted as the old bloke rose to go,
‘cause the way he’d told the story he was really in the know.
But he sensed I sought the obvious and said “I need a drink.”
Then he hobbled down the street away … and turned and gave a wink.
In the book Champagne Country, which explores the history of Roma and district, there is a chapter on Bushranging. In part it discusses how the notorious Harry Redford was tried in Roma, though found not guilty and also there was another account of an incident which took place in 1952.
A number of head of cattle being held as evidence in a cattle duffing offence disappeared from the Police yards about two a.m. in the morning while supposedly being under constant guard. The culprits were never apprehended.
Years later my wife’s dad, who went droving at the age of ten and a well-known identity around Roma, shed a little light on the subject.
The above tale tells what took place. Certain facts have been hidden to protect the guilty. Barry Donnelly would write a book on this subject called, “Go Your Hardest.”
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Post by Admin on Dec 22, 2016 6:40:17 GMT -8
Great to have you with us. I've always enjoyed your work.
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Post by Merv Webster on Feb 22, 2017 23:17:13 GMT -8
TO HAVE LOVED A FRIEND
An empty stare betrayed her loss and tears flowed unrestrained,
though heartfelt words tried hard to heal a sadness still remained.
So limp and soft her once strong hand hung loosely in my grip,
I felt at loss with what to say, the words escaped my lips.
Fresh flowers on the mound of dirt paid tribute to her friend
whose bridle she clutched in her hand, so little in the end.
We only went to trim the feet of our old Shetland Snow;
he showed the signs of foundered hooves, his gait was getting slow.
Her young friend shared the block with him, some other horses too,
but, when we cornered all the mob, defiant they shot through.
The filly though just stood confused, she sensed my daughter there;
desire to join the others though reflected in her stare.
My gentle words were meant to coax, to reassure her ears,
an outstretched arm was meant to calm and nullify her fears.
Then in a flash she'd made her mind, no longer would she wait
and dashed past me with lightning speed; she meant to join her mate.
Her flight forced her to race between a concrete trough and me,
when suddenly her forefoot slipped and caused the tragedy.
Momentum forced her frame to slide through moisture and the mud,
then concrete crushed her forehead bone, soft muzzle filled with blood.
She thrashed about in frantic throes, which chilled me to the bone.
My daughter cried, "Please help her dad! Please help my strawb'ry roan!"
I threw myself upon her head and held the filly down,
then sent my girl to seek some help, to fetch the vet from town.
He gave her horse a sedative while he then worked to save,
the failing force within her friend; the situation grave.
Her frame so still, her breathing rough, now time would only tell
if she would lose her fav'rite mate; the waiting it was hell.
The sedative then ran its course, she started to respond,
my daughter spoke to reassure her love and life long bond.
The trauma drained her filly though, her mind was not her own.
She thrashed and struggled all the more, each breath a muffled moan.
Her hurt was more than we could bear; my daughter said mid tears.
"I know I love my filly dad, she's been my friend for years,
but I can't bear to see her pain, we must do what is kind.
Please let her go and be at peace; my love is not so blind."
Then as we said our last good-byes to our dear equine friend
the fatal dose of sedative then quietly brought her end.
For months my daughter felt her loss, her friendship she did crave
and often sought to sit and talk by her young filly's grave.
I felt so proud the other day, her words I do recall,
"It's better to have loved a friend than had no friend at all."
From the book A Muster of Verse & Yarns. Merv Webster
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