Shearing at Castlereagh

The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, 

There's five-and-thirty shearers here are shearing for the loot, 

So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along, 

The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong, 

And make your collie dogs speak up - what would the buyers say 

In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh? 

The man that "rung" the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here, 

That stripling from the Cooma side can teach him how to shear. 

They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes, 

And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose; 

It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay, 

They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh. 

The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage, 

He's always in a hurry and he's always in a rage — 

"You clumsy-fisted muttonheads, you'd turn a fellow sick, 

You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick. 

Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke today, 

It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh." 

The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din, 

They throw the classer up the fleece, he throws it to the bin; 

The pressers standing by the rack are waiting for the wool, 

There's room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full; 

Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away, 

Another bale of golden fleece is branded "Castlereagh".

Queanbeyan Age, 9 November 1995

The Geebung Polo Club

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 mountainside, 

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 we’re 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 got 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 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 crude 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.  

The Antipodean, 14 December 1893

(The Antipodean was an annual literary journal, first published in 1892).

 At the Melting of the Snow

There’s a sunny Southern land,

     And it’s there that I would be

Where the big hills stand

     In the South Countrie!

When the wattles bloom again

     Then it’s time for us to go

To the old Monaro country

     At the melting of the snow.

To the East or to the West,  

Or wherever you may be, 

You will find no place  

Like the South Countrie. 

For the skies are blue above,  

And the grass is green below, 

In the old Monaro country  

At the melting of the snow. 

Now the team is in the plough,  

And the thrushes start to sing, 

And the pigeons on the bough  

Are rejoicing at the Spring. 

So come my comrades all,  

Let us saddle up and go 

To the old Monaro country  

At the melting of the snow. 

A B Paterson’s book Saltbush Bill J.P. 1917