Welcome to the Hunter Bush Poets

Held on the 2nd Tuesday of the month

7pm - 10pm

at the Miners Museum

James Street, Teralba

 

Co-Sponsors of the Gulgong Henry Lawson Festival June Long Weekend

Competition and performances held at various locations - e.g. Newcastle, Morisset, Scone, Krambach, 'Ducks Crossing' - Warners Bay and some members compete Australia wide.

 

Results for 2009 can be found on our Competition page.

 

Come along and join us.........perform a poem or two or just sit and be entertained by an evening of great poems and yarns from our members

Australia takes her pen in hand,

To write a line to you,

To let you fellows understand,

How proud we are of you.

 

From shearing shed and cattle run,

From Broome to Hobsons Bay,

Each native-born Australian son,

Stands straighter up today.

 

The man who used to "hump his drum",

On far-out Queensland runs,

Is fighting side by side with some

Tasmanian farmer's sons.

 

The fisher-boys dropped sail and oar

To grimly stand the test,

Along that storm-swept Turkish shore,

With miners from the west.

 

The old state jealousies of yore

Are dead as Pharaoh's sow,

We're not State children any more

We're all Australians now!

 

Our six-starred flag that used to fly,

Half-shyly to the breeze,

Unknown where older nations ply

Their trade on foreign seas,

 

Flies out to meet the morning blue

With Vict'ry at the prow;

For that's the flag the Sydney flew,

The wide seas know it now!

 

The mettle that a race can show

Is proved with shot and steel,

And now we know what nations know

And feel what nations feel.

 

The honoured graves beneath the crest

Of Gaba Tepe hill,

May hold our bravest and our best,

But we have brave men still.

 

With all our petty quarrels done,

Dissensions overthrown,

We have, through what you boys have done,

A history of our own.

 

Our old world diff'rences are dead,

Like weeds beneath the plough,

For English, Scotch, and Irish-bred,

They're all Australians now!

 

So now we'll toast the Third Brigade,

That led Australia's van,

For never shall their glory fade

In minds Australian.

 

Fight on, fight on, unflinchingly,

Till right and justice reign.

Fight on, fight on, till Victory

Shall send you home again.

 

And with Australia's flag shall fly

A spray of wattle bough,

To symbolise our unity,

We're all Australians now.

 

(AB "Banjo" Paterson)




 

I saw a man parade today, in uniform complete,

His hat cocked neatly on his head, clean boots upon his feet,

His buttons highly polished, and his belt was shiny too,

His head held high, his shoulders back, like I once used to do.

 

The pride in him was evident in every move he made,

The smile and twinkle in his eye, that time would never fade,

So young and fit and confident, with his gun upon his shoulder,

And I prayed that he would never see his mates with him grow older.

 

For if I could alter history the wars would not have been,

No-one should ever have to face the horrors I have seen,

In the stinking, sweaty jungles, with the bullets and the bombs,

And the fever and the insects, in a world so full of wrongs.

 

I saw fighting in the deserts too, in blinding, searing heat,

Saw men go mad with thirst, or fear, or not a thing to eat,

I saw injuries and damages that no-one could believe,

And saw months of non-stop "action" without a day of leave.

 

I was part of ocean warfare in a ship and submarine,

Part of sinking other tortured souls - a memory obscene.

I saw oceans full of burning oil, and lifeboats upside down,

And officers and "other ranks" who would either burn or drown.

 

I piloted a bomber and I bombed from in the skies,

I saw planes explode, or crash to earth, and airmen, too, likewise,

I also flew a fighter and I flew it mighty well,

And I reckon what I saw of war would coincide with hell.

 

I was nursing sick and broken men to bring them back to health,

And I did all that I could do to protect the Commonwealth,

I fought and fed and flew and rode and drove and sailed and nursed,

And if I could have a dying wish, I’d see those days reversed.

 

Then no-one would be hurt next time, no mates or cobbers fall,

And everyone would understand the futility of it all,

Now I pray that that young man I saw will be just a sentinel,

And I pray that I’m a dying group, - for I am the R.S.L.

 

Jeff Cook

 

Jeff Cook has written this poem as a tribute to the fallen and the returned. For many years Jeff has recited at least one of his poems at the ANZAC Day Commemoration Service at his home town of Minlaton in South Australia.




 

I saw a kid marchin’ with medals on his chest.

He marched alongside Diggers marching six abreast.

He knew that it was ANZAC Day - he walked along with pride.

He did his best to keep in step with the Diggers by his side.

 

And when the march was over the kid was rather tired.

A Digger said “Whose medals, son?” to which the kid replied:

“They belong to daddy, but he did not come back.

He died up in New Guinea on a lonely jungle track”.

 

The kid looked rather sad then and a tear came to his eye.

The Digger said “Don’t cry my son and I will tell you why.

Your daddy marched with us today - all the blooming way.

We Diggers know that he was there - it’s like that on ANZAC Day”.

 

The kid looked rather puzzled and didn’t understand,

But the Digger went on talking and started to wave his hand.

“For this great land we live in, there’s a price we have to pay

For we all love fun and merriment in this country where we live.

The price was that some soldier his precious life must give.

 

For you to go to school my lad and worship God at will,

Someone had to pay the price so the Diggers paid the bill.

Your daddy died for us my son - for all things good and true.

I wonder if you understand the things I’ve said to you”.

 

The kid looked up at the Digger - just for a little while

And with a changed expression, said, with a lovely smile:

“I know my dad marched here today - this is ANZAC Day.

I know he did. I know he did, all the bloomin’ way”.

 

D. Hunter