 |
| Find all my books here. |
Let's forget the pandemic and the lock downs, and all else that is happening in our world today and just go bush with Old Irish (A touch of Australia's past)
The
bush and plains are the stockman’s home, the pine clad mountains and valleys to
roam
His
hat rests low on his proud set head, and covers his hair of the brightest red.
His dog
lopes close by his horses’ side, and the pair never tire through a long day’s
ride.
Old
Irish has dreamed since he was a lad, of riding all day across this wide land.
His
mother and father had both been rovers. His dad was a man well known by the
drovers
They
had died up along the Murrays’ side, and were buried near that great river so
wide.
Irish
knows well how to laugh and to cry—to share life’s sorrows ‘neath God’s clear
blue sky
He
knows all there is about herding cows, about riding all day when the wind just
howls.
Once
on a trek though the great desert land, he almost got lost as for gold he
panned
Old
Irish has been where black parrots fly, where mulga and scrub reach well past
the thigh.
Past
rivers so dry, the cracks split the earth, and no one can say what the red land
is worth
He’s
been where ‘roos jump high in the air, where wallabies roam over land green and
fair.
He
thought once of settling, taking a wife, but decided with forethought that
wasn’t the life
No
drover would fit in a life in the city—to leave all this space would be more
than a pity.
In
places like Sydney, Melbourne or Darwin, where the people flock and there’s
plenty of sin
No
woman in town would put up with his roving, this need to be moving, constantly
going
To back
blocks and endless wide open plains, far away from the city, shops and the
trains
No
female around would put up with the hide of a man who just yearns to be free to
ride.
The
man who knows joy in a good horse beneath you, a dog for a pal and restrictions
so few
The hard
times, good times, dust and the heat, where no man gives in to a thing like
defeat.
The
bush folk have ways the townsfolk don’t know, they’ll greet you, but then let
you go
To
wander wide open plains that you love, where at night all the stars fairly blaze
up above.
On a
night when the air is crystal clear, you’ll sit ‘neath a sky where the stars
seem so near
You
can reach out and touch the sky, and be closer to God than you’ll be when you
die.
A
stockman knows about drought dust, heat, but in his way of life won’t put up
with defeat.
His
life’s filled with pleasures no town man would know.
Old
Irish is off where the wanderers go.
A Touch of Hope
I hope I’ll go back, I heard her say;
I hope to return to my homeland one
day
We all hope for things, both large and
small
I hope that my kids grow up fine and
tall
Gran hopes that she’ll die in her bed
of old age
And I hope for peace in the world at
some stage
I hope my son doesn’t get mixed up
with drugs
or ever gets friendly with muggers or
thugs
My daughter hopes Greg will ask for a
date
and I hope he doesn’t bring her home
late
I hope that my washing gets dry on the
line
it will if the weather stays hot and
fine
My husband hopes that the horses he
backs
will race home like wildfire and eat
up the tracks
We all hope to own our own house one
day
and hope we won’t have a large
mortgage to pay
Our aims and our dreams help keep
faith alive
But hope, firm and strong, is what
helps us survive.
Find excerpts and reviews of all my books here on my web site
