Australia's sons and daughters are oft inclined to roam
Across the seas to distant lands far from the native home.
Some go to see the wondrous sights, some tread in history's light,
While others follow Life's career and try to do what's right.
They leave behind the fields of Youth, the tracks they knew so well
And go with their companion, in an icy land to dwell.
Who knows what spirit moved the Squire to get up off his rear
And whisper to his sweetheart: Let's go to Canada, dear.
The moleskin pants, the pleated skirts, the everlastin' boots,
They threw them all in Hughie's port beside the wedding suit
And for a special garb that would stand them in good stead
They both had coats of kangaroo, the fur of Old Man Red.
Oh, my God, you should have seen them as they swaggered through the store
The furry coat, the Aussie stamp, was mostly all they wore.
The broad brimmed hat, Akubra felt, jammed tightly on his pate
You could almost smell the gum leaves as he strutted past you, mate.
Australia Day came round each year and we would come together
To celebrate our common bond and the land we'd love forever.
The squire he rose and raised his glass and started on the toast
And glancing to the Monarch framed, he paled - he'd seen a ghost!
Draped down in disarray a tea towel fluttered there
A hiding of the Queenly mien. 'Twas more than he could bear.
You rotten bastard, Thrift! he cried, You've covered up the Queen!
The wild look in his ruddy face came right up from his spleen.
We calmed him down, removed the towel and started on the lamb
Served up with peas and taters and a daub of candied yam.
He quaffed two beakers full of wine, the fruit of Long Flat Red,
And eased himself into the mood and nothing more was said.
Oh give to me the morning sun, the river's rising mist,
And an arching line snapped far far out with supple tutored wrist.
The Dollies and the Cutthroats would rise to meet the hook
And Squire John the Angler brought breakfast to the cook.
We boated up the Parsnip, and we pitched our tents on high
While John he built a roaring fire, our dampened clothes to dry.
We cooked steak and onions and drank a tank of Mountain Red
But John had Kodak Memories a-coursing through his head.
He grabbed the old 'Box Brownie' and he placed us all in pose,
Then for a better focus to the river bank he goes.
One careless backward step and he disappeared from view
While we renewed our efforts on a case of Labbatt's Blue.
An hour passed around the fire. We were almost down to dregs
When a ghostly apparition crept back on brush skinned legs.
'Twas John of course, none other, returning from his 'shoot'
A sadder but a wiser man and a photographer to boot.
You can take the boy way from the bush, far from the mulga scrub;
But the bush will call him home again. Aye, there's the gentle rub.
He longed to plod behind the plough and chip at noxious burrs
And Jen would give her full assent for the dream was also hers.
They boxed up their possessions. 'Twas enough to fill the Ark
And they left behind the northern clime one evening after dark.
They dragged their feet to Bogolong and then put down their roots.
That's it, said John. No more we'll roam. Take off your bloody boots!
He's mellowed somewhat goes the tale. He no longer rushes in
To battle for tradition, or the state the country's in.
But those who know can time their call, and ask him to orate,
And still he'll rise and swallow all .. the hook .. the line .. the bait.
The Small School's Champion, the husband of Sweet Jen,
The landed gentry in his dreams, the tallest of the Men.
He'll dress the part and read for you some lines from poems old
And deep inside's a Phar Lap's heart that's cast in solid gold.
I doubt that his declining years will slow the bugger down'.
He'll rant and roar and rush about till Jenny starts to frown.
Jeez, Jen, he'll whine! The goin's tough. It's harder than I thought.
We could snatch our time and start again, if we just had Hughie's port. |
