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It’s cold wet and dreary in my part of the world as I write,
so here are just a few snippets of Aussie whimsy from my collection of scribblings to
cheer things up.
Glorious
Day
I
set out for a walk on a fine spring day
The
flowers I saw in merry profusion
Into
a lake ran a stream so fey.
I
thought it was a grand illusion
Beneath
my feet the grass was green.
From
new mown fields I smelt the hay
It
really was a peaceful scene.
Oh
glorious world. Oh glorious day.
Children
ran by—so full of joy,
picking
flowers and singing beneath the sun
I
bent to smile down at a tiny boy,
but
he took off away at a sprightly run
How
carefree they were, these girls and boys
Like
splendid shafts from a sunny ray
Not
worried unduly, but sharing their joys.
Oh
glorious world. Oh glorious day.
A
horse in a paddock called out to me.
A
dog barked from a farmhouse just over the hill
Some
magpies flew up to the branch of a tree.
Kangaroos
were feeding near a windmill
Some
joeys amongst them prepared for flight.
A
kookaburra laughed loudly, and then flew away
To
soar on the wind to a magnificent height.
Oh
glorious world. O glorious day.
The
woes of the world are all left behind.
On
days such as this my cares slip away
Problems
disperse like dust in the wind.
Oh
glorious world. Oh glorious day.
The
Stockman
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’d
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
the mulga and scrub reach well past the thigh.
Past
rivers so dry that the cracks split the earth
and
no one can say what the red land is worth
He’s
been where the ‘roos jump high in the air,
where
wallabies roam over land green and fair.
He
thought once of settling, of 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
a place like Sydney or Melbourne or Darwin
where
the people all flock and there’s plenty of sin
No
woman in town would put up with his roving,
this
need to be moving, and constantly going
To
the back blocks and endless wide open plains,
far
away from the city and shops and the trains
There’s
no female around who’d put up with the hide
of
a man who yearns just 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 and good times; the 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 with pleasure, and then let you go
To
wander the 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 them in the frosty sky
and
be closer to God than you’ll be when you die.
A
stockman knows all about drought dust and 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.
This last one is set in the doc’s waiting room, where I seem
to be spending far too much time of late.
The Doctor’s Surgery
Are
you shorter than you used to be?
A
strange but smart enough query
It’s
listed there with many more
on
the inside of my doctor’s door
With
other questions about your health,
asked
bluntly and without much stealth
Do
you require a cholesterol check?
Or
some acupuncture for a pain in the neck?
Perhaps
the others that sit with me
In
this my doctor’s nice surgery
Have
bunions or wind, are feeling weak,
or
maybe like me have come to seek
A
reason for what is making them crook,
why
they often feel dizzy while reading a book
Did
that one over there wake up with a pain?
Perhaps
she is simply feeling the strain
With
a boy who plays up, shouts and screams
She’s
probably coming apart at the seams
Ah,
here’s the doctor, I think it’s my turn,
to
unload my problems so I can learn
What’s
wrong, what’s the trouble with me?
It
will all be unfolded in his surgery
He’ll
tell me I’m well, I’m fit and fine,
and
I’ll leave with a smile until the next time
When
I want the assurance of someone so wise,
who’ll
look in my ears, down my throat, in my eyes.
Some
reassurance will see me right,
Some
kind words of comfort; some doctorly insight
I’ll
leave his office on jaunty feet,
glad
to get out on the sunny street
It’s
good to know that I’m fit and whole.
I
know I feel fine for my doc told me so.
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