Droving Cattle
Much of our national identity was forged during the second half of the nineteenth century when Australia experienced an economic boom-ride – led by the cattle and sheep industries.
At the time, most Australians lived and worked in what we call ‘the bush’. Woods or forests just didn’t sound right. The bush, especially in the outback – that place beyond the black stump, near the Never-Never and just a few hundred miles past Bullamakanka, was home territory to the Australian drover.
The cattle industry began in the late 1830s when large areas of the continent were opened up by droving herds of cattle and sheep, eating their way across the thenfenceless country, as they were fattened up for colonial markets. Over the years vast cattle and sheep stations were established along these droving routes, and many still exist today.
The long-distance drovers or ‘overlanders’ were responsible for large mobs of cattle, which were moved from the home station stockyards, along the droving routes, and, eventually, to sale yards or transport links.
Sitting high on their horses, the drovers were forever on watch as they moved the cattle along specific stock routes, sometimes crossing colonial and territorial boundaries.
Cattle drovers developed the habit of counting their herd – it was a good discipline and helped the endless days pass. Sheep are harder to count and are usually done every three or four days.
One old method suggested carrying a pocketful of small pebbles and count the sheep in batches of 20 – putting a pebble in the opposite pocket as the count proceeded. A standard joke was to say the best method to count a flock was to count the number of legs and divide by four!
S. Kidman & Co, established in 1899 by the ‘cattle king’, Sir Sidney Kidman and his brother, Sackville, remains one of Australia’s largest beef producers.
The drover, although a stockman, has particular skills used to ensure the wellbeing of the herd, especially in regular grazing and clean water. He has to be part veterinarian, dog trainer, cattle whisperer, expert horseman, good with a stockwhip and have a temperament that ensures his herd lasts on long, lonely journeys across some of the fiercest, roughest country on earth.
Mobs on the move must pass through the vast station properties, where the area is measured by the thousand square miles. Before crossing each boundary, the drovers is obliged to give notice to the station manager so the home cattle can be moved from the stock route. This was no mean feat before the days of two-way radio and today’s mobile phone.
The ‘Long Paddock’ is the colloquial term for the stock routes that cross Australia – open stretches of unfenced land that anyone can use to feed and move stock during drought.
One famously follows the Cobb Highway (named for the famous coach company) from Echuca-Moama on the Victorian border through to Wilcannia leading to the outback towns of Bourke, Broken Hill and White Cliffs. Another is the Canning Stock Route that runs from Halls Creek in the Kimberley region of Western Australia to Wiluna in the mid-western region. With a total distance of around 1,850 km (1,150 ml) it is the longest historic stock route in the world.
Old time droving was hard but proud work. Men lived on the track, cooked, slept under the stars, and probably dreamt of better times. Day and night, they had to be responsible for their herds. There was no ‘days off’ for the old-time drover. The days were long – often sixteen hours in the saddle.
They were usually a mixed bunch of blokes – black, white and brindle – skilled with the ways of cattle, determined to finish the trip with the full complement of stock, and, occasionally, a few more.
First Australians have a proud history as drovers and stockmen.
Many stations employed the same drovers every year they would disappear after delivering their mob and mysteriously reappear when the stock routes began to dry out at the end of the rainy season. Others were employed full-time, alternating their work between general station stockman’s duties and the annual droving trip.
It wasn’t unusual for two or even three herds to meet, especially if near a watering bore. Cattle brands were important, and part of the drover’s skill was in knowing all the leading brands. Separating the herds – often 4000 or 5000 cattle – was challenging and especially hard work for the dogs. Drovers knew full well not to get in the way of thirsty cattle, for the beasts easily stampede at the whiff of water. At times like this, the herd needed to be tightly contained, reassured and led steadily to the water source.
Water bores, especially in the Great Artesian Basin, are vital to the stock routes. Some of them deliver boiling hot water and need drains to allow the water to cool. A hot bath is a special treat for dry, dusty drovers.
The drovers breakfast by starlight. In the tough times when rations were low, the men had a ‘drover’s breakfast’ – a spit, smoke, a fart and a good look around.
Before sun-up, a horseman rides out in front of the mob. Others move to the flank; two follow up to heel the stragglers. The drovers make a noise – a shout to the dogs, a whistle. The mob leaders drift out after the front horseman. The mob is moving, heads tossing, voices lowing, a cattle chorus, and dust rising from ten thousand hoofs.
Feeding as they go, the cattle spread a surging red wave over half a mile of the stock route. Their progress is steady, for the good drover is not a whip-cracking cowboy of Hollywood film. To move cattle too quickly robs them of their condition. Some cattle are ornery, others remain calm, but during the first days on the road, all cattle require careful watching.
They move all day. Man and dog keeping a careful eye for strays. The drover’s dog is a trusty friend and fellow worker. A typical drover would gladly give his last drop of water to his horse and dog.
Late afternoon the drovers rest the herd and prepare a campfire and a hearty meal. The larger camps have a cook and general hand travelling with the plant. Yesterday’s drover supped on tinned beef stew, damper, tinned fruit and custard, and copious mugs of hot sweet tea. After the meal, a smoke and a yarn, possibly someone would recite a poem or sing a song as the campfire crackled and warmed the chilly air.
After sundown begins the night watch, the boss drover first, and his companions follow at two hourly stretches. The watchers ride ‘night horses,’ mounts specially trained for night work. The cattle settle down, jaws chewing the cud, their voices quieten. Some stand staring at the fire, not 15 yards distant. The men are careful not to move between fire and beast.
The night watch riders often sing to the cattle to reassure them they are under care. Some drovers played harmonica or tin whistle, always careful to retain quietness. There’s also a watchful ear on the lookout for dingoes – the drover’s last need is a stampede of confused, panicked cattle.
A droving trip could be a week or a matter of months. In a country where drought is a frequent visitor, cattle and sheep must be moved, fed and watered as they move ever onward to their final destination. Only then can the drover relax – even if only until the next assignment.
Australia is a big country, and in retrospect, our sheep and beef industries have a remarkable history of achievement – all made possible by the skill and determination of men (and now women) who wear broad hats and are called drovers.
Droving
When you take on droving out west where the flies are a terrible pest
And the mosquitoes at night how those devils will bite
When you take on droving out west.
You know you’re earning your dough
When you take on droving out west.
Old-time drovers typically led a solitary life. Even when travelling with a mob of other drovers, they usually thought as one. It was, and sometimes still is, the nature of the work, riding slowly hour upon hour where days led to weeks, sometimes months. Droving attracted a particular type of man, many were loners and thinkers by nature. Whilst campfire conversation was often short, singing, reciting and playing music was often plentiful and enthusiastic.
Like the songs of the shearers, the songs about drovers came from all facets of their lives. If anything, they are more reflective and represent a solitary life.
Droving was serious business as the men, and, once again, in the nineteenth century, they were mainly men, had the responsibility of taking large herds of cattle and sheep overland, fattening them up for the markets. Sometimes the journey was a matter of weeks and, more often than not, months on end. They were expected to be crack riders, part-veterinarians, skilful emergency leather workers, occasional cooks, water diviners and horse and dog whisperers. They also needed perseverance, navigational skill and a disposition suitable for a rough, nomadic life with other drovers. It was tough on the track.
Some of the classic droving songs gained widespread circulation. Most drovers knew ‘Wrap Me Up With My Stockwhip and Blanket’ (aka ‘The Dying Stockman’) and ‘The Stockman’s Last Bed’ and were prone to singing them slowly and reverently. The idea of being buried where the ‘dingoes won’t disturb me, in the shade of the coolabah tree’ taken very seriously.
Many songs were written to be sung in the first person, a folk song attribute that intentionally brings the audience in as the singer unfolds the story. It’s a simple device but effective. Many of the songs start with lines like, “I’m a stockman to my trade…” “I was travelling with my sheep, all my mates they were asleep…”.
I like to think of the droving songs having a certain rhythm echoing the slow ride along the stock routes like the Canning or the Long Paddock. Interpretation of the songs are, of course, up to the singer to decide how he or she ‘feels’ the song’s rhythm. In the 1970s when bush bands sprung up, many were influenced by the success and energy of The Bushwackers Band; there was a tendency to sing the old songs at breakneck speed. Often, to my mind, the fast energy obliterated the storytelling. A song like ‘Brisbane Ladies’ (aka ‘Augathella Station’) can be sung like the clappers but I think it is a perfect example of a song suited to a steady rhythm reminiscent of riding along the track.
Rad Dawson, aged 84 sings ‘The Stockman’s Last Bed’. Mr/ Dawson was a stockman for many years of his life. Recorded by Warren Fahey, at Forrester’s Beach, NSW, 1973. The song was also known as ‘The Stockman’s Lone Grave’ and was first printed in Bell’s Life In Australia, 1857.
Cyril Duncan sings part of ‘The Banks of the Condamine’, a song that tells of a young girl suggesting she join her shearer lover dressed as a shearer. He tells her ‘the boss has given orders no woman may do so’. You wouldn’t get away with that in the 21st century!
Drovers have been a part of the Australian outback mystique ever since European settlement expanded to include farming. These men, and now women, traverse the bush leading large herds of cattle and sheep across land as they fatten their charges and head for the sale stations. It is hard work as cattle can be cantankerous beasts and sheep, well, they’re bloody sheep.. Horseback riders, yapping working dogs, flies and dust travel with the cattle. The Long Paddock, that endless stretch of land where cattle can leisurely stroll and eat, is also legendary and has been celebrated in verse and song. There are also songs and stories about the drovers and stockmen, especially those of the industry’s heydays in the second half of the nineteenth century, when beef exports made Australia rich. Today the horse has given away to the motor bike and truck but the legends live on. In this section you will read about one renowned inland stockman, Ron Kerr, and his many stories and poems. You’ll also find traditional songs and ballads typical of an industry where its workforce were rightfully proud of their achievements in bringing the world’s best wool and beef to market.
Dying sailors, harlots, cowboys, sleeper-cutters and airmen are commonly found in British and American folksong traditions. This is one of a number of Australian variants of this widespread and popular theme. In a 1930s depression variation a ‘strapping young bagman’ (swagman) lay dying’ and asked his mates to:
Wrap me up in my old police blanket,
And bury me deep down below,
Where the coppers and the squatters can’t worry me,
In the shade where the old rattler (train) blows.
THE DYING STOCKMAN
A strapping young stockman lay dying,
His saddle supporting his head;
His two mates around him were crying,
As he rose on his pillow and said:
CHORUS
“Wrap me up with my stockwhip and blanket,
And bury me deep down below,
Where the dingoes and crows can’t molest me,
In the shade where the coolibahs grow.
“Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing,
Far o’er the plains would I fly,
Straight to the land of my childhood,
And there would I lay down and die. Chorus: Wrap me up, etc.
“Then cut down a couple of saplings,
Place one at my head and my toe,
Carve on them cross, stockwhip, and saddle,
To show there’s a stockman below.
Chorus: Wrap me up, etc.
“Hark! there’s the wail of a dingo,
Watchful and weird — I must go,
For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman
From the gloom of the scrub down below.
Chorus: Wrap me up, etc.
“There’s tea in the battered old billy;
Place the pannikins out in a row,
And we’ll drink to the next merry meeting,
In the place where all good fellows go.
Chorus: Wrap me up, etc.
“And oft in the shades of the twilight,
When the soft winds are whispering low, And the darkening· shadows are falling,
Sometimes think of the stockman below.”
Chorus: Wrap me up, etc.
From Old Bush Songs. The lyrics of this song (to the tune of ‘The Old Stable Jacket’) are by Horace Flower, published in the Portland Mirror, July 8, 1885.
Sidney Kidman – Cattle King
Droving on the outside track
RON KERR – Reminiscences of a working drover
Continuing folklore correspondence with Ron Kerr. Borroloola, NT. Aged 77.
Mr Kerr describes himself as ‘one of Australia’s oldest working ringers’. (Letter received November 2005)
(Some of the letters refer to questions I have asked or subjects where I have asked for more details. WF)
Ron Kerr as a young man on the track
“I like writing but never had enough schooling. Can get passed reading but spelling becomes a bit of hit and miss. Always need the dictionary to jump the hurdles. (I have made obvious corrections however I have tried to maintain Ron’s bush language wherever possible. WF). I wrote myself a book called ‘Kerr’s Country’. My sister in Sydney put it together, only two copies, one for me and one for herself. It included my poems. For me it is a diary. I won the ‘working dog stories’ prize that Angela Goode did for the ABC. They had over 2000 entries!
Following your letter I am sending you some bush yarns, old drover’s yarns, including the Galloping Ghan, The Busted Camp Oven, Corn bag Thompson, The Lignum Lair and the Fresh Water Admiral. Also some ‘pranks’ and what I call ‘water tank literature’.
As far as ‘singing to the cattle’ – it wasn’t to serenade the cattle. Singing was to let the cattle know the watchman was coming around the camping cattle, as not to appear out of the darkness. A sudden noise, like a horse breaking a stick, could set them on the move. Singing would cover the breaking of the stick etc
Warren, your letter about the Breeza Plains reminded me of a droving trip to Gunnedah sale yards. I was the cook for my dad (Roy Kerr). I was 12 years old and we were to camp this night in the trucking at Curlewis’s. I drove the wagonette with two horses in the pole and I pulled up near the trucking yards, unyoked the horses, and hobbled them out. I was collecting wood for the fire and got to talking to a young bloke (I think his name was Max Beard). We were talking about Poddy riding when along came a steer about two year’s old. Max said it belonged to an old bloke in Curlewis. Anyway, the poddy steer walked into the trucking yard to a watering trough and then one of us mentioned that we should try and ride it. All we had to do was close the outside gate – as dad wouldn’t be along until sundown – so, with a halter rope to go around the steer, we jammed the steer into the corner with the other gate – it allowed us to pin him against the outer rail.
We had no trouble holding it in the makeshift pen and got the rope around its belly. Max climbed onto the steer while I pulled the rope down on Max’s hand and, at the same time, steadied the beast. When Max said he was ready I closed the gate and the steer bucked out of the corner. Max hit the dust in two bucks. Then it was my turn. Well, I never knew how I went as I woke up just as the owner of the sheep dad was droving, arrived. with my mother, from Quirindi. I woke up just as they arrived. I had to cough up to dad two weeks later – but I still don’t remember getting on that steer!
Life As A Drover
Ron and Mavis. NLA
I got married in Broken Hill in 1958 and saw our first child, John, born in 1959. My father-in-law was Rube Stephenson who was also a drover. He was offered a job walking 5500 sheep from Mount Wood, in the far northwest corner, north of Tibooburra, to Bourke. Rube had trouble-finding ringers for this particular job. They didn’t like the idea of walking horses 370Km north, to take delivery of sheep, and walking them 425Km to Bourke, driving cantankerous sheep. As Broken Hill was getting drier by the day, finding horse feed would be a problem in a very short time, plus our son was now about 5 month’s old. So I said that I would take my plant along and help him with the sheep into Bourke. My wife, Mavis, could drive a truck, while my mother-in-law drove Rube’s truck. There weren’t any hiccups about the women moving the trucks along. Also my wife’s two brothers, Tiger and Ray, could handle the horses as they were around 20 year’s old. So we headed off walking the horses with about 50 head doing about 40Km per day. We arrived at Mount Wood two weeks later. Took delivery and turned S.E. heading for the Cut Line, Milparinka to Wanaaring. Striking the track we headed for Wanaarins as the only water was a stock route bore, one of these, when we arrived at Clifton bore, was boiling hot for two and a half miles along a bore trough. We had to divert our stock wide of the drain for three miles until the water was cool enough to drink. Skinner’s bore had been fenced in to hold stock – it was here I met Jeff Carter (the photographer) and he couldn’t get over that we had a baby of 5 months and he wasn’t concerned with the heat. When we arrived in Bourke John was six month’s old.
I wasn’t long in Bourke when I was offered a job droving 2500 sheep. The money was good plus, I was thinking of heading up over the border into Qld and this job would take me in that direction. It was to go to Kilcoweran some thirty miles NW of Hungerford. I didn’t need any help for 2500 sheep as Mavis could drive the truck along while I drove the sheep. It was me and ‘old sandsoap’, my working dog. When we delivered at Kilcoweran we heard that Mavis ‘s family had moved to Boorara, 30 km north of Hungerford. It was shearing time at Boorara plus a lot of this station was being cut up as closer settlements. This meant that ether would be work as Mavis’s family had the contract to muster sheep for shearing. So we stayed.
We were camped on the southern side of the station near a bore that had a drain that watered three paddocks and in one of these paddocks were a lot of brumbies, The boss asked if I could yard them as there were some station mares running with the brumbies. He said if I got them back I could do what I wanted with the rest.
The horses came down off the hill country and went through a thick belt of timber to get to the water bore. It was here that we started to build a yard trap so when the horses came down for water, about 4.30 at night, we could trap them. We had to be careful because brumbies have a good sense of smell and you can’t be anywhere near them. We used to ride our horses down the track just so the brumbies could smell horses. There were about 20 to 25 horses at the bore when we trapped them. We built a yard to hold just as many as we needed. It was not point trapping more than you needed and seeing them starve. The first mob we trapped was about 22 head and of these there were 5 station mares. One looked like it had racing blood in it the rest were about 7 head of young horses, 2 or 3 year olds, and we drafted off the stallion and 4 old mares with yearling foals and then turned them loose. We contacted the homestead and said we had the 5 mares and Allan McGrath and Roy wood, the head stockman, came out with a truck to collect the station mares.
Tiger, my brother-in-law, and myself started handling the 7 head of young horses, all fillies. After a while we could lead them to our campsite, about a mile away, and break them in proper.
Where we were camped was one time a boundary rider’s place until the hut was burnt down. We were able to handle all the fillies at once and teach them to be handled. In a week we could ride them so we then tarted to think about trapping some more. So we arranged the trap yard again and the brumbies walked right on through. This time we trapped 19 head, four stallions and 15 colts.
These stallions and colts would be the ones that were kicked out of the main heard by a much stronger stallion that was holding the main breeding mares.
All of the 15 young colts were as much as two of us could handle so we drafted off the 4 stallions and turned them into the bush again/ As we wouldn’t need the trap yard for some time we started handling the colts in the trap, mainly teaching them to be tied up, lead etc and then bag them down at the same time. Three weeks later with 22 head of brumbies broken to saddle, tied up and nobbled, we could walk up and lead them. It couldn’t have happened at a better time as Alan McGrath came out to the camp to see if I was interested in taking 1000 head of cows into Bourke sale yards. I said I’d take the job but I have to get two more men. Tiger said he would do the horse tailing and Mavis would drive the truck and do the cooking. I wanted two more men leaving myself and two men with the cattle.
Allan said he would ring the agent in Cunnamulla and then fly the men to the station at station cost. I was to take delivery in two days. The day of delivery Mavis, Tiger and myself started getting things ready so we could be at the homestead 20 miles away. We were used to moving at short notice plus the station had a good supply of food, horse shoes, rope etc. we were at the station homestead within 24 hours – ready for the two men and 1000 head of cattle. Allan brought the two men down and I said to Tiger that he should get two horses for these fellows – and we can see how they sit on a saddle. Tiger grinned and said “How quite a horse?” I said he’d better make it real quiet. I said he and the two men could then bring all the horses down, but don’t let them near any of those brumby colts – and to show them how to take the hobbles off and how to put them on.
The station stock camp arrived just on dark and yarded up the cattle. Roy Ward came to our camp just on dark asking what time I wanted to start off with the herd? I said as soon as it’s light enough in the morning to make the count. I wanted to be on the other side of the first fence, seven mile away, to camp the first night but I didn’t know if the two recruits had ever watched cattle before.
Next morning Tiger had the horses on camp at daylight. We all caught horses and saddled up. Shaun and Bob, the two new fellows, got their horses saddled up after a few directions from Tiger then the three of us headed down to the cattle yards while Tiger helped Mavis pack up the gear.
Soon Allan McGrath and Roy Ward arrived at the yard, just on daybreak. We started the count from one big yard to another. I had ten small stones in my shirt pocket and every time we counted to 100 I put a stone in the other side pocket. Shaun and Bob were behind the mob, just close enough to keep the cattle stringing through the gate. When we counted 1000 head at a glance I could see there was at least another 100 and when 1100 came I moved one stone back to the other pocket – which made the count 1123 cows. Two cows had calved in the yard. Shaun and Bob, confused, were shaking their heads. The boss said, that’ll do and that he’d see us in Bourke.
So we opened the gate and set sail for Bourke. I told Mavis she’d better only go about 4 miles because what I had seen of the cattle there could be more calves born between camps – we could put them on the truck until they could manage to walk with us.
Mavis pulled up about 4 miles in a patch of low mulga trees, which offered good shade, and these cattle were scrub eaters, and loved eating young mulga.
The two new men worked a wing each while I brought up the tail. This gave me an idea how they worked. I could see the cattle pulling down mulga limbs down like it was going out of style.
When we came to the dinner camp Mavis was waiting. I said to Tiger we’d ride one of the brumby colts after dinner since there were no cows on the tail that was trying to go back to the station. Riding back across the tail I saw two cows that were going to calf at the dinner camp. I rode around and told Mavis to hold up on dinner until we started moving them off camp. I told Tiger to stack up some of the gear on the tail of the truck, as we would have two calves joining us later.
I said we’d put one of the new chums on the horses and follow the cattle behind and Tiger could go behind the cattle because once we put the calves on the truck the cows are going to want to return to the dinner camp, in search of her calf.
This turned out to be the worse that I thought possible. We had a total of 9 calves born at the dinner camp. We had to push the mob up level with the truck and as Shaun and Bob were quite good on horses, Tiger and myself started grabbing calves one at a time, putting them across to Shaun and Bob so they could put them in the truck.
Tiger and I would watch the cows who were bellowing for their calves. After getting all the newborn calves on the truck we pushed the mob up tight to move off dinner camp.
As the cattle had filled up on the mulga trees we pushed them toward the night camp. With Tiger and myself working the tail, not giving the cows time to come back. We had 3 miles to go to night camp. Plus we had a fence to go through and water on the other side of that fence. A couple of cows made a dash to go back but we managed to get a horse up onto them in time. At this stage they were bellowing their heads off in protest. When we got them through the gate Mavis had the camp about 200 yards up the fence. When the cows heard the calves singing out away they went – straight for the camp. Shaun kept an eye on the mob while Tiger and I went to the camp to unload the calves. The calves were still wobbly on their feet. Mavis had to keep baby John in the caravan but once the cows worked out where their calves were they started to head back to the mob. The other thing in our four at this time was that there were small water bores along the way between the main bores.
It took us about 4 weeks longer getting to Bourke because of the calving. We headed into Bourke sale yards with 1520 cows and calves! That’s around 400 calves born on the road.
I asked Shaun and Bob what they were going to do as I was going back to Boorara. They said they had no intention of riding back that way again.
At the sale of the Boorara cows and calves one of the agents mentioned that there was a road train going to Crawarro, about 50km over the Qld border for a load of cattle. I asked if the road train could take my horses, as it was less than 50km from Boorara. He came out to the cattle yards next morning saying if the horses were ready to load at 6 o’clock that night he’d get them to Ciawarra. We had them locked in the yard so we set off to Hungerford to camp the night, collected the horses at Ciawarra and walked them to Boorara.
Arriving at Boorara we found the shearing was complicated with only one stock camp working. Mavis’s family had moved up to Quilpie. I decided to trap some more horses as there was a buyer wanting horses for dog meat. There was an old stockyard s I started patching it up. Tiger went on to Quilpie with the mail truck and I trapped about 25 horses but they were some of the worst looking brumbies you ever did see.
Two days after I trapped these horses the buyer turned up to see if had any horses. His truck held 25 head so I sold him the lot.
As my plant horses were spelling on good feed they were in good condition.
I said to Mavis, let’s pack up and head north to Quilpie as it is on the end of the railway line and the big station on the cooper’s Creek would be starting to muster fat cattle that would need to go from Quilpie to Brisbane.
So with my horses, and Mavis driving the truck and caravan we set off. I drove the horses 256 km doing approximately 30km per day but in no hurry on the first leg to Thargomindah, Toompine, Quilpie, 12 days walking the horses with good feed and water all the way.
After making enquiries at the stock agent of what movements of cattle were available he said the big station on Cooper’s Creek was due to start in a month. However there were some new blokes starting up at Kyabra so he gave me some names: Budge O’Connor, Ray Steel, John Gater and Bill Crouthers. I said, this John Gater bloke – does he come from White Cliffs, western NSW? He said, yes he does, do you know him? I said, I do. He said the operators name was Rube something. I said, that’s my father-in-law.!
The next day we set sail for Eromanga as I had itchy feet to be moving. We heard that Mavis’s family were working for Budge O’Connor on a new block called Monkeycoda, between Eromanga and Kyara, about 20 miles off Eromanga – one easy day for the horses. We arrived next day. Rube Stephenson told me John Gator was getting ready for shearing and as yet had no horses and would have to muster with a landrover. John’s block was Kyabra with the great big water hole where the Tullys and Jardine discovered waterway back in the pioneering days.
I drove the truck over to Kyabra next day leaving Mavis with her family. I hadn’t seen John Gater for 3 or 4 years when his family owned Quester Park, just north of White Cliff, the little opal town that only had a pub and half a dozen houses.
I asked John if he needed any mustering to which he said, do I ever! Two blokes turned up but they’re only ringers so I’ve had to do most of the mustering in a landrover.
I said when did you want me to start? He said the shearers would be happy for the day after tomorrow. I said, right! John said there was good horse feed around the homestead and all the water they can drink and Mavis would be good company for his wife, Beth.
Warren, I’ve only covered a mere 10 years and still in Qld – there is another 40 years in the NT. Mavis and I came to Borooola with 3 kids when the white population was 10 people – we increased this to 15 – a third of the white population with 200 blacks camped over the McArthur river that divides the town roads. The town was virtually wiped out by Cyclone Kathy in 1984.
We arrived with thee children and Mavis had to take them back into Qld twice while the other two were born. All the kids started school of the air in Alice Springs.
I am on the downhill of 70 and was born 20 August 1936 at Gunnedah, NSW.
I have three sons and two daughters. One son is in north Qld, and other is 200km south of Borrloola and the second eldest son, Ronald, same working name as me, is in the Kimberley’s of WA. He has just been featured in a book by Lizzie Spender called Wild Horse Diaries. In my above writing Ronald hadn’t even been born! He is now 43 years old. All my sons were capable ringers before they left school. Even the two girls, Debbie and Roslyn, both married with children. Roslyn is president of our local rodeo for the past three years.
Water Tank Literature
Due to the complaints from tourists camping at the tanks – and usually shocked by the bawdy writing on the tanks – many of the stock tanks have been regularly painted with a uniform colour.
Prime example of the type of writing:
Rich girls have rings made of gold,
Poor girls have rings made of brass.
The only ring my girl has
Is around her fucking arse.
We don’t have that problem around the Northern Territory because, like NSW, our stock routes are mostly separate from the main road, plus station cattle use stock lanes where the drover will water his stock and move 3 to 4 mile out as not to be troubled by station stock. There’s no fencing or yards. Drovers watch their cattle every night. These days very few cattle are ‘walked’ due to the fact nowadays cattle are moved by ‘ball-bearing drovers’ i.e. road trains. Soon there will be no more contract mustering as everything is mustered by chopper helicopters and loaded on to the ball-bearing drovers.
If we were to handle stock like they do today we’d never get another job! Every yard now has a bone yard for the dead motherless calves, wandering around as food supply for dingoes.
The following was on a Government bore and like most; it had a windmill that pumped water into large square tanks, with an outlet pipe to a trough. Most tanks hold about 20,000 gallons of water. This one was at The Gap, 5 miles west of Werris Creek, and, at the time, all tanks were painted with black tar. Most drovers use these as information boards – registering who passed through, who was going where etc plus, they often left a ditty> including this one:
We were shearing out back in a wayside shack,
We had a greasy cook with a shit house look.
He stuffed our holes with his half-cooked rolls,
And poisoned Christ with his messes.
The penner up, with a sore-eyed pup,
And the boss was a whinging bastard,
I took a blow at a dirty old yeo (ewo = ewe)
The skin of her guts was rotten.
I curst and swore as the shitbag tore
And reached for the needle and cotton,
I put a stitch in the dirty old bitch,
Kicked her arse down the one-way path,
And said, go, you rotten bastard!
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On the Bourke common-gate someone had tied up the white skull of a big bullock and written in charcoal (on the head):
Here lies one of a few
Driven to death by Hughie McQue (a well-known Bourke drover. Possibly McKew)
A Hungerford pub had a sign on its toilet door:
A man’s ambition must be small,
To write his name on a shithouse wall.
Someone else added:
A drover’s life is a pleasure that townsfolk never know,
It rains for a bloody fortnight,
Then takes time off to snow.
A bloke walks into an outback hotel and the publican says, “The police were here looking for you. They said they’d done 50 miles looking for you.” The fellow looks at the publican and whispers, “Is that right. I’ve done 52 miles keeping ahead of them!”
Pranks
Prank:
I was on the road with my dad and there wasn’t a blade of grass on the stock route. Dad told me I only had to put the little tingling bell on the horse as he was going to slip the horses through a gate and let them feed on the station owner’s grass, which was 6 inches tall. After a while we heard the tingling bell move further and further away. Dad got a night horse and went to see what was happening. He came back about two hours later and when I asked what happened he explained that the cocky had obviously heard the little bells and came down. Apparently the cocky led all the horses into his holding yard. Dad had followed him and, when everything was quiet, he took the bells off our horses and put them on two of the cocky’s horses. He then drove all our horses back. The bells were only worth two pounds ten shillings but we got our well-fed horses back and never heard from the cocky.
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Prank:
We were drafting a large mob of sheep and the boss happened to look back and saw a lot of sheep lying all over the place. Some were kicking and some not moving. There was a jackeroo with a stick about 4 foot long hitting sheep on their heads. The boss ran back yelling, “What the hell are you doing?”. The ‘roo replied, “Helping the sheep up, boss, it helps them keep up, boss.” The boss looked at the ‘roo and said, “How long has this been going on?” The ‘roo replied, “Well, boss, this stick was 6 foot long when I started giving them the ‘local anaesthetic!”
_______________________________________________________________________________
The little calf was crying,
He often wondered how.
His daddy was all bull,
And his mother was quite a cow.
I got this from Dud Mills of Bourke.
_______________________________________________________________________________
Another night we were watching the cattle and one of the crew said he had seen a snake crawl under one of the bloke’s swag. The drovers all stood up within five seconds and grabbed sticks looking for the snake. They pulled blankets off their swags etc until they were down to the camp sheet and then they pulled that off. Meanwhile the cattle moved 4 miles away. You’ve got to keep your eyes on them!
_______________________________________________________________________________
There’s a story about watching cattle that concerns a camp that was full of Aboriginal drovers. The boss says, “I tell the first person that’s going to watch to sing a song when riding around the mob – so they know it’s one of us watching them. One of the drovers replied, “Boss, them cattle don’t know blackfellow lingo.“ The boss said, “They’ll soon learn the lingo but don’t you go singing too loud and bringing in strange bush cattle into the mob.”
Last Droving Trip
The last droving trip I did into Broken Hill from Milparinka, I got as far as Fowler’s Gap, owned by Owed Hayes. We camped at the Government bore on Christmas Eve. Les Gunn, the drover, turned up on horseback and said he was going to camp there for the night too. I said I’d be moving about three miles through a fence in the cool of the evening and Les said his mob was coming from the west, and he had come ahead to check out the water. He kept walking around the big bore tank, and then he asked when I had arrived. I said, I had landed there about dinner time (mid day) and he replied that the mail truck was to leave some parcels for him at the tank. I said the cook arrived here before the cattle so I’ll ask him if he saw any parcels. Les said the mailman must have put them in the tank – then he asked me if I had arranged to have a carton of beer and a bottle of Red Mill Rum at the 2nd inside stay, on the east side?
I said. Les, you’ll have to dive down 8 foot to get them, as the cardboard carton would be all soaked by now. He said, I can’t swim, let alone dive. I said, you want me to take a look to see if the mailman left them in the tank? He said, would you? I’d like to get the rum before any of my men get here. So, down I went. The beer was there, but the cardboard box had disintegrated and the cans spread out a fair bit. I was coming with two cans in each hand but, as yet, hadn’t seen the rum. After all the beer was accounted for I went after the bottle of Red Mill. I found it under the next (neck?) inside the stay of the tank.
As I got out of the tank and put my clothes on Les had his quart pot lid half-full of rum saying, “would I like a Christmas drink?” he passed me the lid and said “Merry Christmas”
I could see the dust if Les’s cattle about a mile back so I said goodbye to him and started mine up to get moving, and to get out of the road of Les’s cattle. They used to call old les the ‘Busted Camp Oven’
Further Correspondence
Following received February 2006
To answer your question about the word ‘plant’ – The plant consists of everything a drover needs to shift a mob of cattle. Some mobs are from 1000 to 1500 head, with a value from $50,000 to $500,000. Very few station s will let a drover use their yard due to a ‘rush’ (stampede) as this could leave the yards flat on the ground or $2000 to $3000 to rebuild – so the drovers have to ‘night watch’ from dark to daylight. A mob the above size would need at least 4 men, a horse trailer, five horses and a cook. The ‘horse tailor’ would do the first watch, as he has to get the horses ready in the morning at daybreak. There are usually five watch sessions so everyone does about two and a half hours per night. The cattle feed along a strip of about 8 to 10 miles per day, longer if watering points between bores – but sometime there’s two days walk between watering points. Most drovers’ plants consist of a minimum of 40 head of horses and ringers (horse men) to handle the size of the mob. Cattle might be walking for 6 to 12 weeks on the road and stock routes.
Horse breaking. (I had asked about ‘horse whispering’). Yes, I do talk to horses when I am breaking them in or shoeing. The thing is to keep the tone of the voice at the one level and only speak sharply if the horse tries to bite or kick. Plus you work all over the horse from both sides, picking up feet and patting goes a long way. Always approach a horse steady and from the front and always look them in the eyes. The ears and eyes tell you how he is taking the handling. Let the horse smell your hand once he has lost the fear o man you should start with a bagging down – use a bag – wave it around the legs, lightly touching the horse all over – he soon becomes used to it and you cannot over do this bagging down as this is similar to what goes through for the rest of his life when catching and saddling up.
I’ve had young brumby bucks come in the horse plant while droving rather than shoot them. I’ve had the horse tailor drive the horses under a tree I was sitting in with a strong rope for the horse’s head. When the brumby comes under where I was sitting – with the end of the rope tied to the tree – I drop the loop over his head and when the horse chokes down we slap a sideline on him. A side line is made up with two hobble chains joined together, one strap on the front and one on the hind – both on the same side which gives the name ‘side line’ the horse can walk along with the plant horses but will stumble if he tries to go faster. This makes him easy to drive along with the other horses and he can be roped off back for handling, taught to be tied up at the next camp – still in side line – the ‘mouthing’ is done the next day while the horse tailor is driving the loose horses along without any gear on – only the side line – which makes enables him to eat grass and drink. This takes any sourness out of the brumby. With the brumby off his own country he is easier to handle plus he gets used to men catching and riding horses. Around this time he is ready for his first ride so the side line comes off plus his mouth has regained its feeling. I have never asked a man to ride a horse that I have never ridden myself and having no yard to ride the colt in I get onto the horse with a bag over its head and in the middle of the rest of the horses. I take him for a short ride to the dinner camp, driven along with the loose horses by the horse tailor. After a couple of rides this way the colt can be ridden along with the horse tailor for company and then it’s not long before he becomes one of the plant horses. The patting and talking and slapping of the saddle flap are all part of the breaking in.
Your other question about drovers being superstitious – there are too many ifs and buts in the droving job to have time to be superstitious and a good buster from a horse would break any lucky charms. Most horsemen won’t wear rings on their hands or wristwatch as the mane hair of the horse can tangle in a ring or watch and break a finger. I’ve seen too the hand or fingers hang up blokes. A pocket watch is much safer and most blokes wear a watch on their belt.
Drinking Toasts
You asked about drinking toasts. One I recall from around the drover’s fires went –
Here’s to the girl that lives on the hill,
She won’t do it – but her sister will!
Here’s to her sister!
I was in the Wanning pub (west of Bourke) and these two big blokes were in an argument. Laurie Halfpenny and another big bruiser were talking fight so the publican told them to get outside. As they were headed out the door Halfpenny said, “I’ll eat this bastard”. Well, they punched and clawed each other until halfpenny walked back in and spat out some hair and a piece of ear on to the bar saying to the publican, “There’s half of him”.
Another time, at a shearing shed, the boss looked back into the pens to see sheep lying all over the place. The boss screamed at the penner “What’s wrong with them sheep?” The reply came back, “They wouldn’t go into the shed so I tap them on the head with this stick (which was about 18 inches long).” The boss glared at him saying “How long has this been going on? The penner said “Well, this stick was 6 foot long when I started.”
Poetry
ABOUT THE POETRY
I am sending you some poems. Most are from the horse and cart day and the old steam days. I made up poems about outback droving, swagmen, mustering, horses, cattle, hardships, birds, transport of yesteryears, people on the tracks, horse breakers, war and that sort of thing. Most of the poems have errors and some missed spelling (sic). As I am all fingers when it comes to a typewriter and missing the space between words etc. The lack of education became erratic when the fingers cannot follow the mind and that little dumb button for spacing doesn’t work on its own …..
(Some of the poems were typed but, like the letters, most were handwritten. WF).
PIDDLING PETE
Piddling Pete, a disreputable breed of a hound,
Accompanied his Master everywhere about town.
To social events and gatherings, or just paying the rent.
Piddling Pete marked the way with his very own scent.
At every post pillar or street poles.
Pete never missed anything in the evening strolls.
When the master stopped to bid the time of day.
Pete cut short the talk, by giving a spray.
Peak hour crowds Pete liked the best.
The busy intersections, he had more legs to wet.
Sometimes Pete caused quite a riot.
Stocking legs Pete just had to try it.
Sometimes Master went for a drive in his car,
Mostly to out of the way hotel bars.
Pete had a whale of a time, on tree and tyre.
Plus one old lady, who thought her leg was on fire.
Most ladies though, found Pete rather cute.
Until they found, he was a piddling brute.
Showed his affection by wagging his tail.
They became victims of his scented trail.
On the beach, sunbakers were Pete’s delight.
He could christen their heads and dash out of sight.
Master ignored that, Pete belonged.
With a far away gaze, when Pete was wrong.
When Pete accompanied Master to the local dog show,
Where pooches and poodles where all in toe..
Pete gained the canines attention by sitting up to beg.
Then calmly got them on side, before cocking his leg.
Reduced opposition by spoiling their coats.
Pete always liked to be first past the post.
These pampered pooches had something to fear.
When Pete cocked his leg to aim his spraying gear.
The paper reader, on benches in parks.
Were mostly Pete’s victims to play his larks
Being rudely interrupted, by the feel of damp.
When Pete went into action, on the leg of their pants.
Pete was friendly with neighbourhood cats.
Being playful without getting scratched.
They played with Pete without fear.
All finished up with pee in their ear.
Pete had an enemy, the old lady next door.
Caught Pete spraying her flowers, and got sore.
She tanned Pete’s rear with a branch of wattle.
Each morning Pete baptised her milk bottles.
Pete became a hero of his end of the street.
Was mentioned in “Dog of the Week”
By stopping a hold-up at the local store.
While peeing on feet on a slippery floor.
THE STOCK CAMPS RITUAL OF THE START
The wet was just about finished, plant horses in the yard
With the draft of the strongest horse, thrills and spills were on the card
Each man took his pick, of horses he would work
Everyone rode his own pick of horses, even if he ended up in the dirt.
The ground was fairly soft, should you take a fall
Some would slip you quick, if you wasn’t on the ball
So ride them in the yard, while you have the chance
Don’t take them too cheap, or you’ll have to walk to the camp
If you think you have his measure, try him out on the flat
Don’t think you have him beat; he’ll try you out along the track
They are in from a long spell, off green grass on the run
All full of beans, looking for some fun
You will meet them on equal terms, after a long lay off over the wet
Make sure your gear is on tight; they’re likely to put you to the test
If he doesn’t buck now, between here and the next camp
He likely has no guts, and shouldn’t be in the plant
If he lifts you from the saddle, go down for a better holt
They have been out the year before, and not just livery colts
Should he decide to go off in earnest, you’ll find him no riddle
He’ll be playing for keeps, becomes rough around the middle
So give him his head, don’t let him come down
If the footing not the best, he’ll win the first round
Don’t let him get a victory; he’s bound to try again
So keep him on his feet, before he can chalk up a claim
Roll your swags loose; pull them down tight on the packs
Watch these old mules, they like to see your wardrobe spread across the flat
Careful loading the packs, don’t step to far behind
They can kick at any angle and will wait for just the right time
Put on the neck straps, every horse carries his own hobbles
Place the tucker packs on the quieter mules, in case we strike trouble
Keep an eye on the packs, in case they start to slip
Grab the lead ropes, before they start to kick
Is everybody ready? For the start of the first day of the muster
There might be a few hiccups, or someone gets a buster
Let them out of the yard; be ready to hold the lead
Hold them back to walking pace, its eight miles before we get a feed
We will camp hear at the creek, near the big shady trees ahead
Hold them on camp, while we catch the mule’s earring the beds
We have made good time, so hobble up for the night
Should make a early start, if the horses camp alright
By the break of dawn, the horse tailor has the horses on camp
The cook is up with the billy boiled, by the light of a carbide lamp
With the others up around the fire, after rolling their swags
Than everybody to the horse camp, to catch and saddle their nags
TRANSPORT OF YESTERYEAR
Sulkies and buggies, our one time transportation
That serves us well over their duration
Made of hickory and oak
With hard wood in the spokes
With fancy harness ad brass buckles
They carried you to town, for your goods and shackles
Fancy studded winkers, back saddle and britches
Collars, breastplates, all with double stitching
Brightly painted, with padded seats
Eye catching scrolls on the footboard cleats
Multi colours of the under bellies
Steel tires over hickory felly
Pulled by a brace in pair
Groomed up with special care
They trotted along in stile
Kept in time mile after mile
They carried the families to town
To do their shopping or look around
Their sulkies and buggies stood in the shade
Along with the horses wagons and drays
The heavier horses were part of the labour force
Useful commodities, was the working horse
With the single columns, of the bore drain delving teams
Or snigging logs for the milling of construction beams
Use for plough and dray, or weekend fun
Well care for and cheep to run
Used in war like centenaries before
The transport of yester year that used no more
They have been replaced with the motorcar
Along with hard roads covered with tar
The sulkies and buggies you’ll see no more
The wagons and drays are gone from the stores
BORROLOOLA RODEO
It’s rodeo time again at the ‘loo
There will be thrills and spills, maybe a fight or two
The bucking stock are yarded behind the chutes
Lively horses and big Brahman brutes
So get your gear ready for the action
See some fancy dismounts, in the latest fashion
Walt for your name and chute number from one to six
When the chute boss calls your number, he needs an answer quick
Three calls is all a rider is allowed
No answer, then your name is scratched
No score until your out in front of the crowed
Blame yourself if your gear becomes too slack
You’re on your own, when the chute gate swings back
Hold your mark out, don’t touch your hat
The judges are waiting, one on either side
No legwork, no re-ride
So get those legs working to a rhythm
To improve your chances of top money and ribbon
The hooters will signal time ends
Flick your kicker, wait for the pick up men
Next event the first round of the bulls
Give the yardmen room, to get them into the chutes
Regulations say no drunken fools
Get your bull ropes, spurs, tied down to your boots
These bulls are high kicking masters
The clowns are out there, to save you from disaster
If you finish up in the dust, you’ll know you’re out of hope
Of scores in the bull ride, but pick up your rope
So go down on him, with your rope well up behind the hump
Keep your head back away, from his prongs
Some bulls buck, with a high-headed stunt
If you go over the head, you’ll know you’ve done it wrong
Most riders know these bulls like to stomp
All are aware of a horn he doesn’t wont
If you are thrown, get clear as you wish
For all riders, ride at their own risk
Nobody likes to see a competitor hurt or cough
But the risk is theirs, on this daredevil sport
There are horseman and clowns, to help a rider out
See you next year, when rodeo times about.
THE SLEEPER CUTTER
He was thin, bony, no sign of fat
Could chop all day on the end of a Kelly axe
Worked in a Singlet called a ‘Jacky Howe’
Plodded along like a horse pulling a plough
Worked from morning till dark
Cutting down the tough ironbark
Squaring sleepers from this very hard wood
Shaping the sleeper were the ironbark stood
With hammer and wedge the sapwood was removed
Into the heart, where the broad axe was used
Which had handles for left hand and right
Sleeper cutters, worked until the fading light
He squared the sides to equal face
Toiled along at a steady pace
Turned his billet to the wider side
For the rough sleeper required
With Adze axe he trimmed the cut
Than with broad axe for the finial touch
Laid them out, as not to warp
Before picking them up with a dray and horse
At night before going to bed
He sharpen his tools to a very fine edge
Ironbark was cruel to an axeman’s blade
With ware and tear, day by day
With sleepers stacked, to dry out straight
Plus the reduction in the overall weigh
Transported to railhead by horse and dray
To pass inspection, before the sleeper cutter gets his pay
Branded with the sleeper cutters own mark
Under the eye, of the railway clerk
Stamped by hammer, on the end to be seen
To show who had cut this sleeper beam
MULGA WIRES
You can sit around a drover’s campfire –
There is talk of cattle, dogs, horses and their sires
What stock routes is in. good shape
From someone that had travelled them of late
Information on who had the latest bust
And most times find out, what made the cattle rush
How far before they stop the lead
If there is cattle short the news will travel with speed
For a chance meeting at different drovers fires
With the news past along the mulga wires
The news that s spread may not be that important
But these mulga wires makes the drover move with caution
And its fro« these mulga wires the drover gets his information
Where the best horse feed is; and who owns the station
How far behind is the next travelling mob
Those mulga wire’s are part of the droving job
They give information, of water not on the stock route
Where dry stages their horse water a little further out
The mulga wire tells were there could be poison weed
A spot where not to let your cattle feed
The message though the mulga cannot be ignored
They serve as travelling stock information board
The mulga wires do more good than harm
They let you know about the weather, evil or calm
For those that live and work in this isolation
Can tell you the value of the mulga wire communication
For the drover, camel driver and people on the stations
The mulga wires served without any segregation
Mulga wires are known to save disaster
Spread by south there nothing faster
Over the sand hills, deserts, with sparse population
The mulga wires take your message with freedom of information
With the update of the pedal wireless
The big transmitter was the answer to the golden wish
To reach out over to the distance flying doctor’s base
That even the chance of a life saving race
News travels to and from by way of conversation
Called the ‘magpie session’ between all the stations
A vigil is kept for possible dust storms or fires
These sightings went over the mulga wire
I SALUTE THE WORKING HORSE
The working horse was use and abused
Some worked without their shoes
They were the breadwinners and everyone’s transport
These horses that could do most thing but talk
From the 1770s these animals played their part
Was the backbone to get this a start.
They were yoked to everything that had wheels
At night you could see the sparks from their iron shod heals
In the days of need the horse was a treasure
Some were yoked from morning to dusk to suit the masters pleasure
Others were rigged in stylish harnesses looking rather cute
Some were worked with sweat and dust, whipped by heartless brutes
This adaptable animal had to be admired
Serving as a slave to carry out what was required
From the frozen snowy mountain range
To the heat and flies, of the desert plains
The loaded wagons of wool were a sight to be seen
Pulled by a sixteen span of a Clydesdale team
These powerful Drafts from the hills of Scotland
Pulled their freight and scooped out our dams
Access roads made by horse and dray
Back and forth they went day after day
They hauled the timber from scrub and ridges
Down to the sawpits making billets for bridges
Our explorers were carried over this land
Expeditions and working horses went hand in hand
There were more explorers than horses that came back
As some dropped dead under their packs
It’s unreal how quick history can vanish from people’s minds
Like the working horse and what it done for mankind
They were first over the mountains and plains
They served in the front line, time and time again
Both Banjo and Henry wrote about them with pride
Both had good reasons – walk or ride
But they paid tribute to the wonderful horse
Their poems were their feeling, what a way to endorse
The saddest thing about the horse that they worked and died
For this country that came from nothing, to hold its head in pride
All because of the working horse for untold centuries
Had served man kind well, over the years without even a sanctuary
SO YOU WONT TO BE A BULL THROWER
Basic needs are a ton of guts and no brains
Putting your life on the line for someone else’s gain
Ride like a madman through stumps, logs and timber
Like playing Russian roulette, or similar
Hair raising rides following cleanskin bulls
Hopeful that your horse can keep on his feet
As catching up at speed there are no set rules
Dodging hazards the main thing to beat
Up on the hocks both bull and horse at even pace
Waiting for the timber to open, giving a little space
The timing to leave your horse, taking the bull by the tail
With the extra weight, the beast most likely will bail
His first reaction is to remove you from his rear
Weapons are a pair of wide shinning horns
Honed to sharp points like a pair of well kept spears
Taken from behind, for the first time since being born
With his head, he goes into a spin
Now it’s man against beast, in a contest to win
The thrower wait for the foreleg to bend
With a quick pull of tail to head, the over balance contest ends
With the bull on his side, hind legs are strapped
Then he’s dehorned while laid out flat
Let up into coachers with a head all polled
The bull is still a fighter but can be brought under control
Not all times is the thrower successful
Some times he under estimates the bull
When he whips around quick at the touch of his tail
With the rider on foot there will be a fight without fail
The rider keeps a tree trunk, between himself and the bull
Sometime using his shirt to distract than adjourns
Both will fight another day, as a thrower never wins them all
Just another chalked up loss, that one day will be on recall
There is no disgrace to miss a bull of a thousand pounds in weigh
When you have to leave your horse on the run, at half pace
Then pit yourself against the bull, with the brush of the tail around your hand
When he charges around, you know everything is going to plan
THE INDIAN HAWKER
He had a covered wagonette, with two horses to the pole.
He plied his trade were he could get, with the items that he sold.
Dark skin, sharp feature, of Indian origin, said he was a hawker.
And worked around this region, would camp down by the swamp.
If there was anything, that we would want.
Our Cook, said he would go down to see this Indian,
And what he had for sale.
We could do with some curry, and a need for new towels.
Back within the hour, eyes shining like glass had got some good gear.
Costing half his brass.
There was some Indian curry, a shining silk shirt,
Bought myself a turban that doesn’t show the dirt.
Reaching for hip pocket, got out some home made Rum,
“Has it got a jolt.?” Have a nip. Snowy, as he took a gulp,
Blinking his eyes, saying, “ it is a 240 volt.”
Next morning we tried that curry; it would take the hair off a dog.
Snowy had tears running down his face,
Saying his eyes were full of fog,
” Can’t eat that stuff”, he said, ” It is too bloody hot,
Douse it with water before it eats the arse out of the pot.”
Cook said, “I may have put too much in, for it’s sure got a bite,
I will use a little less and try again tonight.”
Snowy saying “Make a lot less, and water down that homemade brew,
For it’s strong enough to make a willy-wagtale fight a bloody Emu.”
The Indian showed Cook some herbs, and he had quite a few,
That he had never seen or heard of before.
The Hawker, saying you soon get use them in time.
Snowy said them Indians, must have guts, like caste iron,
If it’s anything like that curry and brew.
The trials and errors, must have poisoned quite a few,
It’s got me beat, how the Indians became sires,
That stuff is strong enough to set your shirttails on fire.
TRUMBY THE BORROLOOLA BRUMBY
He was a little under size. pig-eared and coloured black,
Short barrel and always fat.
He shuffled along at a easy going gait,
Could cover the ground at a surprising rate.
Had a shaggy mane and a rat like tail.
But no better horse ever looked over a rail,
Over fallen logs, and ant beds. scrub, he took them in his stride,
He was always on the bit. a pleasure to ride.
I had run him out of a mob of Borroloola brumbies,
That’s why I called him Trumby.
This little horse that came from brumby stock,
Was like a cat on his feet over rocks.
Was a horse that always hung close to the camp.
Would be the first to be found of the plant
With no problem to catch in the darkest of nights,
Never bucked or ever took fright.
Was smart on his feet, tune in his tracks,
You could jump off and leave him,
He’d be there when you got back.
I broke this brumby when he was just a colt,
This little horse that could run until he dropped.
He was good in the timber, you had no fear of that,
Could get up with the scrubbers, in nothing flat,
On the shoulder blade he’d force the leaders around
The pace he went up the wing, made the scrubbers give him ground.
I rode him all his life, without the use of spurs
At drafting he was a pearl,
This free and easy going horse, could do the job without using force.
This little brumby that worked with a heart of gold,
Went in every muster, marked never to be sold,
When he became too old. was retired from working in the camp.
He became a mascot and never left the plant.
For two more seasons, he travelled with his mates,
Never caused any trouble, was never left behind a gate
Just went along in the plant, when we mustered all about,
On the best of feed and never hobbled out.
When his end came, he was dying on his feet,
I took him to his favourite spot, down by the creek.
With grass, green up to his knee’s.1 loaded the gun with one round.
Never felt so sad, the day I put him down.
WANDERING KEMP
He came in out of the glare off the open flat
Water bag in hand, swag across his back
Dropped his gear saying, “Name’s Wondering Kemp,
Thought I’d, find company when I cut the sign of your camp
I said; “Grab yourself some tea, there beside the fire
He said; “I heard about this travelling mob by way of mulga wires;
I am looking for a job, if there is one to be had.
I can do anything in the droving line and I know all the pads
I said; “We are short of a cook, if that work is in your line?”
“You’ve never seen a better ‘babbler’. at that I’ve served my time.
I can make a feed of anything, of that you need not fear
Can pick a good camp and a place to set up the cooking gear.”
“You’re hired! we move off dinner camp in the cool.”
“They call me ‘Wandering Kemp’ but if that’s too long, call me ‘Kemp’
I, said, “We have been working short handed, had to change the rules
This is the horse tailor, you’ll work along with him, name,’s Trent
Trent; has only to catch the horses while l put the packs in order
I,’ve worked a lot with packs, and crossed every state border
I; need this job to get my feet off the ground
All this walking, has left my boots unsound
THe droving camp is more complete, since Kemp joined the crew
Men are more contented, with Kemp’s tasty stews
With more sharing of the night watch, men get more sleep
Good cooks are hard to find to make a camp complete
Once, when a storm broke in the middle of the night
Kemp was up to cover up and kept the fire alight
As the night watchman came to change
Kemp had hot coffee for them, after being out in the rain
It has been said; good cooks can make a good camp all over
A contented camp can make a good boss drover
Cooks like Kemp are talked about around drovers fires
This talk about cooks, go the mulga wires