Author, poet and balladist, Henry Lawson (1867-1922) would have known Capertee well as he would have passed through the village often, either by road or rail. Around the turn of the last century Lawson wrote a poem about the old bullock drivers that travelled the Mudgee Road with their loads of wool. One of the many high climbs for the bullockies was around the base of Blackmans Crown, a peak located just to the south of Capertee, and Lawson touchingly mentions the assent and its reward of a picturesque outlook over the Capertee Valley.
Henry Lawson. drawing by Lionel Lindsay Courtesy National Portrait Gallery, ACT |
SONG OF THE OLD
BULLOCK DRIVER by Henry Lawson
Far back in the days
when the blacks used to ramble
In long single file
'neath the evergreen tree,
The wool-teams in
season came down from Coonamble,
And journeyed for
weeks on their way to the sea.
'Twas then that our
hearts and our sinews were stronger,
For those were the
days when the bushmen was bred.
We journeyed on roads
that were rougher and longer
Than roads where the
feet of our grandchildren tread.
With mates who have
gone to the great Never-Never,
And mates whom I've
not seen for many a day,
I camped on the banks
of the Cudgegong River
And yarned at the
fire by the old bullock-dray.
I would summon them
back from the far Riverina,
From days that shall
be from all others distinct.
And sing to the sound
of an old concertina
Their rugged old
songs where strange fancies were linked.
We never were lonely,
for, camping together,
We yarned and we
smoked the long evenings away,
And little I cared
for the signs of the weather
When snug in my
hammock slung under the dray.
We rose with the
dawn, were it ever so chilly,
When yokes and
tarpaulins were covered with frost,
And toasted the bacon
and boiled the black billy,
Where high on the
camp-fire the branches were tossed.
On flats where the air was suggestive of 'possums,
And homesteads and
fences were hinting of change,
We saw the faint
glimmer of appletree blossoms,
And far in the
dstance the blue of the range;
And here in the rain,
there was small use in flogging
The poor, tortured
bullocks that tugged at the load,
When down to the
axles the waggons were bogging
And traffic was
making a marsh of the road.
'Twas hard on the beasts on the terrible pinches,
Where two teams of
bullocks were yoked to a load,
And tugging and
slipping, and moving by inches,
Half-way to the
summit they clung to the road.
And then, when the
last of the pinches was bested,
(You'll surely not
say that a glass was a sin?)
The bullocks lay down
'neath the gum trees and rested -
The bullockies
steered for the bar of the inn.
Then slowly we
crawled by the trees that kept tally
Of miles that were
passed on the long journey down.
We saw the wild
beauty of Capertee Valley,
As slowly we rounded
the base of the Crown.
But, ah! the poor
bullocks were cruelly goaded
While climbing the
hills from the flats and the vales;
'Twas here that the
teams were so often unloaded
That all knew the
meaning of "counting your bales".
And, oh! but the best-paying load that I carried
Was one to the run
where my sweetheart was nurse.
We courted awhile,
and agreed to get married,
And couple our
futures for better or worse.
And as my old feet
grew too weary to drag on
The miles of rough
metal they met by the way,
My eldest grew up and
I gave him the waggon -
He's plodding along
by the bullocks to-day.
from Verses Popular and Humorous, first published by Angus and Robertson in 1900
No comments:
Post a Comment