Post
by David Campbell » Wed Nov 26, 2014 10:57 am
Okay, here's the full poem, including the all-revealing final three stanzas (especially for Bob!). Then it's up to the court of public opinion as to whether Vernon Igor "Ukulele" Patterson becomes a household name.
Cheers
David
The Man From Yarra River
He had driven up from Melbourne for a country holiday,
in his Blunnies, his Akubra, and his jeans,
for he reckoned that a bushman had a life that looked okay,
far away from city traffic and machines.
He was heading for Glenrowan, where Ned Kelly made his stand,
and in Kilmore he had stopped to have a bite
at the famous pub Red Lion, very stately and quite grand,
where he met a girl called Heather, surname Knight.
He approached her for assistance as he had a noble quest
that has haunted quite a few Australian men,
for he longed to be a horseman, one acknowledged as the best,
and he reckoned Heather knew a thing or ten.
For he saw himself a hero, mounted proudly on his steed,
with a skill that held the rest of them in thrall,
as he showed the local riders an amazing turn of speed,
for his talent was the envy of them all.
“Would you come and help me, Heather, for I’d like to learn to ride
like the man from Snowy River used to do,
and if someone could assist me, as my mentor and my guide,
in a day or two I’ll be a jackaroo!
’Cause I reckon it looks easy when I’ve seen it on TV,
and I’ve ridden on a Shetland at the Show…
it is just a case of rhythm, and some pressure with the knee,
and a horse will take me where I want to go!”
Heather stared at him a moment, but then gave a quiet smile,
and agreed that she would help him with his quest,
for if he was such a rider it would only take a while,
and he’d surely be the fastest and the best.
So she put him in the saddle of a fairly placid colt,
to begin at quite a slow and steady pace…
and she swore forever after that it wasn’t all her fault,
that what happened was a freak of time and place.
For no sooner had they started than the colt just up and reared…
it was squealing like a demon straight from hell…
then it bolted in an instant and had almost disappeared
when she heard the city bloke’s first frantic yell.
He was going like the clappers pretty near the speed of light,
in a cloud of dust that vanished down the track;
he was hanging on like crazy in the horse’s headlong flight,
and she wondered how on earth she’d get him back.
So she rode out wide to wheel him, but he shot off through the scrub,
where the wombat holes mean any slip is death;
he was hit by passing branches, lashed by whipping bush and shrub,
and she feared that he might draw his final breath.
For the earth was doing cartwheels as the sky swung overhead,
and he’d left his stomach quite a way behind,
while his legs were flailing madly and his life hung by a thread…
it appeared the city bloke might lose his mind.
She could sense his mounting terror, hear his panic-stricken cries
that were echoed by the distant cliffs and crags,
as the colt ran helter-skelter, down a slope and up a rise,
with a terrifying burst of zigs and zags.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
and across a little tumbling, babbling brook,
then he jumped a fallen redgum in a single mighty bound…
she could see him ending up in Tallarook.
And they sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept its feet
as it took the hills and gullies in its stride,
with the man from Yarra River clinging grimly to his seat…
it was hard to watch that city slicker ride!
Heather lost them for a moment as they vanished in the trees,
and she wondered at the danger still to come,
but she rode on resolutely when she heard him shout: “Oh please!
I’ve had quite enough of this…I want my Mum!”
And she caught them in a clearing where she turned the pony’s head,
as she fought to end that crazy, headlong flight,
till it stood, foam-flecked and trembling, and quite willing to be led,
while its rider simply sat there, deathly white.
He was broken, cowed, and beaten, so she took him to her place
for a cuppa and a freshly buttered scone,
and they sat awhile in silence, both quite weary from the chase,
till he mumbled it was time that he was gone.
So he drove back out of Kilmore, having said his sad good-byes,
and he travelled home to Melbourne once again,
firmly vowing that in future he would be more worldly-wise,
for he was no mountain horseman, that was plain.
But, though unknown in the city, and no longer feeling blue,
up round Kilmore he is famous far and wide
as the man from Yarra River, for soon all the country knew
how a girl of just eighteen had saved his hide.
Last edited by
David Campbell on Fri Dec 05, 2014 10:17 am, edited 1 time in total.
