Basher Brogan's Pride

[thestoryteller]

BASHER BROGAN'S PRIDE

I tramped on down to Dawson's place. He owned old 'Gumajong'.
The last shed's cheque had been cut out, it didn't last that long.
My luck was in, he took me on, I'd get my hands in wool,
then spotted Basher Brogan mate; the raging mallee bull.

This Brogan was a shearer who'd been working sheds for years,
from Queensland down to New South Wales, a gun he was with shears.
His reputation was well known, though not for shearing sheep.
A proud man who would pick a mate, then leave him in a heap.

He loved to rib the new chums like and throw his weight about
and if a bloke should take a stand; he'd simply knock him out.
Men hated working sheds with him, but work was hard to find,
so brushed aside his vulgar ways and put them out of mind.

Next morning Dawson lectured us before the shed kicked off;
a decent sort of cove he was, no high faluting toff.
The morning passed and all was well till Basher hollered out.
He'd found himself some poor new chum. A local rouseabout.

For days he gave the young lad hell, his sights were set in him;
we’d have to help this poor lad out as things were looking grim.
'Twas obvious he'd not give up until he picked a brawl.
We told the boy to play along and take a dying fall.

Then sure enough straight after work our hunch was proven right.
He'd followed the young rouseabout and goaded him to fight.
The young lad stood and made a stand as Basher let one drive.
It hit the young chum on the chin; he wisely took a dive.

His frame it looked a lifeless form; I knelt down by his head.
"Can't say I feel a pulse!" I cried, "I think the young lad's dead!"
The others knew the gibe was on and played along with me.
"He's dead alright," another said, "as dead as one can be."

Poor Brogan's face went white as flour; a lump formed in his throat.
'Twas good to see old Brogan squirm for normally he'd gloat.
We carried the young rouseabout and laid him in a hut,
advising Basher he would hang; the case was cut and shut.

They covered the young rouseabout, who played his part real well.
Poor Brogan he just sat and moaned, too ill to really tell.
"Old Dawson's told the cops," they said, "they're coming out from town."
The bully Brogan felt remorse and paced on up and down.

Now Dawson knew the gibe was on, he'd heard old Basher rave,
next morn he told the men to dig the poor young lad a grave.
For hours they dug and Basher helped, he never said a word,
till suddenly he cried aloud, his words by all were heard.

"What foolishness is this I've done?" he whimpered out aloud,
"I've on my head a young lads death, for being, oh, so proud.
If only I could bring him back. I'd be a better man.
I only seek forgiveness LORD. Please do it if you can."

" I think old Basher's had enough," said Dawson to the men.
You've got your wish my foolish friend the lad will live a'gen."
The hut door squeaked and opened wide; the rouseabout walked out.
Poor Basher thought it was a ghost; the men all gave a shout.

He knew he had been gibed that day, but learnt from what he'd done.
The rouseabout and he 'come mates. Like father and like son.
On 'Gumajong' there lies a grave with headstone there to read.
At Rest Lies Basher Brogan's Pride ... you bullies all take heed.

© Merv Webster

From the book In Days Gone By

http://users.tpg.com.au/thegrey/InDaysGoneBy.htm

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