JACK HOWE - THE MAN AND THE LEGEND

[Maureen K Clifford]

This poem and the following one Big Water both were written about different legends, both coincidentally with roots in Warwick...Queensland. Coming into town from the Brisbane side as you approach the bridge over the Condamine a children's playground on the RHS holds a set of blade shears on a wool bale. I often wonder if the kids who play there have any idea of the connection. Travel across the bridge and on the LHS is the statue of Tiddalik in one of the many parks around the Rose City.


Jack Howe – the man and the legend... Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet


He came out of Killarney on a morning damp and cold
in July eighteen sixty one or thereabouts we're told.
Dad was a circus acrobat, though now he juggled stock.
The Catholic Priest was happy there was one more for his flock.

Young Jackie grew up quick as country kids are wont to do.
He chopped the wood, and fed the stock, trapped rabbits for a stew.
The years swung slowly by, this young bloke grew up fit and strong,
and set his eyes on foreign shores ...he would be gone ere long.

New Zealand beckoned to the lad...there's sheep here for the shearing
and so young Jackie Howe set sail from our shores disappearing.
But home is where the heart is and the young bloke he returned
and settled down in Blackall where his life around he turned.

He ringed the shed in ninety two out at Barcaldine Downs
more than two hundred head he sheared 'neath Sunbeams whirring sounds,
then one month later Alice Downs saw him set tally higher;
three hundred twenty one were shorn with blades. He was a trier.

Our Jackie was a big bloke weighing in at eighteen stone,
with feet the size of shoe boxes, yet light of foot it's known,
he won prizes for Irish dance, step-danced to 'Galway Bay'
in soft soled shearing moccasins when fiddlers would play.

Long days of shearing took their toll, so Jackie bought a pub
in nineteen hundred. Known for cold beer and good home cooked grub.
The Universal seems 'twas known as a pub of renown,
then the Barcoo he purchased - now he'd two pubs in the town .

His family was growing he had eight kids overall.
Sumnervale and Shamrock Park were bought - both near Blackall.
At heart he was a shearer still, ran sheep out on his pasture
but all those years were catching up and days seemed to go faster.

In nineteen twenty Jackie died – July the twenty first,
a big, bluff, friendly bloke who became famous for his shirt.
He was but fifty eight years old a man still in his prime
but shearing takes its toll on men, and more so at that time.

A man of many hats was Jack – staunch to the ALP.
A union man through and through, no wussy bloke was he.
A publican and shearer, a Dad and dancer too.
For him they named a singlet which like him was real true blue.

Outside the Universal site on Blackall’s country street
a stone statue of Jackie stands, forever wrestling sheep.
A park beside the Condamine displays giant hand-held shears
depicting Warwick’s link with Jackie one they’ve held for years.

The week he broke the shearing record a singlet he wore
hand shearing – two thousand and five thick fleeces hit the floor.
That record stands unbroken, his sweat soaked singlet wet through.
‘twas a Jackie Howe he wore then – Jacks’s a legend…Story true

[Catherine Lee]

You always nail these stories of history and famous people Maureen, and I know from experience that it's not always easy - this is another wonderful story and tribute.

[Maureen K Clifford]

Thanks Catherine - I very much appreciate your comment Thank you

[Cropduster]

Ripper of a yarn, Maureen. A wonderful tribute and delightfully told.

[Maureen K Clifford]

Thanks Allen