THE lyrics OF award winning song writer -  MERV WEBSTER

                                                                          The songs below are registered with APRA.

                                                                          Merv Webster:     thegrey@tpg.com.au

                                                                          Phone:                07 4159 1868

* Finalist or winning lyrics in various song writing competitions.

*Lyrics that have been put to music and recorded

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R.M. WILLIAMS - A MAN WHO HAD TRIED

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

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I NEVER CRIED FOR ELVIS BUT I SHED A TEAR FOR SLIM

Perhaps I'd heard it wrong somehow that quiet September day,
     But no, the words rang in my head. Slim Dusty's passed away.
I knew the old bloke had been crook and not that well of late.
     Still, legends live forever … though … it seems I'm wrong old mate.

Like Lawson you could tell a tale about the average bloke,
     Though sung them in the ballad style backed by a guitar stroke.
Your songs portrayed an image which aroused our Aussie pride
     And most of us we shed a tear when poor old Trumby died.

                    So rest in peace for now old friend until the trumpet calls;
                    The spirit of your ballads, mate, ring through life's memories halls.
                    A lifetimes dedication proves you were no passing whim;
                    I never cried for Elvis, but I shed a tear for Slim.

 You walked a mile or two we know, through muddy tracks and dry
      And entertained a lot of folk and made them laugh or cry.
 You pioneered an industry and did the real hard yards
      And kept alive the sentiments of yesterday's bush bards.

A myriad of campfires echoed tunes that bore your brand.
     The Pub With No Beer, Duncan; just two that come to hand.
You made us feel Australian with a sense of wrong and right.
     The city bloke, the bushy, whether brindle, black or white.

                    So rest in peace for now old friend until the trumpet calls;
                    The spirit of your ballads, mate, ring through life's memories halls.
                    A lifetimes dedication proves you were no passing whim;
                    I never cried for Elvis, but I shed a tear for Slim. 

They said goodbye in style that day and gathered in their throngs 
     And old St Andrews echoed to a melody of songs.
Your passing's left us empty mate, we've lost a true blue friend
     And no one lives forever, but the memories will not end.

I know we lost an icon, but his family lost much more,
     A father, grandad, soul mate, of that I am quite sure. 
We stand and we salute you Slim despite the fact we know
     The final curtain's fallen on the last Slim Dusty show. 

                    So rest in peace for now old friend until the trumpet calls;
                    The spirit of your ballads, mate, ring through life's memories halls.
                    A lifetimes dedication proves you were no passing whim;
                    I never cried for Elvis, but I shed a tear for Slim.

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ON ANY OF THE ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

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Behind many singers of songs are the songwriters and one man who has dedicated a life time to writing ballads is Wave Jackson.  I've known Wave for some years now and felt I'd kick the old tradition of waiting until someone moves on before they write a tribute to them.  My tribute to a man who continues to enjoy his song writing.

THE MAINTOP BALLADEER

There's a bloke I'd like you all to know whose Aussie through and through,
From his felt hat to his R.M. boots, he ridgy didge, true blue.
He was born in Roma, Queensland, back in nineteen thirty-three
And his parents were from sturdy stock, a pioneer family.
Station life was in this young man's blood and one can understand
Why he took to writing lyrics based on things he knew first hand;
Those loved tales of some lad's 'Silver Spurs', the 'Rutland Rodeo'
And 'A Time When I Was Mustering' he penned so long ago.

Chorus
Yes, his heart is in his lyrics this tall man from Injune way
And he's had his songs recorded by top artists in his day.
Yes, Wave Jackson loves his ballads and mate let me make this clear
He's admired in music circles as the Maintop Balladeer.


Old Mac Cormack and Joe Daley both wrote lyrics by the score
And along with Wave and Coster … hell they made an awesome four.
They all had their songs recorded by Slim Dusty through the years
And these men are all respected to this day by all their peers.
Wave continues this tradition and he still writes to this day
And now picks and strums a Maton in the true bush ballad way.
You will find him at most Musters and he's happy as can be
As today he shares his talents on his very own CD. 

Yes, his heart is in his lyrics this tall man from Injune way 
And he's had his songs recorded by top artists in his day. 
Yes, Wave Jackson loves his ballads and mate let me make this clear 
He's admired in music circles as the Maintop Balladeer.

Wave has travelled 'round Australia and he'll tell you that he's sold
On the fact there lots of songs out there just waiting to be told.
He then proved this down in Tamworth when he won a gold guitar
And of all his fine achievements it's the best he says so far.
It has been a wondrous innings for this gentleman of song
And I hope things will continue and his journey will be long.
He's a real true blue Australian and they are but far and few
And I'm proud to have him as a mate and share his song with you.

Yes, his heart is in his lyrics this tall man from Injune way 
And he's had his songs recorded by top artists in his day. 
Yes, Wave Jackson loves his ballads and mate let me make this clear 
He's admired in music circles as the Maintop Balladeer.


©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ON THE ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

                                   Wave Jacksony[Right]             Finalist/ Winner  2006 TSA Song Writing Awards - Lyrics Only

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SWhile visiting the Dubbo jail we listened to a recording of an inmate placed in solitary confinement and he went on to tell us that the only way he could stay sane in the dark was to tear the buttons of his shirt and throw them in the room and go looking for them to keep his mind active.  Sometimes in life we face many confronting issues and often try to look for complex solutions to solve them when perhaps all we need to do is do something simple like chasing buttons.

CHASING BUTTONS

From his home-made wooden rocker my dad beckoned with his hand,
as his wasting frame would not allow the dying man to stand
and he handed me two buttons, that were worn and on a chain, 
then he whispered of their origins while grimacing with pain.
"These two buttons were my father's lad and from a prison shirt
that dad wore because he'd beat a man who'd treated him like dirt
He was placed in solitary and that added to his shame
so to stay sane in that darkness … well he played this little game.

"He would throw those two white buttons in the black void of that room
and he'd search until he found them in his quest to beat the gloom.
Yes he'd throw those two white buttons and they kept the poor man sane,
till they finally released him and my dad came home again.

"When I met your darling mother son I felt right from the start
that this girl was something special and I knew deep in my heart
that we'd marry and have family and son the dream came true,
but it broke me when I lost her, after she gave birth to you.
"Though I had you to remember her, I nearly lost my mind
and I'd ask God in my darkened room why was life so unkind.
But my dad came to the rescue and placed in my hand one day
two white buttons and revealed to me a game he used to play.

"Yes I'd throw those two white buttons in the black void of that room
and I'd search until I found them in my quest to beat the gloom.
Yes I'd throw those two white buttons and they somehow kept me sane
till I found a little peace of mind and was your dad again.

"Still we've shared a lot of years since then and son you're now a man
and I know you love your family and do the best you can.
I do not have much to leave you just these worn out buttons lad
and the knowledge that I loved you and was proud to be your dad."
Then his hand slumped off the rocker and dad's spirit left that night
and him lying there and free of pain was such a peaceful sight.
Though at night I'd sit there in the dark, depressed and feeling blue,
till I took to throwing buttons, just like my dad used to do. 

Yes I'd throw those two white buttons in the black void of that room
and I'd search until I found them in my quest to beat the gloom.
Yes I'd throw those two white buttons and they somehow kept me sane
and I thanked my dad and grandpa for those buttons on that chain.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

Finalist and winner of  Lyrics Only  at 2005 Katherine Country Music Muster Northern Territory Country Music Awards & Finalist  2006 TSA Song Writing Awards Tamworth.
But my dad came to the rescue and placed in my hand one day
two white buttons and revealed to me a game he us[TOP OF THE PAGE]e

d to play.

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"Yes I'd throwose two white buttons in the black void of that room
GRANDAD'S CRUSTY DAMPER

I squatted 'neath the willow tree and memories came back
of childhood days with grandpa and the way he had the knack
of knowing how to pick a spot to cast your fishing rod
and luring out his fav'rite catch the good old murray cod.
He taught me how to clean my catch and how to bake it too
inside an old camp oven like his dad taught him to do.
We'd bake spuds in their jackets, but the thing that got to me'
was grandads crusty damper, cockey's joy and billy tea.

CHORUS 

Yes golden crusty damper with some cocky's joy's a treat 
and washed down with some billy tea is really hard to beat.
He had a knack with most things, but the thing that got to me'
was grandads crusty damper, cockey's joy and billy tea.

This round-yard brings back memories I vividly recall,
my first ride on that young bay colt and how I took a fall.
Gramps taught me how to get back up, to take it in my stride,
despite my tattered ego and my bruised and battered pride.
I shared the dusty musterings, the branding in the yards
and how to cook bush oysters by the fire was on the cards.
I reckon they were chewy, but the thing that got to me'
was grandads crusty damper, cockey's joy and billy tea. 

Yes golden crusty damper with some cocky's joy's a treat 
and washed down with some billy tea is really hard to beat.
He had a knack with most things, but the thing that got to me'
was grandads crusty damper, cockey's joy and billy tea.

Returning to old 'Corkdale' now that grandad's passed away
has mustered many mem'ries of a bygone yesterday.
He was my friend and mentor and he taught me all I knew,
and the last word's that he whispered were, "I've left 'Corkdale' to you."
We had the wake just yesterday and Cat'rers made the spread
with lots of tasty sandwiches all made on shop baked bread.
I really liked the fillings, but the thing I missed you see
was grandads crusty damper, cockey's joy and billy tea.

Yes golden crusty damper with some cocky's joy's a treat 
and washed down with some billy tea is really hard to beat.
He had a knack with most things, but the thing I missed you see
was grandads crusty damper, cockey's joy and billy tea.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

Finalist and Winner of the Lyrics Only at the 2006 Northern Territory Songwriting Awards at the Katherine Country Music Muster.

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FLOWERS ON A FRIDAY

It was bucking bulls and cowboy busting broncos
And the challenge that accompanied each ride
That consumed the heart and mind of my young cowboy
And this fact my Buddy never tried to hide. 
I recall the time we met in Kelly's diner
He was busted up and feeling rather sore
But the cheque that paid the tab that I presented
Seemed to him to somehow even up the score.

He had eaten there that week and got acquainted,
And I somehow got to know this cowboy's mind
while the flowers that he gave me on that Friday
Surely showed beside his toughness, he was kind.
We were married in the summer six months later,
On a Friday I recall so very well,
Because Fridays he would always buy me flowers
And then go and ride those bulls and broncs from hell.

Chorus
Buddy always bought me flowers on a Friday
As he knew I feared the rides that lay ahead
But my man his heart and soul was in his riding 
And my heart felt for this cowboy that I'd wed. 
Yes he always bought me flowers on a Friday
And I loved this cowboy that I planned to wed.

All our friends had shared that special evening with us
And we raged and partied well into the night,
Then we slipped away to share the morning hours, 
Til the dawn rose and revealed its splendid light.
We both showered and had breakfast at the roadhouse
Laughed and shared the joy that comes with wedded bliss, 
But I sensed a certain tiredness in my Buddy
And I prayed he'd give the ride that day a miss.

Buddy drew the brindle bombshell riders hated
And that beast exploded when it left the chute,
Twisting left then right and suddenly it stumbled
And my Buddy he was crushed by that great brute.
When it came to say goodbye to my sweet lover
There was one thing that I vowed I'd always do 
I would always bring him flowers on a Friday
And I'd tell his child about his father too.
.
Chorus
Bud I'll always bring you flowers on a Friday
That's the one thing that I vow I'll always do.
Cause you always brought me flowers on a Friday
And your child will always bring you flowers too. 
Yes I'll always bring you flowers on a Friday
And your child will always bring you flowers too.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Finalist in 2006 Lyrics Only Section T.S.A. Song Writing Awards and Finalist in the 2006 Lyrics Only Section of the S.E. Queensland T.S.A. Song Writing Awards

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MY POCKET FULL OF DREAMS

From the time I was a child with curly tresses 
I recall to mind what all the folks would say. 
How to them I was a little ray of sunshine
That would beam on down and brighten up their day. 
Oh I had so many dreams tucked in my pocket 
But I found in life that dreams can disappear 
And the love I thought I'd have in life forever
Well his love it wasn't what you'd call sincere.

CHORUS

Yes the sunshine in my world had all but vanished 
Clouded out by all his dark and nasty schemes. 
'Cause I feel betrayed and oh so broken hearted 
As he took with him my pocket full of dreams. 

He seemed sweet and made of what all girls would fancy
But he then revealed a darker side to me.
Soon the warmth and joy that we had shared together
Was a faded and a worn out memory.
He had slowly sapped the joy folk found infectious
For the mind games that he played were dark and cruel.
And the hurt was more than I could somehow manage,
I was sick and tired of playing out the fool.

Yes the sunshine in my world had all but vanished 
Clouded out by all his dark and nasty schemes.
'Cause I feel betrayed and oh so broken hearted
As he took with him my pocket full of dreams. 

In this world they say that time is the great healer,
But I felt that I could never love again,
Then you walked into my life and now my darling 
How your presence has extinguished all the pain. 
It's so nice to know my dreams have not been wasted
And I am so proud to be your loving wife 
How I love it when you whisper to me sweetly 
I'm the little ray of sunshine in your life.

Yes the sunshine in my world has reappeared now;
No more clouds with any dark and nasty schemes.
I no longer feel betrayed or broken hearted
You have given back my pocket full of dreams.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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SON PLAY ANOTHER COSTER SONG

The old man clutched his walker as he slowly shuffled by, 
Then paused and turned towards me with a glint in his old eye 
I sensed he liked the Coster song that I was knocking out
And something 'bout the way he smiled sure left me in no doubt. 

Then as I strummed the final chord he winked and smiled some more
And something told me this old man loved ballads that's for sure.
He threw three gold coins in my case and wished me all the best,
Then with a frail and feeble voice he whispered this request.

CHORUS 

"Son play another Coster song and make an old man's day.
I haven't many up my sleeve or so the Doctor's say. 
You sing and paint the pictures lad of words Stan put to pen 
And let me share the memories of a life I lived back then.

I said old man I'd feel real proud to sing this one for you,
'cause surely it's my fav'rite song and mate perhaps yours too. 
He closed his eyes and drifted off and it was plain to see 
that this old man was warming to a gidyea memory.

The years spent out on stock routes with a creaking wagonette,
a pair of dusty moleskins and those mates you don't forget.
Black tea and camp made damper and a swag wrap for a bed
and all the while the old man's words were ringing in my head. 

"Son play another Coster song and make an old man's day.
I haven't many up my sleeve or so the Doctor's say.
You sing and paint the pictures lad of words Stan put to pen 
And let me share the memories of a life I lived back then.

He tipped his old Akubra back and reached out with his hand
And though the years had sapped his strength his grip was mighty grand.
"Son Coster had a gift you see to tell things how they were,
His ballads reached the hearts of folk, to this I can concur.

We miss the old mate and his wife; god bless their mortal souls,
So keep the mem'ries burning like a fire of gidyea coals.
Then as I watched him shuffle off, I treasured what he said,
'Cause that wise man was my old dad. God bless his old grey head. 

"Son play another Coster song and make an old man's day.
I haven't many up my sleeve or so the Doctor's say.
You sing and paint the pictures lad of words Stan put to pen 
And let me share the memories of a life I lived back then.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ON ANY OF THE ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

Tracy Coster and her dad Stan [photo]

3rd Place in Lyrics Only at 2006 S.E. Queensland Branch T.S.A. Song Writing Awards

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HARD HAT HEROES

There's a breed of Aussie hero who have served this nation well,
and they don a yellow uniform to face the fires of hell.
When day temperatures are soaring and high winds blow at a gust,
when our bush land is ignited; it's in them we place our trust. 
Yes, you're all somebody's daughter and you're all somebody's son; 
you are mothers and you're fathers. Hard hat heroes everyone.

When their mates are in the hot seat and they need a helping hand,
they will volunteer their services from stations 'cross this land.
Whether country towns or cities or a small bush fire brigade;
they will gladly throw their hats in and will offer their mates aide.
Yes, you're all somebody's daughter and you're all somebody's son;
you are mothers and you're fathers. Hard hat heroes everyone.

Do you owe your home or property, your very lives perhaps? 
To the selfless, honest, efforts of these bold fire-fighting chaps. 
Or still sadly you lost everything, but proudly can attest
to their fierce determination as each brave soul did their best. 
Yes, you're all somebody's daughter and you're all somebody's son;
you are mothers and you're fathers. Hard hat heroes everyone.

So I ask you all to join me, as we stand and raise a glass
to the courage and the spirit of this fire fighting, class;
and I'm sure you'd love to join me as this message we impart, 
"You're all true blue hard hat heroes and we thank you from the heart."
Yes, you're all somebody's daughter and you're all somebody's son;
you are mothers and you're fathers. Hard hat heroes everyone.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Poetry Soup International Award of Excellence in the Outstanding Poetic Achievement Poetry Soup

Recorded by Brooks and Magee on their CD 'The Sailor and the Balladeer'. Awards July 2006.

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I WISH I WAS A CROCODILE

We were gathered at a barbie down at Bazzas by the bay
and the blokes were watching Rugby on a World Cup Saturday.
But the lounge became a henhouse where the girls hung out that night,
though a dozen giggling sheilas are a rather sick'ning site.
They were gathered 'round the tele and they watched a video
where that blond haired bloke in khaki says, "Hey Crikey ... here's a go!"
He would sneak up on a crocodile and wrestle that large brute
and the girls would cry excitedly, " Oh Steve you are so cute!"

Yes they'd sigh and gasp in concord when Steve Irwin cracked his smile
and a dreamy eyed expression was implanted on each dile.
Then a loud resounding chorus echoed out in harmony, 
"Oh I wish I were a crocodile and Steve would wrestle me!"

Now we reckon if they want a smile that's manly; well then shucks; 
they should cop George Gregan's pearly whites their worth a million bucks.
And that cuddling poor old crocodiles to us was really tame; 
let him try to maul a Kiwi or a Springbok if he's game.

And that sickly untucked Khaki look, it really is a joke, 
but the green and gold looks ripper and real bonzer on a bloke.
Still the banter fell on deaf ears and us blokes we were ignored,
while Steve's antics kept them mesmerized and far from being bored.

Yes they'd sigh and gasp in concord when Steve Irwin cracked his smile
and a dreamy eyed expression was implanted on each dile.
Then a loud resounding chorus echoed out in harmony, 
"Oh I wish I were a crocodile and Steve would wrestle me!"

So us blokes we cheered more loudly when the Wallabies went in
and we'd drown their girly chorus with our raucous, rowdy din.
That was 'til the Springboks beat us and our cheers went out the door
and the beer went flat and tasteless and we couldn't take no more.

We all went into a huddle with a beer can in our hand,
then we marched into the lounge room to play out what we had planned.
Just as Steve jumped on a whopper and cried, "Crikey here's a go!"
All us blokes we chucked the towel in and we sat and watched the show.

Yes we sighed and gasped in concord when Steve Irwin cracked his smile
and a dreamy eyed expression was implanted on each dile.
Then a loud resounding chorus echoed out in harmony,
"Oh I wish I were a crocodile and Steve would wrestle me!"

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

22nd Place in Lyrics Only at the 2006 S.E. Queensland Branch T.S.A. Song Writing Awards 

Finalist of the Lyrics Only section the 2007 Tamworth Songwriters's Association Songwriting Awards

Winner of the Lyrics Only section the 2007 Tamworth Songwriters's Association Songwriting Awards

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BLUEY'S REFLECTIONS

Blue was feeling melancholy and was far from feeling jolly 
by the window of his quarters on that moonlight night in May.
The old mate was broken hearted since young Jess and he had parted; 
that's the Jillaroo from Bancroft who had jilted him that day.

And old Blue would really miss her, as she was a bonzer kisser,
and he told this to a large green frog perched on the window ledge.
This poor Ringer felt quite horrid, as his hand held up his forehead,
and he gave the frog the run down like it was some privilege.

"Do you have a girlfriend froggy that just leaves your mind all foggy
When she puckers up to kiss you and she makes you feel on high?
As a kisser Jess was real hot and I reckon by a long shot, 
she was up their with the best of them … except perhaps for Di.

"She's the blonde girl that's a Nanny, on the place where my mate Danny
breaks in horses every summer, and a looker that's for sure. 
Mate this Di she was a goer and I'm glad I got to know her,
as that girl could suck your lips off and she'd leave you wanting more.

"But we broke up in the summer, which I thought was a real bummer,
so I hitched up with her cousin who'd come out to stay a while.
This gal was a city floozie and her name I think was Suzie
and her tongue it darned near choked me, but she certainly had style.

"Then she went back to the city, which I thought was a real pity,
still I met young Katie Swenson at the rodeo that night.
Sucking face was that girl's passion, but I soon went out of fashion,
as I found she kissed near anything that came within her sight.

"So it's hard mate just to pick one that I fancied as the best fun,
as they all bring back fond mem'ries, but they all slipped through my grip."
He just sat there quite dejected and it came quite unexpected
when a moth alighted on the top of poor old Bluey's lip.

The frog's tongue flew into action, but his aim was down a fraction
and it rattled the old tonsils in the back of Bluey's throat.
The old Ringer's eyes went teary and his sight went kind of bleary
and the words that bushman uttered I'm afraid I cannot quote.

To this day it's told by bush folk and believe me this is no joke,
It is ritual when Bluey goes to town and hits the grog;
That he tells the same sick story, how no girls can much the glory
of that moonlight night in May when he was tongue kissed by a frog.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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AUSTRALIA'S BECKONING CALL

Can you hear the distant echo of the haunting didgeridoo 
as it pulses through the airwaves … yes my friend it's calling you. 
To this land beneath the Southern Cross … it welcomes one and all 
and its drone spells out a message … can you hear its beckoning call?

So come share our hospitality and shake an Aussie hand.
Mate, enjoy a trip down under … share the culture of our land.
It abounds with natural beauty from its coasts to Uluru 
and you'll share our nation's freedom just like we have learnt to do.

You're invited friends to join us … on a wondrous holiday 
where the sun, our surf and golden sands are yours in which to play. 
We've the Opera House and Harbour Bridge, The Reef and Kakadu 
and experience the magic of a Darwin sunset too.

Can you hear the distant echo of the haunting didgeridoo 
as it pulses through the airwaves … yes my friend it's calling you. 
To this land beneath the Southern Cross … it welcomes one and all
and its drone spells out a message … can you hear its beckoning call?

Come and cuddle a Koala, feed our unique kangaroo
see our Emu and our wombat and our talking cockatoo. 
Boil a billy, bake a damper, share a campfire's flickering light, 
in our vast Australian outback on a glorious star filled night.

See the paintings and the craftwork of the aboriginee
and experience the stories of their dreamtime history.
More than anything you do here or wherever you may roam
we'd just like to say you're welcome and please make yourself at home.

Can you hear the distant echo of the haunting didgeridoo 
as it pulses through the airwaves … yes my friend it's calling you. 
To this land we call Australia, which welcomes one and all
and its drone spells out a message … can you hear its beckoning call?

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded by Brooks and Magee on their CD 'The Sailor and the Balladeer'.

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THE ROSE FROM THE GARDEN

From the garden of life I was handed a rose.
though a bud yet to blossom
I loved her God knows.

And for years she was mine, gave me pleasure in life,
Always stood there beside me
In good times and strife.

There were thorns on the stem but then everyone knows
They both add to its beauty.
together they grow.

In this time she had blossomed unnoticed by me,
how she cried for attention,
"Please love me!" cried she.

Then a friend he had noticed her there on the shelf
And admiring her beauty
desired her himself.

So he watered and nutured her behind my back;
my poor rose she was hurting,
her petals turned black.

In a desp'prate last bid she then cried in despair,
to her owner and lover,
"Please show me you care!"

Then I saw how I'd hurt her, been callous and cruel,
I had near lost my rosebud;
you poor stupid fool.

Oh the pain in my heart how it cut like a knife
for that rose from the garden
was you, my sweet wife.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded by Brooks and Magee on their CD 'The Sailor and the Balladeer'.

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 whThe drought of 1902-03 was very severe in sout-west Queensland and the poem above was based on a real experience.  Bush folk are a resiliant lot and today the young man's sons carry on the tradition of raising beef cattle in the district.   Piccaninny Dawn won the Inaugral Bush Lantern Award for written verse at the Bundy Mob's Bush Poets Muster.

ite buttons and they somehow kept me sane
PICCANINNY DAWN

The old man and his grandson viewed 
A barren bladeless ground, 
When to his left the young lad's eye 
Saw bleached bones scattered 'round. 
'Twas more than one beast's bones that lay 
There exposed to the sun. 
It seemed more like a battlefield 
Where only death had won. 

The old man saw the young lad wince, 
He reined in close behind. 
As memories of what took place 
Came flooding through his mind. 
A century turned, but not his luck 
For rains had failed again. 
He slowly watched the dams dry up 
While cattle died in pain. 

A little water still remained, 
Though sought by feral stock. 
Some brumbies which came down at dawn 
Still often used the block. 
In good times no one cared that much, 
But not so any more. 
The young lad's dad and this old man 
Both knew what lay in store. 

A high log fence closed off the dam; 
The timber they had sawn. 
Suspended gate it lay in wait 
For piccaninny dawn. 
Then as the last mare ambled through 
Wood gate it dropped like lead. 
A wood rail race seemed their escape, 
But death lurked there instead. 

Their capital had all dried up, 
No cash for lead and gun. 
To execute the feral stock 
Took knife and old man's son. 
With legs astride the wood rail race 
Son grimaced as he drew, 
That blade of death 'cross jug'lar vein, 
Then slapped the victim through. 

Each fleet foot spirit faltered there 
A hundred yards away, 
While blazing eyes showed fear of death; 
Mouths gave a weakened neigh. 
Then one by one their weak frames fell 
Onto the dusty ground. 
The racing hearts of those poor beasts 
Then gave their final pound. 

The slaughter did not save the stock 
For all the dams went dry. 
It finally broke the old man's son, 
He watched the grown man cry. 
All this the old man told the lad, 
The picture was now drawn. 
On why his dad then took his life 
One piccaninny dawn.

The young lad lifted from his head
His father's sweat stained hat,
Then wiped the tears from both his eyes
And said, "Gramps thanks for that.
I guess til now I'd had my doubts
About the way dad died.
But now I now the truth at last
I'll wear this hat with pride.

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
Available in Book - A Muster of Verse and Yarns  

Book - A Muster of Australiana 

CD - Chris & The Grey

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As a young boy, I guess I was like the lad in the story. The years though have mellowed me and having been on the receiving end of theft more than once it has opened my eyes to the fact that those, who take from others do not always appreciate they have in fact taken down a fellow Australian. In most cases, from those who could probably ill afford it. It is a very selfish act and truly, not Australian. 

IT'S NOT AUSTRALIAN

It had not changed a bit 'cept the paint job was new 
And the sign ... 'Gen'ral Store' ... how it stood out in blue. 
Then I thought to myself ... no, it couldn't be so; 
He'd be eighty at least; He'd have died years ago. 

But I wandered inside on the chance he'd be there, 
The old man that I'd known with the head of white hair. 
How the memories flowed when I walked through the door, 
As the inside was still as I'd known it before. 

I near choked on emotion and held back a tear, 
When the wrinkled stooped frame of a man did appear. 
It was him! 'Twas old Digger, my mentor and friend, 
He instilled in me hope, when my world seemed to end. 

For the moment I kept to the side and observed, 
The old man I revered and just watched as he served, 
When I noticed a lad slip the smokes in his coat 
While his mate bought a drink with a five dollar note. 

I then followed him out having seen what he'd done 
And I called to the lad, "Have you got a sec son? 
Would you take a seat here on this bench for a while?" 
And the smile that he had disappeared from his dial. 

"Do you know the old man in the store there my lad?" 
"No I don't," said the boy, "is the old bloke your dad?" 
"Wish he was," I replied. "For the man in the store 
He has fathered more boys than his wife ever bore." 

"I don't know what you mean," said the boy with a frown. 
"Should I care? What's your drift? Tell me what's going down." 
"The old man's name is Digger and years ago son 
Just like you ... did not know him ... that's how it begun." 

"I had lost both my parents, they died in a crash, 
And I lived on the streets, eating other folk's trash. 
I was only sixteen, 'twas my birthday in fact, 
When I robbed the old man, but got caught in the act." 

"Though he never pressed charges ... instead gave me work 
And a room of my own; man I felt like a jerk. 
It was Digger old mate, who put hope in my life 
By the fact he was able to keep me from strife." 

"He had lost his dad too back in nineteen sixteen, 
Then the Second World War claimed his sons, Rick and Dean. 
From that time the old man, he took on the odd stray; 
Gave them hope and a future and help on the way." 

"No, he's not my old dad, but a true friend of mine, 
And to steal from the man would be right out of line, 
For old Digger is eighty and failing in health 
While this store is his life line, the sum of his wealth." 

"So do give it some thought where you go now from here, 
For the smokes in your pocket won't break him I fear; 
It is not the offence which would hurt the old man, 
But the fact that you failed, to be Australian." 

©Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
Available in Book - You're Joking! Milk In Billy Tea 

 Book - A Muster of Australiana 

CD - Pull Up A Stump & Listen

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This tale was related to me by an old friend. Apparently it took place in Northern Queensland, but the names have been changed. My wife when she read the poem asked what eventually happened to Bart. My reply was, “No one really seemed to care. Sadly, there have been lots of Sarah's in this life. To their memories.   Sarah won the Men's Serious Section for written verse at The Australian Bush Poetry Championships at Yarrawonga-Mulwala in 1999.

SARAH

Head stockman for Ned Price her father worked on Magnet Downs; 
A loner and a bushman who'd a phobia of towns. 
He loved the isolation of the far north station runs, 
While Sarah she played carer to his motherless three sons. 
Year in, year out she kept his house, though yearned a female friend; 
The long hot nights and lonesome days, they never seemed to end. 

For sixteen years she played that role her childhood passed her by, 
Instead of girlish laughter Sarah sought somewhere to cry. 
Her clothes were men's fare ... shirt and pants ... her hands were callused too; 
Oh how she longed to get away and live like townsfolk do. 
She dreamed of dresses, dances and the company of friends, 
But morning light would render all her dreams to dreary ends. 

A stranger stopped to stay a while for Ned had found him work, 
His ways were flash and carefree, while his smile was more a smirk. 
He sensed the insecurity which plagued poor Sarah's life, 
Then played upon her heartstrings, though his song was penned with strife. 
So masterful the melodies, they stole sweet Sarah’s heart, 
Within the month she’d left with him; this man she called ... her Bart. 

For near nine months they lived as swells and tasted town delights; 
Till deep in debt and desperate they fled like frightened kites. 
Bart headed for the Bloomfield, where he'd mined for tin before, 
And home would be a shanty isolated from the law. 
Exhausted and her child near due poor Sarah lived in dread 
Of life in isolation and the gloom which lay ahead.

She raised her first born daughter by the Bloomfield's Upper Arm 
And Bart the artful lover ... well ... he’d lost his luring charm. 
He'd fossick for their livelihood, which sometimes paid quite well, 
But Bart would go on drunken sprees and leave them in that hell. 
So often left with little food, bush tucker was their fare 
Until her demon reappeared. Complain? She did not dare. 

She'd been the subject of his rage on more than one account, 
So for her little daughter's sake, this ploy was paramount. 
Her lot was further burdened for within her womb there lay, 
The miracle of life once more; a son now on his way. 
'Twas just another mouth to feed ... was what filled Sarah's head, 
No sparkle filled this mother's eyes; salt water welled instead. 

Most fathers would be jubilant to have a new born son, 
But love was some forsaken thing and Bart had room for none. 
He often binged in China Camp for rum had claimed his brain, 
While Sarah's isolation slowly sent the girl insane. 
Like feral creatures of the bush her infants roamed at will 
And Sarah's soul just pined away till slowly she grew ill. 

'Twas in the early part of June, the day she turned eighteen, 
That drunken creature known as Bart returned upon the scene. 
He found the shanty empty and devoid of human form, 
The silence ... like a deathly calm which comes before the storm. 
From constant bingeing on the rum Bart thought his head would burst, 
So staggered down towards the creek to quench his fiery thirst.

Then as he cupped its contents, which was cold and crystal clear, 
Bart's face became so ghostly white, his eyes were filled with fear. 
For in its depths he saw three forms all pale and void of life; 
The family he'd never known ... his children and his wife. 
He buried them beside its bank, then simply walked away 
And where Bart went ... well no one cared ... not even to this day. 

It seems poor Sarah lost her mind and did what she thought best; 
She drowned her infants, then herself. She found eternal rest. 
An old man just some months ago recalled this tale to me, 
I know it made me cry a lot. Did it do that to thee? 
And LORD ... when it comes time to judge the living and the dead ... 
Please think of Sarah and her kids ... you saw the life they led. 


©Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
Available in Book - You're Joking! Milk In Billy Tea 

Book - A Muster of Australiana 

CD - Pull Up A Stump & Listen

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Available on C.D. 

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THAT MOTEL WHISKY DREAM

I was lying in the motel feeling down and kind of blue,
though the whiskey kind of numbed the pain that I was going through.
Hell just one more second longer and I'd had that outlaw beat
But that bay from hell knew diff'rent and he'd thrown me from my seat. 

I was feeling pretty hazy as I lay there on that bed
when this white horse and a rider, who'd a gold crown on his head,
came a riding with a bow in hand and it appeared to me
that his heavenly war was righteous and he gained a victory. 

Hell I think I'm going crazy, I've got horses on the brain
And rough riding's got me rattled and a bloke has gone insane.
Lord I pray I haven't lost my mind or worse my self-esteem. 
Hey, perhaps the whiskey's playing tricks and this is just a dream.

But another fiery red horse it appeared upon the scene
And the rider seated on him held a sword that looked right mean.
He was granted to take peace away and wage war here on earth,
But unrighteous man made slaughter and had little or no worth.

Then I saw and look a black horse and the rider he held scales
And he spreads a sick'ning message while he rides and loudly wails.
"It is famine! it is famine! that I bring to all the land;
So be sparing with the wine and oil and keep a stock on hand!" 

Hell I think I'm going crazy, I've got horses on the brain
And rough riding's got me rattled and a bloke has gone insane.
Lord I pray I haven't lost my mind or worse my self-esteem. 
Hey, perhaps the whiskey's playing tricks and this is just a dream.

But the pale horse that came following it took away my breath,
'Cause the rider looked quite gruesome and his name was simply Death.
Hades followed close behind him and he played his ghastly role,
As he gathered every victim who had forfeited his soul.

Then I woke from mid the visions that had played upon my mind
And I saw the empty bottle and a black book of some kind.
It was open at Apocalypse and something deep inside
Said, son do a little research on the horseman you saw ride. 

Hell I think I'm going crazy, I've got horses on the brain
And rough riding's got me rattled and a bloke has gone insane.
Lord I pray I haven't lost my mind or worse my self-esteem 
And I'm giving up the whiskey and I'll check out that there dream.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Finalist of the Lyrics Only section the 2007 Tamworth Songwriters's Association Songwriting Awards

Recorded by Brooks and Magee on their CD 'The Sailor and the Balladeer'. 

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THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE

 All those years of droving cattle 
hell they surely were a battle 
as my back hurts something woeful 
and I’m up near half the night. 
And I carry scars from busters                 
earnt in wild and wooly musters 
in the back blocks of this country 
where mad scrubbers take to flight.
       
And the years of bare back riding 
where my frame took a real hiding
and I gained the limp I live with
all those many years ago.
But my aches and pains all faded 
and I sat there kind of jaded 
when I heard our darling Sophie 
had been dealt another blow. 
 

You’re too young to have to suffer 
and your pain is so much rougher, 
but we see you as our hero
and the bravest of the brave. 
So dear Sophie keep your spirit 
and sweet angel please believe it 
When we tell you little darling 
you’re the bravest of the brave.
 
I recall how I was shattered
when I first saw how your battered
body fought to overcome the scars
of burns and loss of limbs.
In the outback I have ridden
with tough men I’ve known who’ve hidden
any sign of pain as weakness
and despite things looking grim.
 
But you’re tough as old boot leather
and I can’t say I have ever
seen such courage in a youngster
like you showed through that ordeal.
There are millions in this Nation
who hearts live in expectation
and we know your fighting spirit
will win out and help you heal.
 
You’re too young to have to suffer
and your pain is so much rougher,
but we see you as our hero
and the bravest of the brave.
So dear Sophie keep your spirit
and sweet angel please believe it
when we tell you little darling
you’re the bravest of the brave.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Recorded on CD 'From Bard to Balladeer'

CLICK ON ANY OF THE ABOVE TO HEAR THIS SONG

SOPHIE DELIZIO

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SO MANY ROADSIDE EPITAPHS

Have you ever felt the freedom that just goes down hand in hand,
when you venture long the hi-ways and the bi-ways of this land?
There's the beauty of our coastlines and the vastness of the plains;
all the magic of the outback and those rugged mountain chains.

But I sense for some this freedom mate; it comes at such a cost, 
as the easements of our roadways show that many souls are lost.
All the endless names of loved ones etched in black bear witness to
all the heartache and the trauma that some families go through. 

How so many roadside epitaphs cry out to you and me,
that the freedom we all yearn for can exact a gruesome fee.
Don't ignore the chant, just listen, so that no soul died in vain 
and their constant plea may save you and your loved ones all the pain. 

All the names that flash before me on the backgrounds painted white,
stay like snapshots in an album and are such a haunting sight.
Then I'm constantly reminded that they all had played a role
and were precious sons or daughters and each one a loving soul.

Too perhaps some grieving fam'ly they have lost their mum and dad
or their grandma or grandfather and I find that kind of sad.
So when passing by these sentinels I'm forced now to reflect 
on the gift of life God gave us and to treat it with respect. 

How so many roadside epitaphs cry out to you and me,
that the freedom we all yearn for can exact a gruesome fee.
Don't ignore the chant, just listen, so that no soul died in vain 
and their constant plea may save you and your loved ones all the pain.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Finalist of the Lyrics Only section the 2007 Tamworth Songwriters's Association Songwriting Awards

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KEEPING THE CULTURE

Since the founding of this nation all those many years ago
it's tradition to share stories 'round a campfire's warming glow.
From the ancient times of dreaming, right down to our very day, 
folk have shared our Aussie culture and each one in their own way.

But my heart yearns for the ballads that the rhyming poets pen 
and their skills in keeping mem'ries that they bring to life again.
Too the balladeers who play them in a good old pick and strum,
that I never find gets boring or just down right wearisome.

So then roll your swag and join us there'll be lots of fun for sure,
Out at Widgee and Boondooma or down South at Bungendore.
There'll be Balladeers and Poets sharing tales and singing songs
And you're welcome mates to join us and to be among the throngs.

There were those who went before us and they pioneered the way.
Men like Henry and The Banjo, who penned ballads in their day.
Too the likes of our mate Coster and the legendary Slim.
They all left a fine tradition that proved no mere passing whim.

'Cause that legacy still lingers with the young and not so old, 
and it's shared among the genders; they're a rather special mould.
They will keep the campfires burning so the dream can stay alive
as I sense they'll keep the culture and bush ballads will survive. 

So then roll your swag and join us there'll be lots of fun for sure
Out at Widgee and Boondooma or down South at Bungendore.
There'll be Balladeers and Poets sharing tales and singing songs
And you're welcome mates to join us and to be among the throngs

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Finalist of the Lyrics Only section the 2007 Tamworth Songwriters's Association Songwriting Awards

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MIDST THE MULGA

We were westward bound past Quilpie town and touring with our show
when we stopped to boil the billy mate and strike me don't you know;
there was nothing much but mulga on a drought strewn gibber plain,
when I wondered how folk lived out here and managed to stay sane.

Then I spied this Ringer mending fence, who waved and said, "G'day"
and I couldn't help but quiz the man,"What keeps you out this way?"
He just paused and tipped his soil, stained hat and yarded in his mind
pens of memories he'd mustered and he answered in a kind. 

Once you've lived out midst the Mulga mate and drunk from the Bulloo,
folk say something gets into your blood, there's little you can do.
No one knows what causes it old son, it's just a mystery,
so it's my guess you'll be back this way and that I'll guarantee. 

What that Ringer told me years ago proved pretty right you know.
We just keep on coming back this way and touring with our show.
They're a special breed of folk out here beyond the old Buloo,
as they make you feel real welcome and the country's magic too.

There's timelessness about the land, no need for push and shove
and the countless stars amidst the sky shine brilliantly above.
So then head out midst the mulga and experience the wealth
of this little piece of Queensland, hear the Ringer's words yourself.

Once you've lived out midst the Mulga mate and drunk from the Bulloo,
folk say something gets into your blood, there's little you can do.
No one knows what causes it old son, it's just a mystery,
so it's my guess you'll be back this way and that I'll guarantee. 

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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THE RANKINE RUSH DEBATE

There's a tale I find amusing that I'd kind of like to share
'bout two Ringers in the top end and a query they solved there.
Both the men had been debating in the Rankine Store one day
about animals and rushes, but t'was in a friendly way.

One lay claim that any animal would rush without a doubt,
though the other Ringer questioned him and finally spat out
That domestic animals don't rush, the tale it was absurd;
and it was the darndest bush debate that I had ever heard. 

It was true that some old drunken cook swore black and blue he'd seen,
up around McArthur River way a rather dubious scene.
He'd observed with his own eyes one day some thirty cats or more 
that had rushed inside a meat house and took out the west side wall.

Then while heading back to camp that ave they passed the old goat shed,
where the publican housed all her goats and then one chap he said.
"Mate let's settle this rush business here with Mrs Fowler's herd".
And it was the darndest bush debate that I had ever heard. 

He then climbed onto the iron shed and cried, "Mate here's your proof!"
and then gave the biggest bellow as he jumped on that old roof.
The result was instantaneous and devastating too
as them goats they flattened one side wall and then they all shot through.

The old Ringer he had proved his point and settled that debate,
but next day down at the Rankine Store Ma Fowler was irate;
as it was the only wat'ring hole, they never said a word,
though it was the darndest bush debate that I had ever heard.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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WHERE'S THE WATER GONE

There's a rather sad phenomenon that's plaguing our great land 
And just like the wary gambler it's about to play it's hand. 
All the signs have been quite evident and 'round now for a spell 
But we've fobbed them off, ignored them all, as far as I can tell.

From the times of early childhood when my fam'ly drove around 
All the creeks were full of water and the bores were rather sound, 
Sure enough the droughts they came and went but mate, I have to say
that our Nations running kind of dry, hard times are on the way.

Hey I think we've done our dash old son 'cause what is going on. 
All our dams and bores are getting low and where's the water gone.
We will have to make some changes and mate make them pretty fast,
as the water's disappearing and it sure as hell won't last. 

Though we've held bad hands in years gone by we've always lived in hope,
that the rains were some where in the deck and til then we would cope.
But the evidence is ominous and looking rather bleak
and we'd do well to consider all the havoc it could wreak.

We need each and every one of us to play a vital role,
as we're playing for high stakes here and there's need for self-control.
All will have to change the lifestyles that they've been accustomed to
And we'll have to play our hands right and seek out an Ace or two.

Hey I think we've done our dash old son 'cause what is going on.
All our dams are bores are getting low and where's the water gone.
We will have to make some changes and mate make them pretty fast,
As the water's disappearing and it sure as hell won't last.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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THE LADY IN THE LOCKET

From the cool of my verandah, on that morning in July 
how the scream of hubby's chainsaw brought a tear to my old eye. 
One by one the branches toppled from the Pepperina tree 
where the lady in the locket 'round my neck would play with me.

Oh her smile was so infectious and her laughter filled the air;
she would push me on the old rope swing that daddy had put there.
I would hide beneath it's branches when we both played hide and seek; 
yes the lady in the locket who was gentle, kind and meek.

How I cherished all those precious years we shared both you and I
and the magic of those moments they still tend to make me cry. 
You were always there to guide me through the good times and the strife.
My sweet lady in the locket. Yes the mother in my life.

Through my teenage years you nurtured me and gave me sound advice
on the values of relationships and that was rather nice. 
When I married you were there for me and for my children too
and their love for that dear lady in the locket how it grew.

You're house was always home to us and filled with warmth and love
and we know you're in the book of life and known by God above.
But I miss you darling mother and you'll always be to me
that sweet lady in the locket and a treasured memory.

How I cherished all those precious years we shared both you and I
and the magic of those moments they still tend to make me cry. 
You were always there to guide me through the good times and the strife.
My sweet lady in the locket. Yes the mother in my life.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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THE SAILOR AND THE BALLADEER

This man in black with his guitar is just one half of me
as once I was a Sailor who enjoyed a life at sea.
My love was singing country and bush ballads weren't my style,
but then I met this balladeer, which made it all worthwhile.

Yes I'm the balladeer who changed his life I'm proud to say;
a girl who sings bush ballads in our own Australian way.
I grew up in the back blocks and I'd never been to sea
as sailing was too scary for a country girl like me.

Though music was a kindred thread that helped us compromise;
the Sailor's playing Ballads to the Balladeer;s surprise.
And cupid's dart can change one's heart, she's sailing too these days
and now we love to share life's stage in oh so many ways.

My life is so much diff'rent now though I've not one regret
as life with my sweet balladeer is good as life can get.
We share our love, our music and occasionally the sea.
What more could this old Sailor want? I'm happy as can be.

I learnt in life that dreams come true as I am living mine
and singing with my man in black is surely something fine.
I sense he loves his country and still talks about the sea,
but now I know that Sailor man is more in love with me.

Yes music was a kindred thread that helped us compromise;,
the Sailor's playing Ballads to the Balladeer;s surprise.
And cupid's dart can change one's heart, she's sailing too these days
and now we love to share life's stage in oh so many ways.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

Written for Brooks and Magee

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BOONDOOMA'S BALLADEER

In the back blocks of the Burnett there’s a Homestead by the road, 
where for one old white haired balladeer it once was his abode. 
Too today its restoration is a yoke he’s proud to wear 
and its pioneering mem’ries are a thing he loves to share.

You will often find him with an adze or broadaxe in his hand 
as he forms a piece of timber to the shape that’s in demand. 
His old clothes are soiled and tardy and his hat is battered too, 
but it shows where this man’s heart is and you sense that he’s true blue.

He’s the spirit of Boondooma, he’s its heart and soul as well 
while his ballads share its hist’ry and as far as I can tell; 
Buddy Thomson you’re its heartbeat and we’ll raise a glass and say 
that Boondooma’s Pioneer fam’lies would be proud of you today.

You’ve rekindled all those mem’ries through your sweat and toil old son
and the Homestead takes us back in time to when it all begun.
All your lyrics share the stories of those folk of long ago,
like the Lawsons, old Ted Potter, dear Jane Ann and George Munro.

Every picture tells a story and each room it has a tale
And the shop has many souvenirs available for sale.
While each building shares an era from our pioneering past
And Boondooma’s singing balladeer has made the mem’ries last.

He’s the spirit of Boondooma, he’s its heart and soul as well
while his ballads share its hist’ry and as far as I can tell;
Buddy Thomson you’re its heartbeat and we’ll raise a glass and say
that Boondooma’s Pioneer fam’lies would be proud of you today.

Now in April folk all muster and they go there in their throngs
keen to share the bush experience and listen to the songs
of the balladeers who join him and the poets too as well
and it’s one all mighty shindig and the crowds all think it’s swell. 

If you’re ever in the back blocks then please knock upon the door
and go share their hospitality, you’ll love it that’s for sure.
Take a tour back into history and reminisce a while
and perchance you meet old Buddy say g’day and crack a smile.

He’s the spirit of Boondooma, he’s its heart and soul as well
while his ballads share its hist’ry and as far as I can tell;
Buddy Thomson you’re its heartbeat and we’ll raise a glass and say
that Boondooma’s Pioneer fam’lies would be proud of you today.

©Bush Poet and Ballad Writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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THE DEBUT DEBACLE