CLARRIE PETERS


CLARRIE PETERS

Austinmer
Recorded 26 April 1973

COLLECTED MATERIAL

Mr Peters was a retired teamster having learnt his trade from his father in the New England area.

“This is a poem made up by a friend of mine, Mark Greeny, in the old days in the bush when we worked on Mr Wright’s station ‘Kinden’ in Qld. At night after hearing us talk all day he’d sit on his bunk and reel off little verses like nobody’s business.

You’d hear some of the greatest liars at night when the men talked of nothing and everything at all. The men that could ride the best usually couldn’t sit on a fence on a windy day. You’d also hear some good songs..

Kinden’s Occupation

 

view words

 

I often think of the comradeship of the old bushmen, the old timers. You could leave your wagon on the roadside – all your goods – your chaff and corn and all that and nobody would touch it. Sometimes a drover might come along and give his horses a feed but when he’d meet you he would pay you for that chaff and corn – that’s the code of the day.

They wouldn’t do it nowadays – they’d take the bloody lot and then come back to see if they left anything behind.

Old Glory

Complete poem – written by a mate, Arthur McCulloch, in Queensland. This poem has been collected as ‘Jim, The Boss Rider’ and is typical of the favoured horse poems.

 

view words

 

Holy Dan

(refer Stewart & Keesing/anon/ 224.

Bullocky toast

Here’s to you as good as you are
Here’s to me as bad as I am
But as good as you are
And as bad as I am
I’m as good as you are
As bad as I am

See that big white cloud up there
All white a frothy at the top?
It’s like a jug of beer
It’s time to have a drink, boys,
For if that cloud should burst
The drink will all run out
For it’s just a cloud of thirst

Bullocky Call

 

view words

 

Goondiwindi

(Tune: Old Black Alice)

Bouri mind your eye,
and don’t kick up a shindy,
I’ve got plenty sweetheart on my station,
And a pretty little gin in Goondiwindi.

Oh, it’s no disgrace me being black,
That’s the colour of my nation,
We’ll all go in and snavel a gin,
And dance the wild corroboree

The Dairy Farmer’s Wife’s Growl

 

view words

 

Lambing down

“The shearers used to come in and put their cheques on the bar and have a right royal booze up and before they left the landlady would pay them the balance with one of her cheques. This old woman used to bake them in the oven and then they rode off the cheques would crumble to dust, fall to pieces like ash.”

close window