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..
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.
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.
Here’s to you as good as you are
See that big white cloud up there
(Tune: Old Black Alice)
Bouri mind your eye,
Oh, it’s no disgrace me being black,
The Dairy Farmer’s Wife’s Growl
“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.”