The Ballad of Ian and the Crazy Heifer- The Men from Snowy River Re-enactment March

It was Ian from Delegate,
Who caught the marching craze.
And lead the Snowy River Men,
To walk eleven days.
From Delegate to Goulburn
Three fifty Ks to roam
And sleep in halls, and tents and sheds,
Until they could go home.

And then on the Old Bombala Rd.,
A mishap did occur
It involved an Angus heifer,
A frightened angry cur.
The heifer had got out
And was upon the road.
She was surprised to see the men.
Their activity seemed to goad,
Her into action, and she ran into the fence.
Young and frightened she got entangled.
She was acting very dense,
And stupid, and tried to get herself free.
When standing unawares close by,
Peeing behind a tree,
Was Ian.

The heifer saw red,
For next to him, leaning on the tree,
Was the banner of the Snowy River Men,
And as the heifer was now free.
She ran at the red ensign.
And fumbling at his fly,
Ian bravely gathered up his wits,
And gathered up the sign.
And poked the crazy heifer.
Whose blood was fairly raised
Until she made her final stand,
Pawed the dust,
And ran at him,
Still dazed.

For a moment, of man and beast, I lost sight.
For they were behind the tree.
Until lying on her back, legs asplay,
On the far side of the fence,
I saw the heifer,
Who was at last,
Free.

But where was the brave Ian?
Tending wounds, from this terrible offence?

No, he was giving the cow a mighty kick, (to help it onto its feet),
And fixing up the fence.






tending mortal wounds

The Rascal- Men from Snowy River Re-enactment March.

Who is the oldest child among us,
Summers his name and disposition,
And he is seventy seven Summers young.
Still sprightly on his new knees.

Who leads the marchers?
Leaving youngsters, fond of life's vices,
Far behind.

Who leads the real kids astray?

Who rang Nimmity's bell?
Dong! Dong! Dong!

Who sounded the hooter?
To wake us from our slumbers,
In the footy change room.

Who keeps us in good humour with his shenanigans?
Neville, the rascal.

Nimmity's Bell - Men from Snowy River Re-enactment March.

Winds blast down from Kosciuszko,
Turning the generators blades as they go.
We hear the rattle of the shed- our accommodation,
Replacing one, where heavy snow,
Had caused devastation.

And here near the stage- a mammoth bell,
Just newly cast.
So later in the pub,
The question was asked.....

" A bell- Why a bell?
Did it replace one of old?"

"Well, sort of- not really- well...
There has been bells here- um- like... At the Railway Station,
And the old sawmill had one,"

So we were told.

Sixty grand was raised by the town,
One benefactor put a substantial sum down.
But, apparently it cost thirty five K.
And now as I sit next to it,
Plastic shrouded, today.

I think...
' Why the hell would any town want a big bell?
Who had the rush to the head,
And the charisma to tell,
A town that they would need such a decadent toy?'

Well they obviously thought it the go...
And Oh Boy!....
Is it ever LOUD!

We are Marching- The Snowy River Men - Recruitment March.

One hundred years on,
And we are marching.
Not the strapping youth of a new country,
The descendants are grey, pot-bellied grandsons,
And wide-hipped grand-daughters.
Age has wearied them.
They tramp along slowly.
The Lighthorse re-enactors,
Are heavier in the saddle, than their predecessors.
A single infantryman moves sprightly,
Despite his hard leather boots.
He's set,
With his bag of  newly baked 'hard tack'.
Original recipe, courtesy of Arnotts.

Snowy River Men

So young,
The Snowy River Men.
When Baragry mounted the stage,
And called,
"Who is with me?"
Twelve looked toward adventure,
And escape from the labours of axe and plough.
They commenced the long walk.
And at each juncture,
Were received as pre-emptive  heroes.
Ladies fell upon them,
With embraces, hot tea and sandwiches,
Men, with the promise of glory,
Or a hero's death,
Swelled their ranks.
Footsore and weary they tramped to the beat of their song;

"We have come from the mountains and the everlasting snow,"
"We have come from the mountains where the Snowy River flows"

They may have been "ready now for glory" but none of them knew,
If they'd be coming home.
So one hundred years on,
We still know the youthful faces,
Those naïve young men.
Who didn't come home.
Their optimistic smiles radiate beneath,
The green felt hat and emu feather.
From the walls of the Delegate School of Arts,
In brand new frames.

ANZAC

I listened and my eyes could not resist,
The squeezing pressure of unbeckoned tears;
My chest, the choking breathlessness,
That another's distress invokes involuntarily.
The constable in impeccable blue chokes on the words.
Pauses to regain composure and reads,
A diary entry from an ANZAC,
His Great Grandfather Dudley,
Who just over one hundred years ago tramped the same street,
On which I now stood listening.
Dudley was there at the first,
0430 25th April 1915 ANZAC Cove.
He writes of the solemn trepidation as they prepare to disembark.
The quiet.
They fix bayonets.
Then as the operation commences the ear-splitting racket of shelling and Lizzie's guns.
He is in the boat  and sees ahead the cliffs in the dawn light.
He feels the fear and excitement.
They will be the first Australians to land and fight on foreign soil.

Already they are dying around him.
Seven men hit in his boat.
The neighbouring sunk and men in the brine.
His boat hits the rocky shore.
They disembark and he is up to his neck.
Somehow he clambers ashore.
His first sight the ragged piles of dead comrades.
Still warm and without the opportunity,
After all the months of training,
To fire a single shot at the enemy.