Moola Bulla https://youtube/watch?v=oiel_2Qp8Jg It was back in March of nineteen seventy one; That I did the smartest thing Ive ever done, I caught a plane, flew east to west, Up to the Kimberley for my first real test. Went to Moola Bulla and called it home, Settled for a while and ceased to roam. Learnt how to break a horse, how to ride a buck, How to get the rig out of sandy creeks when it got stuck. I learnt how to rope in the bronco yard, How to eat my beef, no matter how charred. Learnt to drink my rum, with a dash of water, The value of a wife, a son and a daughter. I learnt to salt my beef when a killer we took, How to keep going when I felt crook. Learnt to pick up my arse, when it began to drag Extract the digit, when effort began to sag. Learnt to bark a post and joggle a rail, Read week old papers and month old mail. Ended up 15 years in a cattle stock camp, Days and nights spent with stomach cramps. Rolling the swag before dawns early light, Knocking off when the stars were bright. There were some damn long days and real short nights, But we never gave stuff about workers rights. Corned beef and damper, drank billy tea, Kind of life, city folk never see. We used to think a lot as we mustered up the hides, But you know we thought nothing of fifty mile rides. Turkey nests and bores, windmills and wells, If they could only talk, what stories theyd tell. Theres Goanna Springs, where the cattle took the yard, Blackfella Creek, ODonnell, where we always did it hard. Nymagee, Sisters, Carrington’s and even Robin Soak, They had nothing on Mad Gap; it found the bottom of a bloke. And by gee those bronco horses, they really earned their feed, Look at their muscle, they werent built for speed. Dragging cleanskins to the panel keeping the head rope tight, Chip-Chip with a clean-skin bull, straining with all her might. Cows and calves a bellowing in a yard full of dust, There wasnt too much steel back then to gather all the rust. Yeah I rode some camp horses, some were mighty good, Mouse, Warrigal and others but on them Drifter had the wood, He could turn on a sixpence, work cattle all day, A privilege to ride, what a way to earn your pay. Jackeroos and ringers, the latter were too few, Horse tailer and cook having another blue. There was Chalkie, Jake and Waterbag; I cant remember them all, Ive forgotten so many others, my memory cant recall. Waterbags now a farrier, Jake now a cop, Chalky’s a teacher, and was heading for the top. Bog and Smithy, hell dont forget old Wease, With his bloody migraine headaches, its enough to make you sneeze. And Mitch is up at Carlton Hill, Chilly flying high, Whiplash went to the States, oh how time goes by. And the boss he was a good bloke, yeah his name was Dick, But dont you try and bluff him; hes awake to every trick. Jack Ryder, Donald Cox and General Birdwood too, Stockman of that other race, just to name a few. Tolly and Manly, the cook and her man. Perhaps by now my love for Moola Bulla youll begin to understand. Now its sometime later as I sit and reminisce, Of the good times that I had and the country that I miss. I have left Moola Bulla but the memories still remain, And if I have my time over, you know, Id do it all again. © Corin Linch July 1993
Posted on: Tue, 18 Nov 2014 21:23:14 +0000