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In this article Aussie actor Jack Thompson reprises the speech he made to the Coffs Harbour Library to celebrate the opening of the National Year of Reading. Mr Thompson is well known for his audio CDs of classic Australian poetry, some of which are: Jack Thompson, Favourite Australian Poems, The Bush Poems of Banjo Paterson, The Campfire Yarns of Henry Lawson, The Sentimental Bloke, the Poems of CJ Dennis and Jack Thompson, Live at the Lighthouse. Good Evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, I was delighted to be asked by my local Library to mark the National Year of Reading. I’m a passionate reader, it’s been one of the great joys of my life and one I love to share. My early reading was led by my teachers and parents, and as was the custom of the day, poetry was a big part of it. One of the poems that made a big impression on me, because I could ‘see ‘ the images so clearly, was Henry Lawson’s Ballad of the Drover. This is it: Across the stony ridges, Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover, Comes riding home again. And well his stock-horse bears him, And light of heart is he, And stoutly his old pack-horse Is trotting by his knee. Up Queensland way with cattle He travelled regions vast; And many months have vanished Since home-folk saw him last. He hums a song of someone He hopes to marry soon; And hobble-chains and camp-ware Keep jingling to the tune. Beyond the hazy dado Against the lower skies And yon blue line of ranges The homestead station lies. And thitherward the drover Jogs through the lazy noon, While hobble-chains and camp-ware Are jingling to a tune. An hour has filled the heavens With storm-clouds inky black; At times the lightning trickles Around the drover's track; But Harry pushes onward, His horses' strength he tries, In hope to reach the river Before the flood shall rise. The thunder from above him Goes rolling o'er the plain; And down on thirsty pastures In torrents falls the rain. And every creek and gully Sends forth its little flood, Till the river runs a banker, All stained with yellow mud. Now Harry speaks to Rover, The best dog on the plains, And to his hardy horses, And strokes their shaggy manes; `We've breasted bigger rivers When floods were at their height Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home to-night!' The thunder growls a warning, The ghastly lightnings gleam, As the drover turns his horses To swim the fatal stream. But, oh! the flood runs stronger Than e'er it ran before; The saddle-horse is failing, And only half-way o'er! When flashes next the lightning, The flood's grey breast is blank, And a cattle dog and pack-horse Are struggling up the bank. But in the lonely homestead The girl will wait in vain -- He'll never pass the stations In charge of stock again. The faithful dog a moment Sits panting on the bank, And then swims through the current To where his master sank. And round and round in circles He fights with failing strength, Till, borne down by the waters, The old dog sinks at length. Across the flooded lowlands And slopes of sodden loam The pack-horse struggles onward, To take dumb tidings home. And mud-stained, wet, and weary, Through ranges dark goes he; While hobble-chains and tinware Are sounding eerily. . . . . . . The floods are in the ocean, The stream is clear again, And now a verdant carpet Is stretched across the plain. But someone's eyes are saddened, And someone's heart still bleeds In sorrow for the drover Who sleeps among the reeds. Librarian leads audience applause It’s beautiful language isn’t it? This next poem has a unique language of its own. It was written by a man called John O’Brien, who also wrote the book They’re a Weird Mob, which some of you may have read in the early seventies- they made a movie of it as well. The poem is called The Integrated Adjective, but you may know it by another name, or if you don’t, you’ll certainly be able to guess what it is, once you’ve heard it: I was down the Riverina, knockin' 'round the towns a bit, And occasionally resting with a schooner in me mitt, And on one of these occasions, when the bar was pretty full And the local blokes were arguin' assorted kind of bull, I heard a conversation, most peculiar in its way. It's only in Australia you would hear a joker say: "Howya bloody been, ya drongo, haven't seen ya fer a week, And yer mate was lookin' for ya when ya come in from the creek. 'E was lookin' up at Ryan's, and around at bloody Joe's, And even at the Royal, where 'e bloody NEVER goes". And the other bloke says "Seen 'im? Owed 'im half a bloody quid. Forgot to give it back to him, but now I bloody did - Could've used the thing me bloody self. Been off the bloody booze, Up at Tumba-bloody-rumba shootin' kanga-bloody-roos." Now the bar was pretty quiet, and everybody heard The peculiar integration of this adjectival word, But no-one there was laughing, and me - I wasn't game, So I just sits back and lets them think I spoke the bloody same. Then someone else was interested to know just what he got, How many kanga-bloody-roos he went and bloody shot, And the shooting bloke says "Things are crook - the drought's too bloody tough. I got forty-two by seven, and that's good e-bloody-nough." And, as this polite rejoinder seemed to satisfy the mob, Everyone stopped listening and got on with the job, Which was drinkin' beer, and arguin', and talkin' of the heat, Of boggin' in the bitumen in the middle of the street, But as for me, I'm here to say the interesting piece of news Was Tumba-bloody-rumba shootin' kanga bloody-roos. Librarian leads audience applause. Thank you, it’s a lot of fun, isn’t it? Incidentally, John O’Brien’s son, also John O’Brien, was the man who produced Mother and Son for the ABC, so talent runs in the family obviously. John Junior told me that it was quite usual for his Dad to stop in at pubs in the bush, just to collect yarns for his stories and he really did go to Tumbarumba and hear that conversation and could hardly get up to his room fast enough to get it down. It’s become one of my favourites. I just love the rhythm of it. Now time is marching on, and Carolyn Elmes who works at our fabulous library has asked if I would close with The Man From Snowy River for you, so I will. It was of course written by Banjo Paterson, the man on the ten dollar bill and it’s been a part of my life in lots of ways, really. I was lucky enough to play the part of Clancy in the film of the same name, alongside Kirk Douglas which was a wonderful experience. And despite having heard it and read it many times, I still find the poem, with its story of the plucky horseman, absolutely thrilling. There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around That the colt from old Regret had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight. There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up - He would go wherever horse and man could go. And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand, He learnt to ride while droving on the plains. And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, He was something like a racehorse undersized, With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least - And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die - There was courage in his quick impatient tread; And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, And the proud and lofty carriage of his head. But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, And the old man said, "That horse will never do For a long a tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop away, Those hills are far too rough for such as you." So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend - "I think we ought to let him come," he said; "I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, For both his horse and he are mountain bred. "He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride, The man that holds his own is good enough. And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, Where the river runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen." So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa clump - They raced away towards the mountain's brow, And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump, No use to try for fancy riding now. And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once they gain the shelter of those hills." So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing Where the best and boldest riders take their place, And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew. Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day, No man can hold them down the other side." When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull, It well might make the boldest hold their breath, The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, While the others stood and watched in very fear. He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat - It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, At the bottom of that terrible descent. He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill, And the watchers on the mountain standing mute, Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still, As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, With the man from Snowy River at their heels. And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. He followed like a bloodhound on their track, Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, And alone and unassisted brought them back. But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, For never yet was mountain horse a cur. And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, The man from Snowy River is a household word today, And the stockmen tell the story of his ride. Thank you END Fine Poets Shop Fine Poets Bandcamp Fine Poets Ebay
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Jack Thompson, Poetry, Australia, Famous Australian Poetry, Henry Lawson, Banjo Paterson, C.J. Dennis,
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