CowboyPoetry.com    Cowboy Poetry and Music and More at the BAR-D Ranch

MERV WEBSTER "The Grey"
Bargara, Queensland, Australia
About Merv Webster
Merv and Chris Webster's web site

 

 

Sweet Madeline

How the blistering heat of mid summer beat down,
Turning sweet Mitchell grass in the paddocks near brown
While bush creatures sought shade, that's if any be found,
'Mongst the foliage of trees or in holes underground.
And the galvanised roof of the homestead below
It just creaked and it groaned, oh so rhythmic'ly slow,
While the woman within carried on with her chores
Always checking her child should she wander outdoors.

There was so much to do 'spite fine dust and parched heat,
With the muster now on she was run off her feet;
Though at times out of view, she could hear her child's play,
For the echo of laughter revealed her okay.
It was but for a moment she left Madeline,
Just to check on the bread which was rising and fine;
Then returned to her ironing, but sensed something wrong
And the feeling which gripped her was ever so strong.

Where there once had been laughter from Madeline's play
There existed a silence, 'twas clear straight away,
And the poor frantic mother now cried out in fear,
"Oh where are you sweet Madeline?  Answer me dear!"
Though her cries filled the air, as she looked ev'rywhere,
Her heart raced 'neath her breasts as she screamed in despair;
Till so utterly weak she collapsed to the ground,
For her sweet Madeline was nowhere to be found.

Her fatigued fem'nine frame barely heard the refrain
Of the cattle's loud bellows approaching the lane,
While behind them she knew was assistance at last
And her eyes through the dust t'wards her husband were cast.
As he saw her lay there with her face deathly white,
He had sensed straight away there was something not right,
So he cantered his mare to the spot where she lay,
But her small trembling lips found it hard what to say.

In his brown brawny arms she found solace from fear,
Then she stammered the words, "It's our Madeline dear!
She has vanished!  Gone missing!  Oh where can she be?
You must find her my love!"  Came her desperate plea.
With the aid of the stockmen they searched high and low,
But no clue came to light, there was nothing to show
How the child could have vanished without any trace
And it puzzled them all;  'twas a mystery case.

With the sun going down they were near out of light
And locating the girl was just nowhere in sight;
Then her father declared they would send for old Ned;
A black tracker and ringer whose fame was wide spread.
The old man had a hut on the far side of town,
Though a pensioner now, he knew Ned would come down,
As he'd worked on the place and he knew the girl well,
For the three year old child loved the stories he'd tell.

When the sun disappeared in the west with its light
The old bushman had Madeline's tracks in his sight
And he followed the signs only his eye could see
Till he came to a halt and bent down on his knee.
At the cattle yard rails her tracks ended for now
While Ned saw on the ground a fresh hide from a cow,
That the sweet young girl's father had slaughtered for meat,
But to where the child was sure had Ned feeling beat.

On the hide lay a post, which was three metres long
And to Ned's mindful eye he felt something was wrong,
So he lifted the post and then pulled back the hide,
Which revealed a small body all curled up inside.
As Ned reached for the girl a tear welled in his eye,
For it caught him off guard, he was not known to cry,
But the small lifeless form which he passed to her dad
Made him weak in the gut and left shaking like mad.

At the inquest in town and old Ned by their side,
Both would hear the sad story of how their child died.
It was Ned who'd establish her movements that day
From the last time her mum heard sweet Madeline play.
Seems she'd wandered outside and then out through the gate
To the place by the yard rails where she met her fate.
Then the innocent child saw the hide hanging there,
And in play she had tugged at the blanket of hair.

But the hide being green slithered down from the rail
And had trapped the young child in a gruesome, dark, jail,
Then the three metre post, much to Madeline's woe,
It had slid 'long the top rail and caused the death blow.
Seems that time, the great healer, would fin'ly allow
To this couple a son, but they'd solemnly vow;
In their hearts they would cherish and firmly enshrine
All the mem'ries they'd shared, with their sweet Madeline.

© Merv Webster
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Merv adds:  This true story was one day told to me by Clin Benson and I felt it reflected so dramatically the tragedies experienced by so many bush folk who have chosen to raise their children in an outback way of life.  There are so many gravestones scattered through the bush, which if they could speak, could tell similar stories.


The Ballad of the Blowfly

We'd met them in Cloncurry town while touring Queensland's west,
Enthralling them with verse and yarns we Aussies all love best.
The bloke he was from New South Wales, but had been overseas
And bought on back a Pommy lass he loved to hug and squeeze.

We told them we were joining mates in good old Camooweal.
There was a drover's festival.   They said, "That sounds ideal."
Our destination's Darwin, though could stay a day or two.
"Might see you there tomorrow then," and bid us all "hooroo."

The pub became the social hub in Camooweal next day,
Old drovers, townsfolk, poets too had gathered to the fray.
All sharing tales that stretched the truth and never seemed to end,
When who should walk in through the door ... our mate and Pommy friend.

They sat in awe and listened to the tales we had to tell,
When suddenly our mate he rose, he'd got the bug as well.
"You see that blowie upside down and in my girlfriend's beer;
He's carked it as you all can see.  But has it?  Gather near."

"Because we're mates I'll wage no bet, though this is what I'll do.
I'll bring that blowie back to life and make him good as new."
He had us rather spellbound with his claim to raise the dead,
When packhorse drover Simpson raised his voice and simply said.

"I've been around the bush a bit and heard some dodgy claims,
But resurrecting blowies mate;  you're playing silly games.
I'll walk to Bourke and backwards lad if you can raise that fly.
Still, do your best, I'll drink my rum.  You give it your best try."

Then old Ab Tees threw in a jibe, as he had doubts as well,
"I'll eat me old Akubra mate 'cause that flie's gone to hell."
He shrugged his shoulders at their taunts and didn't even jar,
Just raised that blowie from the glass and laid it on the bar.

"There any salt around?" he asked.  The barman went to look,
Returned and handed him the salt he'd cadged from off the cook.
He poured some salt upon the bar then sat the fly on top,
Continued pouring more salt on then fin'lly made a stop.

With puzzled looks the motley crew all watched the salty mound,
The silence was remarkable for no one made a sound.
Til finally Bill Hay spoke up and said, "What happens now?"
Liz Ward just sat and looked in awe, long wrinkles on her brow.

Our mate then sat back on his stool and said in his cool way,
"In 'round six minutes you will see that blowfly fly away."
Some doubting Thomas's drank on, the baffled watched in awe,
The barman he just poured the drinks and hoped we'd drink some more.

Then suddenly the salt mound moved, as two black legs broke through,
Two wings, a head and then the rest walked out as though on cue.
It walked around in circles till he gave the bar two thumps,
Which sent the blowie airborne and our mate had come up trumps.

Old Ab Tees tried to sneak away for he had seen enough,
When I yelled, "Here Ab take some salt your hat looks mighty tough!"
Bruce Simpson he just shook his head and looked at that there bloke,
Then asked, "How far is flam'in Bourke?"   Then rolled another smoke.

Our mate he took his Pommy friend and staggered off to bed.
I guess he thought he was one up, so quit while still ahead.
We had a lot of fun that 'arve, the weekend too was swell,
Bush verse and country music reigned along with yarns as well.

This year we did it all again but never saw our mate
And wondered ... was he still around and raised a fly of late?
We never did forget that bloke and joke about it still;
Old Abb and Simmo, Liz and I along with our mate Bill.

© Merv Webster
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

When the Evidence Went Missing


Harry Redford was one of our notorious cattle duffers who duffed a 1000 head of cattle in central Queensland and took them through some of the roughest and harshest country in outback Australia.  He eventually sold them in Adelaide.  A white bull which he couldn't shake from the heard eventually caused his demise, as he sold it half way along the trip for supplies.  It was later used in evidence against him.

He was tried in the south-west town of Roma in Queensland [Chris' hometown]in 1873 but was so admired by folk for the bushcraft and the cattlemanship shown in doing what he did that the jury found him not guilty. The old judge wasn't too impressed and shifted futher court proceedings east to Dalby.

In 1951 nine head of cattle being held at the Roma police yards as evidence in a cattle duffing case were stolen from the yards in the early hours of one morning and taken out to the town cattle yards where they were shot and their ears and brands removed.  A mystery which has never been solved. Though recently while talking to Chris' dad, more light came to bear upon the story.  I believe he was involved.  I thought you might enjoy the tale.

When the Evidence Went Missing

I was perched upon on a wooden bench beneath a bottle tree
When this worn out wiry ringer stopped to rest his gammy knee.
I'd been touring through the outback and had sought to sit a spell
While the missus spent her hard earned cash and some of mine as well.

His grey hair was to his shoulder and his unkempt beard grey too
And he moaned, "Me old knees knackered and there's nothing they can do."
He'd suggested that a fall way back, while duffing some stray steers,
Was responsible for his bad limp and pain all through the years.

"So its fair to say the adage then...crime does not pay...is true
And the walking stick you carry mate is proof enough for you?
"With respect to that...perhaps old mate, but not the case always;
You see...once I beat the system...but back in my younger days."

This old codger had me spell bound, as a tale was on the boil,
And I figured if I stayed around he'd give me the good oil.
Bony fingers forced his hat back, which was battered, torn and old,
Then he rubbed his wiry whiskers as the story did unfold.

"Old man Smythe from Yukeabilla sought assistance for his herd
As his property was bare of feed and he had just got word,
That agistment was available down south at Myabode,
So he mustered all his cattle and he took them on the road.

"With his son Dave on the payroll they pushed past the neighbour's block,
But they somehow gained an increase to the numbers of their stock.
Then again as they past Brucedale, the Smythe herd it grew some more
And it wasn't natural increases;  I know that mate for sure.

"After weeks of choking dust and flies they reached their journey's end
Where they left the stock to fatten and return a dividend.
Back up north the local stock squad warned all cockies round that way;
Should they sight the stolen cattle;  they should ring without delay.

"The old manager on Myabode was taken by surprise
When he recognised the stolen brands, but instantly got wise
As to how the mob had got there and then rang detective Brown,
Who impounded them as evidence and trucked them to this town.

"All the cattle were locked in a yard and supervised at night
While their day trip to the common proved to be a regular sight.
With the native tracker out in front and driving his old Ute,
This small motley herd of cattle learnt to follow in pursuit.

"All their comings and their goings were so closely scrutinised
As the prosecutions trump card was the evidence they prized.
Though the wily prosecutor gathered facts to build his case,
Some old Bushmen too were scheming and a plan was put in place.

"They were crafty, artful dodgers, who'd been slipped a quid their way,
And could see to it the evidence might somehow go astray.
The bold band then took advantage of the absence of the guard
For some twenty or so minutes and then broke into the yard.

"In the small hours of that morning they absconded with the stock
And the speed of the audacious theft had left police in shock.
These bold Bushmen used a vehicle, which much to their delight
Lured the cattle through the darkened streets and quickly out of sight.

"All available policemen joined the search to find their trail,
But their roadblocks and sheer numbers proved to be of no avail.
Then at sunrise the black constable, a tracker of renown,
Traced the mob out to the stockyards on the outskirts of the town.

"All the cattle had been slaughtered and not one ear could be seen
And a piece of hide was missing where the owner's brand had been.
Still the heads and hides were proof enough . or so the police thought,
But the judge dismissed the evidence and threw it out of court.

I just sat there flabbergasted as the old bloke rose to go,
'Cause the way he'd told the story he was really in the know.
But he sensed I sought the obvious and said "I need a drink."
Then he hobbled down the street away...though turned and gave a wink.

© Merv Webster
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

I Never Cried for Elvis but I Shed a Tear for Slim


Perhaps I'd heard it wrong somehow that quiet September day,
But no, the words rang in my head.  Slim Dusty's passed away.
I knew the old bloke had been crook and not that well of late.
Still, legends live forever...though...it seems I'm wrong old mate.

Like Lawson you could tell a tale about the average bloke,
Though sung them in the ballad style backed by a guitar stroke.
Your songs portrayed an image which aroused our Aussie pride
And most of us we shed a tear when poor old Trumby died.

So rest in peace for now old friend until the trumpet calls;
The spirit of your ballads, mate, ring through life's memories halls.
A lifetimes dedication proves you where no passing whim;
I never cried for Elvis but I shed a tear for Slim.

You walked a mile or two we know, through muddy tracks and dry
And entertained a lot of folk and made them laugh or cry.
You pioneered an industry and did the real hard yards
And kept alive the sentiments of yesterday's bush bards.

A myriad of campfires echoed tunes that bore your brand.
The Pub With No Beer, Duncan; just two that come to hand.
You made us feel Australian with a sense of wrong and right.
The city bloke, the bushy, whether brindle, black or white.

So rest in peace for now old friend until the trumpet calls;
The spirit of your ballads, mate, ring through life's memories halls.
A lifetimes dedication proves you where no passing whim;
I never cried for Elvis but I shed a tear for Slim.

They said goodbye in style that day and gathered in their throngs
And old St Andrews echoed to a melody of songs.
Your passing's left us empty mate, we've lost a true blue friend
And no one lives forever, but the memories will not end.

I know we lost an icon, but his family lost much more
A father, grandad, soul mate of that I am quite sure.
We stand and we salute you Slim despite the fact we know
The final curtain's fallen on the last Slim Dusty show.

So rest in peace for now old friend until the trumpet calls;
The spirit of your ballads, mate, ring through life's memories halls.
A lifetimes dedication proves you where no passing whim;
I never cried for Elvis but I shed a tear for Slim.

© 2003, Merv Webster
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Slim Dusty was a well known Australian Balladeer. Merv told us "Slim recorded 106 albums in his career and won 36 Golden Guitar awards.  He pioneered the bush ballad here in Australia."  Visit the official Slim Dusty web site here: http://www.slimdusty.com.au/

 

 

R.M. Williams -- A Man Who Had Tried

I stared at the brown leather boot in my hand
And applied elbow grease for a shine
When there right before me an image appeared
And I can't say the face it was mine.
But yes that old hat, which you wore with great pride,
And the short grey moustache 'neath your nose;
Revealed straightaway you were Aussie and proud
And most bush folk admired you God knows.

We'll miss you old mate, as you were a proud son
For you taught us the value of pride.
Your Epitaph reads, as you wanted it to
R.M Williams ... A Man Who Had Tried.

In fact it was you who designed these old boots
That have lasted me all through these years
And news of your passing on November fifth,
Was a blow, which brought home a few tears.
From swagman to millionaire was your claim
And your trade mark the boots you designed.
You strode for perfection and here is the proof
As no better a boot could you find.

We'll miss you old mate, as you were a proud son
For you taught us the value of pride.
Your Epitaph reads, as you wanted it to
R.M Williams ... A Man Who Had Tried.

Yes that was your legacy to all of us
And we've taken your wise ways to heart.
You showed us how hard work it has its rewards
If one has the desire from the start.
You loved the bush ballads and rhyming bush verse,
You yourself played the role of bush bard.
And surely old friend you will visit again
If I polish these boots really hard.

We'll miss you old mate, as you were a proud son
For you taught us the value of pride.
Your Epitaph reads, as you wanted it to
R.M Williams ... A Man Who Had Tried.

© 2004, Merv Webster -The Goondiwindi Grey
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Merv adds "He was a self made bushman who made boots and clothing.  Became an icon in this country."  You can read more about R. M. Williams here: http://www.rmwilliams.com.au/

 

To Have Loved a Friend

An empty stare betrayed her loss and tears flowed unrestrained,
Though heartfelt words tried hard to heal, a sadness still remained.
So limp and soft her once strong hand hung loosely in my grip,
I felt at loss with what to say, the words escaped my lips.
Fresh flowers on the mound of dirt paid tribute to her friend,
Whose bridle she clutched in her hand, so little in the end.

We only went to trim the feet of our old Shetland Snow,
He showed the signs of foundered hooves, mate's gait was getting slow.
Her young friend shared the block with him some other horses too,
But when we cornered all the mob, defiant they shot through.
The filly though just stood confused, she sensed my daughter there,
Desire to join the others though reflected in her stare.

My gentle words were meant to coax, to reassure her ears,
An outstretched arm was meant to calm and nullify her fears.
Then in a flash she'd made her mind no longer would she wait,
And dashed past me with lightning speed, she meant to join her mate.
Her flight forced her to race between a concrete trough and me,
When suddenly, her forefoot slipped, and caused the tragedy.

Momentum forced her frame to slide through moisture and the mud,
Then concrete crushed her forehead bone, soft muzzle filled with blood.
She thrashed about in frantic throes which chilled me to the bone,
My daughter cried, "Please help her dad, please help my strawb'ry roan!"
I threw myself upon her head and held the filly down,
Then sent my girl to seek some help, to fetch the vet from town.

A sedative it eased her pain while vet he worked to save,
The failing force within her friend, the situation grave.
Her frame so still, her breathing rough, now time would only tell,
If she would lose her fav'rite mate, the waiting it was hell.
As sedative then ran its course she started to respond,
My daughter spoke to reassure her love and life long bond.

The trauma drained her filly though, her mind was not her own,
She thrashed and struggled all the more, each breath a muffled moan.
Her hurt was more than we could bear, my daughter said mid tears,
"I know I love my filly Dad, she's been my friend for years,
But I can't bear to see her pain, we must do what is kind,
Please let her go and be at peace, my love is not so blind."

Then as we said our last goodbyes to our dear equine friend,
The fatal dose of sedative then quietly brought her end.
For months my daughter felt her loss her friendship she did crave,
And often sought to sit and talk by her young filly's grave.
I felt so proud the other day, her words I do recall,
"It's better to have loved a friend, than had no friend at all."

© 2004, Merv Webster -The Goondiwindi Grey
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Merv tells us:  Some years back now I asked a mate of mine could I put his strawberry roan Appaloosa Stallion over a mare I had and produced a filly throwing back on the stallions markings.  She turned out to be a great horse and my daughter Meagan took to her and they became great mates.  The filly and a little white Shetland we had were running with some other horses in a nearby paddock, when one day Meagan and I went over to trim the Shetland's hooves. When I corned the mob they were a bit jittery and the Shetland took of with the others except for the filly.  She wanted to stay, but kept looking at the others and in a moment she took off down the narrow side and slid on the concrete path in front of the water trough.  She slid down the full length of the trough and then smashed her head into the corner of the troughing and
as much as we tried to save her, we had to let her go.  It really knocked us for a six and Meagan was heart broken.  The words, 'It's better to have loved a friend then had no friend at all," kept running through my head until I had to pen the poem.

 

I'll Ne'er Forget That Day Old Mate 

My heart was pumping hard that day I faced the maddening crowd,
Despite the spinning in my head I stood there mighty proud.
Though racked with pain my reddened hand acknowledged them a wave
And to this day I've ne'er forgot the accolades they gave.

It was a dream come true you see to stand there in that ring,
For rodeo was in my blood and one day I'd be king.
The beast I drew was mean and lean ... no Chainsaw I admit,
But still if I could just ride time I'd show them I had grit.

I'd limbered up behind the chute preparing for the ride,
Well knowing what was just ahead, but took it in my stride.
The chute boss called, "You've drawn chute five, get down and make it quick."
Then as I eyed the beast below ... I suddenly felt sick.

That brute it tried to climb the gate and bellowed cries of fear,
While chute hands fought to organise the necessary gear.
I felt the violent quiver of the hide between my chaps,
The smell of sweat, the cry of men ... a change of mind perhaps?

Too late I felt the rope pulled taut and shoved within my glove,
I thought it's now or never mate and sent a prayer above.
Then as I pulled my Colly down I yelled out, "Let him go!"
The gate flew open ... it was on ... 'twas time to rodeo.

With whites of eyes all full of hate that beast did twist and turn,
'Twas obvious my frame aboard was something he did spurn.
Eight seconds on this beast from hell seemed like eternity,
For ev'ry muscle which I owned screamed out in agony.

Between the jars and twists and turns I heard the crowd all cheer,
Then at long last that blessed sound of hooter in my ear.
The pick up man then pulled me clear and was I proud ... not half!
I'll ne'er forget that day old mate I rode that poddy calf.

© 2005, Merv Webster -The Goondiwindi Grey
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Merv told us that he won 2nd prize for this poem in the Golden Pen Awards.  He added, "My very first ride at a rodeo was at Stanthorpe in south-west Queensland at around twelve years of age.
In reality I never made it across the vehicle track in front of the chute and got hung up and dragged around for a few minutes until I pulled myself free.  I figured I'd take poetic license and make the story a little more interesting."

 

Flowers on a Friday 

It was bucking bulls and cowboy busting broncos
And the challenge that accompanied each ride
That consumed the heart and mind of my young cowboy
And this fact my Buddy never tried to hide.
I recall the time we met in Kelly's diner
He was busted up and feeling rather sore
But the cheque that paid the tab that I presented
Seemed to him to somehow even up the score.

He had eaten there that week and got acquainted,
And I somehow got to know this cowboy's mind
while the flowers that he gave me on that Friday
Surely showed beside his toughness, he was kind.
We were married in the summer six months later,
On a Friday I recall so very well,
Because Fridays he would always buy me flowers
And then go and ride those bulls and broncs from hell.

Buddy always bought me flowers on a Friday
As he knew I feared the rides that lay ahead
But my man his heart and soul was in his riding
And I loved this cowboy that I planned to wed.
Yes he always bought me flowers on a Friday
And I loved this cowboy that I planned to wed.

All our friends had shared that special evening with us
And we raged and partied well into the night,
Then we slipped away to share the morning hours,
Til the dawn rose and revealed its splendid light.
We both showered and had breakfast at the roadhouse
Laughed and shared the joy that comes with wedded bliss,
But I sensed a certain tiredness in my Buddy
And I prayed he'd give the ride that day a miss.

Buddy drew the brindle bombshell riders hated
And that beast exploded when it left the chute,
Twisting left then right and suddenly it stumbled
And my Buddy he was crushed by that great brute.
When it came to say goodbye to my sweet lover
There was one thing that I vowed I'd always do
I would always bring him flowers on a Friday
And I'd tell his child about his father too.
.
Bud I'll always bring you flowers on a Friday
That's the one thing that I vow I'll always do.
Cause you always brought me flowers on a Friday
And your child will always bring you flowers too.
Yes I'll always bring you flowers on a Friday
And your child will always bring you flowers too.

© 2005, Merv Webster -The Goondiwindi Grey
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Merv writes: Bull riding events have become very popular here in Australia and of course in America too.  Folk enjoy being entertained by the dedicated cowboys who live to ride, but sadly each year we lose some very fine young men and they leave behind. Mothers, Fathers, wives and sweethearts who are left with the memories of their loved ones.  This is my tribute to the boys who make riding their love in life and told from the viewpoint of one's sweeheart and wife. "Flowers On a Friday" is one of five final nominations in the Lyrics Only section at the 2006 Tamworth Song Writers Awards. The winner will be announced at the awards night on Wednesday the 25th of January during the Tamworth Country Music Festival.

 




The Maintop Balladeer

There's a bloke I'd like you all to know whose Aussie through and through,
From his felt hat to his R.M. boots, he ridgy didge, true blue.
He was born in Roma, Queensland, back in nineteen thirty-three
And his parents were from sturdy stock, a pioneer family.
Station life was in this young man's blood and one can understand
Why he took to writing lyrics based on things he knew first hand;
Those loved tales of some lad's "Silver Spurs," the "Rutland Rodeo"
And "A Time When I Was Mustering" he penned so long ago.

Chorus
Yes, his heart is in his lyrics this tall man from Injune way
And he's had his songs recorded by top artists in his day.
Yes, Wave Jackson loves his ballads and mate let me make this clear
He's admired in music circles as the Maintop Balladeer.

Old Mac Cormack and Joe Daley both wrote lyrics by the score
And along with Wave and Coster...hell they made an awesome four.
They all had their songs recorded by Slim Dusty through the years
And these men are all respected to this day by all their peers.
Wave continues this tradition and he still writes to this day
And now picks and strums a Maton in the true bush ballad way.
You will find him at most Musters and he's happy as can be
As today he shares his talents on his very own CD.

Yes, his heart is in his lyrics this tall man from Injune way
And he's had his songs recorded by top artists in his day.
Yes, Wave Jackson loves his ballads and mate let me make this clear
He's admired in music circles as the Maintop Balladeer.

Wave has travelled 'round Australia and he'll tell you that he's sold
On the fact there lots of songs out there just waiting to be told.
He then proved this down in Tamworth when he won a gold guitar
And of all his fine achievements it's the best he says so far.
It has been a wondrous innings for this gentleman of song
And I hope things will continue and his journey will be long.
He's a real true blue Australian and they are but far and few
And I'm proud to have him as a mate and share his song with you.

Yes, his heart is in his lyrics this tall man from Injune way
And he's had his songs recorded by top artists in his day.
Yes, Wave Jackson loves his ballads and mate let me make this clear
He's admired in music circles as the Maintop Balladeer.

© 2005, Merv Webster -The Goondiwindi Grey
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Merv told us: The poem "The Maintop Balladeer" was written about my old mate Wave Jackson who has a cattle property west of Injune in southwest Queensland.  Wave has been writing ballads for many years and a number of his songs have been recorded by the late and great, Slim Dusty.  In 2005, Wave finally won his first gold guitar at the Golden Guitar Awards at the Tamworth Country Music Festival with a song he wrote called "Where The Yellow Kapocks Bloom" and sung by well known Balladeer, Jeff Brown.  Wave and I often catch up at various Music Musters and I said to him after winning his gold guitar that it seems that folk often wait until someone dies before they write a tribute to them, so I was going to write one for him before that happened.  We were both chuffed at the 2006 Tamworth Country Music Muster when it was one of three out of the five finalist nominations I received in the Lyrics Only Section of the Tamworth Song Writers Association's National Song Writing Competition and also took out the winners trophy.



Granddad's Crusty Damper

I squatted 'neath the willow tree and memories came back
of childhood days with grandpa and the way he had the knack
of knowing how to pick a spot to cast your fishing rod
and luring out his fav'rite catch the good old murray cod.

He taught me how to clean my catch and how to bake it too
inside an old camp oven like his dad taught him to do.
We'd bake spuds in their jackets, but the thing that got to me'
was granddad's crusty damper, cocky's joy and billy tea.

Yes golden crusty damper with some cocky's joy's a treat
and washed down with some billy tea is really hard to beat.
He had a knack with most things, but the thing that got to me'
was granddad's crusty damper, cocky's joy and billy tea.

This round-yard brings back memories I vividly recall,
my first ride on that young bay colt and how I took a fall.
Gramps taught me how to get back up, to take it in my stride,
despite my tattered ego and my bruised and battered pride.

I shared the dusty musterings, the branding in the yards
and how to cook bush oysters by the fire was on the cards.
I reckon they were chewy, but the thing that got to me'
was granddad's crusty damper, cocky's joy and billy tea.

Yes golden crusty damper with some cocky's joy's a treat
and washed down with some billy tea is really hard to beat.
He had a knack with most things, but the thing that got to me'
was granddad's crusty damper, cocky's joy and billy tea.

Returning to old 'Corkdale' now that granddad's passed away
has mustered many mem'ries of a bygone yesterday.
He was my friend and mentor and he taught me all he knew,
and the last word's that he whispered were, "I've left 'Corkdale' to you."

We had the wake just yesterday and Cat'rers made the spread
with lots of tasty sandwiches all made on shop baked bread.
I really liked the fillings, but the thing I missed you see
was granddad's crusty damper, cocky's joy and billy tea.

Yes golden crusty damper with some cocky's joy's a treat
and washed down with some billy tea is really hard to beat.
He had a knack with most things, but the thing I missed you see
was granddad's crusty damper, cocky's joy and billy tea.

© 2005, Merv Webster -The Goondiwindi Grey
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Damper - a type of bread baked in a camp oven
Billy Tea - tea made on an open fire in a tin (billy) can
Cocky's Joy- syrup or treacle
Spuds - potatoes
Bush Oysters- calves' testicles cooked on an open fire

Merv told us, "I guess we all reflect back on the times we spent with our grandfathers and for many of us they were our friends and mentors in life. Recently I lost my grandfather and I guess it got me reflecting on how much they played a part in our lives and was inspired to write "Granddad's Crusty Damper."  I was fortunate enough to take out the Lyrics Only section at the 2006 Northern Territory Country Song Writing Awards at the Katherine Country Music Muster in May with it."

 

Son Play Another Coster Song

The old man clutched his walker as he slowly shuffled by,
Then paused and turned towards me with a glint in his old eye
I sensed he liked the Coster song that I was knocking out
And something 'bout the way he smiled sure left me in no doubt.

Then as I strummed the final chord he winked and smiled some more
And something told me this old man loved ballads that's for sure.
He threw three gold coins in my case and wished me all the best,
Then with a frail and feeble voice he whispered this request.

"Son play another Coster song and make an old man's day.
I haven't many up my sleeve or so the Doctor's say.
You sing and paint the pictures lad of words Stan put to pen
And let me share the memories of a life I lived back then.

I said old man I'd feel real proud to sing this one for you,
'cause surely it's  my fav'rite song and mate perhaps yours too.
He closed his eyes and drifted off and it was plain to see
that this old man was warming to a gidyea memory.

The years spent out on stock routes with a creaking wagonette,
a pair of dusty moleskins and those mates you don't forget.
Black tea and camp made damper and a swag wrap for a bed
and all the while the old man's words were ringing in my head.

"Son play another Coster song and make an old man's day.
 I haven't many up my sleeve or so the Doctor's say.
You sing and paint the pictures lad of words Stan put to pen
And let me share the memories of a life I lived back then.

He tipped his old Akubra back and reached out with his hand
And though the years had sapped his strength his grip was mighty grand.
"Son Coster had a gift you see to tell things how they were,
His ballads reached the hearts of folk, to this I can concur.

We miss the old mate and his wife; god bless their mortal souls,
So keep the mem'ries burning like a fire of gidyea coals.
Then as I watched him shuffle off, I treasured what he said,
'Cause that wise man was my old dad.  God bless his old grey head.

"Son play another Coster song and make an old man's day.
 I haven't many up my sleeve or so the Doctor's say.
You sing and paint the pictures lad of words Stan put to pen
And let me share the memories of a life I lived back then."


© 2006, Merv Webster -The Goondiwindi Grey
These lyrics may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Merv told us: Stan Coster was Born May 27, 1930 at Casino on the NSW far north coast in 1930 and died, March 25, 1997, at Manilla, NSW. Stan spent time in numerous occupations--ringer, fencer, slaughterman, horse-breaker, roo shooter, shed hand -- and he drew on all of these experiences when writing his many ballads.The power of the Stan Coster pen produced 161 titles, from age 25 in 1956 to the end of his life. Stan introduced his writing to Slim Dusty at Longreach, Queensland and had success as a writer of bush ballads sung by other top acts. Well over 100 Coster titles have been recorded this way; from Slim Dusty to Johnny Chester.  Stan also recorded 14 of his own albums. A late starter professionally, Stan had authentic appeal living the life he wrote about. An Australian historian in harmony with hard-working Australians.   Stan's wife Dot passed away not long after and his daughter Tracy carries on the tradition and is a well loved Country Music recording artist herself.  My tribute above was a finalist and also took out 3rd place at the S.E. Queensland T.S.A. Awards in the Lyrics Only Section in 2006 and was included as one of the tracks on my new EP/CD From Bard to Balladeer. Thanks for many memories Stan.
 

 

 

The Courage of the Grey

He looked a little warmer now; a blanket on his hide.
With eyes just barely open though, the poor old grey he sighed.
"You've earned your oats this evening mate," I spoke to him aloud.
"Today you showed real courage boy, I couldn't feel more proud."

The last good rains had been and gone, our block was looking dry,
as seasons now had all gone mad, though couldn't figure why.
Our cows were showing signs of stress, their frames were looking poor.
We fed them hay and prayed a lot, but wished we could do more.

A creek, which was our boundary line, was now a bed of sand.
Who could have guessed it ran last year and flooded o'er the land.
Two nights ago we heard the sound of thunder far away
and prayed it might now bring the rain we needed yesterday.

Reports came through of rain all right; in buckets to the north.
The creek was full and coming down; flood warnings issued forth.
Twelve hours we had to move the stock and seek some higher ground.
Old grey and I we worked all day to see them safe and sound.

The Bungil creek rose evr'y hour and spread across our place.
A gully, which ran through the block, was flowing quite a pace.
My wife then cried, "Our milking cow, I cannot see her here.
She's due to calve at any time, you'll have to find her dear!"

My faithful friend, though wearisome, still faced the gully's flow
and worked the ridge along the creek; we found the cow below.
The grey then flanked the stranded beast and goaded her to move,
while sensing I demanded that he had something to prove.

The old cow's time was plainly near, her gait was rather slow,
but all the while the Grey pressed on and kept her on the go.
We reached the flowing gully, which was running at its peak,
and as she swam her bulging frame moved 'tward the fence and creek.

His instinct was to swim between the ailing cow and fence
and as he pushed I was amazed at his resilience.
I clenched the monkey in my hand and clung beside the grey,
while crying out, "Keep pushing boy! We'll win this little fray."

The bobbing barbed wire came in sight; I saw each rusty prong.
But resolute the grey swam on and nudged the cow along.
With spirits raised and heads held high we all ignored the pain,
when finally our feet took hold of firm ground once again.

My wife was there to greet us, as she'd watched on anxiously
and quite relieved to see us safe she hugged the grey and me.
The old cow had her calf that night, a ringer for its mum,
and now it seemed things might look up, instead of looking glum.

The cow would share her milk with us and I would surely bet,
our kids were pretty keen to make her calf the fam'ly pet.
And as regards my faithful friend ... just what more can I say.
I'm always proud to talk about the courage of the grey.

© 2007, Merv Webster
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Merv told us, "Whilst living on our property at Roma, in Western Queensland, the Bungil Creek, which ran along two of our boundary fences, would flood and cover most of the block. On this occasion, one of the cows was missing and I had to saddle the grey pony called Gris and swim a rather fast flowing stream where the water rushed in from the creek onto the block and by the time I found her it was getting deeper and faster and it caused us a few moments of concern as Gris and I tried getting the old girl back across it. We made it though and the poem shares our experience."

 

How Two Boys Lived Their Dream

In those hills north-west of Kempsey town, Ďround Nulla Nulla Creek,

two lads began a friendship there that truly was unique.

They had been good friends through school boy days and shared a common dream

that wasnít milking dairy cows or separating cream.

 

They would play them old Hillbilly tunes and knew right there and then;

their futures were in music and for them their dream began.

Now most showman need a fancy name that tends to flatter him,

so Edwin took on Shorty while young Gordon took on Slim.

 

In their teens they busked at rodeos and any local Show,

then pestered every radio to give them both a go.

They would tour with Haydenís Circus crew, Magician Dante too

and played the Mayfair Theatre down in Kemspey, what a doo.

 

How the pages of our history bears testimony too

the accolades those two  boys won and shared with me and you.

And today a Nation stands in awe and folk hold in esteem

those boys from Nulla Nulla Creek who got to live their dream.

 

With the gift of writing their own tunes they proudly sang their songs;

And each would share their endless tales of both lifeís rights and wrongs.

Though in time they went their sepírate ways with gifts they were endowed;

their legacy of albums folks they sure do both men proud.

 

They would marry two fine country girls and both have families

though still pursued their love of song in varying degrees.

Hosts of artists would record the songs that Shorty put to pen

while Slim would tour the countryside and time and time again.

 

They are honoured in the hands of fame thatís down in Tamworth town

and now they stand immortalised as icons of renoun.

But despite their crowning glories and their truly gifted traits

to most true blue Australians, Slim and Shorty were our mates.

 

How the pages of our history bears testimony too

the accolades those two  boys won and shared with me and you.

And today a Nation stands in awe and folk hold in esteem

those boys from Nulla Nulla Creek who got to live their dream.  

 

© 2008, Merv Webster
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

 

Merv told us:

There are many young lads who were born to parents who made a living of the land by grazing cattle.  Dairying is a twice a day job and also a seven day week one at that.  The only entertainment was often listening to your favourite hillbilly tunes on the radio.  For two young boys, David Gordon Kirkpatrick (Slim Dusty) and Edwin Haberfield (Shorty Ranger), it was a way of life, but these two school boy mates had a dream and it wasn't milking dairy cows for the rest of their lives, but hoped that one day they would be singing cowboys.

Both boys saved together and bought their first guitar from a local farmer for thirty schillings, gave themselves a new stage name and on weekends would go busking, taking turns at playing the guitar. That was the start of fulfilling their dream. Though the two boys would go different paths, they both became Country Music Legends and recorded many songs about life on the land and our Australian way of life.  Both gained the highest accolades that the Australian Country Music Industry can give. Sadly Slim passed away in September 2004 and Shorty in June 2007. Considering they had given all of us so much, I thought it only fitting to write a tribute for them.  How Two Boys Lived Their Dream was one of five finalist nominations in the Lyrics Only section of the T.S.A. National Country Music Song Writing Awards and also the Lyrics Only Section of the Northern Territory Country Music Song Writing Awards in 2008.  For more information on the boys see the links below. 

If the Memories Last

I recall that Iíd met him some years ago now

in this pub called the Wellshot out Ilfracombe way.

He had spent all his life in a saddle, he claimed,

pushing cattle down routes for a pittance of pay.

 

The old bar there before him was rather unique;

it was made from wool presses, old timers for sure.

And his seat was a saddle, with stirrups to boot,

that was mounted on pipe and secured to the floor.

 

You could tell by the look in the old timerís eyes

he was back on a stock route reliving the past.

For his frame in that saddle sure touched me that day

and you sense life goes on if the memories last.

 

Then the Barmaid she tapped the old man on the back

and he looked up in fright for a moment or two

to recall where he was and just where he had been,

then she poured him a rum and a beer chaser too.

 

ďItís a shout for you Sam from that bloke over there,Ē

and she pointed to me as I walked from the scene.

He then dipped his old hat and he smiled with a grin,

but then drifted on back to the place he had been.

 

You could tell by the look in the old timerís eyes

he was back on a stock route reliving the past.

For his frame in that saddle sure touched me that day

and you sense life goes on if the memories last.

 

It had been near ten years since Iíd been through this town

and one lesson Iíve learnt as the years slip away

is the fact that the images fresh in your mind

can become like Samís memories of yesterday.

 

I just stood there a moment surveying the scene

as Iíd hoped to at least shared that saddle a while.

But like Sam it was gone and the best I could do

was to treasure the memíry and savour a smile.

 

You could tell by the look in the old timerís eyes

he was back on a stock route reliving the past.

For his frame in that saddle sure touched me that day

and you sense life goes on if the memories last. 

 

© 2010, Merv Webster
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.


Merv told us:

A little while back we performed our show, Bush Poetry Ballads and Yarns, out at Gem Fest in Central Western Queensland. While out that way we went further west to Barcaldine and Longreach to catch up with some old friends. Some years back we used to work out in this area through the winter months and used to perform our show at the Homestead Caravan Park. Many of the Southerners migrate North during the Winter months and look for entertainment on their way through.

Ilfracombe is a little bush town on the Eastern side of Longreach, where the Stockman's Hall of fame is situated, and from time to time we performed at the Wellshot Hotel situated in Ilfracombe. I used to love the back bar as it was made out of old Wool Presses and the seats were old saddles mounted on steel pipe to the floor. Sadly, when we called in recently we found that the old saddle seats were gone and felt a little melancholy. It inspired the lyrics to "If the Memories Last."

 

 

Read Merv Webster's

Thank You Slim in Art Spur

and

Balancing the Books in Art Spur

and

Taking Time in our 2011 Cowboy Poetry Week Art Spur

and

When Her Three Sons Came Home in our 2010 Christmas Art Spur

and

No Regrets in our Art Spur project

and

Dinny Tarbox's Mule in our Art Spur project

and

Thank You for the Friendship Mate, a tribute to Rod Nichols

and

Thank You for the Company in our 2007 Christmas Art Spur

and

Thank You for the Blessings in our Art Spur Project

and

A Handsome Dividend in our Art Spur project

Visiting Melanie Gay in our Art Spur project

and

Searching for Billy in our Art Spur project

 

 

About Merv Webster:

Aussie Bush Poets  - Chris and The Grey [Chris and Merv Webster]

Multi award winning Aussie bush poets, Chris and the Grey, have collected over the years an impressive collection of awards for their performance poetry as well as written verse. Both have been finalists with their books and albums on several occasions at the Golden Gumleaf Bush Laureate Awards held at Tamworth, Australia's Country Music Capital. It is Australia's largest Country Music Festival.  Merv has also won many yarn spinning championships, including the Australian Championships.

Merv was born in the Queensland - New South Wales border town of Goondiwindi [Gundy].  In the seventies four Goondiwindites formed a syndicate and purchased a dapple grey racehorse, which they named GUNSYND. He became a legend and today there is a statue of him in the town.  One day while looking at the memorial, Merv's wife Chris observed that, besides both having ties with the town, they also shared another similar feature.  Their greyness, and exclaimed. "Well I'll be blowed.  I married the Goondiwindi Grey."  Merv then decided to keep the old mate's name alive and uses it as a pseudonym.

Chris, the daughter of a drover (Australian cowboy) was born in the South-West Queensland town of Roma. Over the years, she has enjoyed sharing poetry performances with Merv, as they present their show of bush verse and yarns which they call, "Laughter & Tears From the Bush." Chris won the serious written section for poetry at the Australian Bush Poetry Championships in 2000.  

Chris and The Grey invite you to browse their web site, www.bushpoets.go.to and get to know them a little better. Read or download a sample and listen to some of their works.

 

Book and CDs

Merv Webster's book and CDs are now available in the US, through Dave P. Fisher, with payment by money order or personal check to:

Double Diamond Books
1902 Union St.
Sparks, NV 89434

Included are:

Book of Aussie Verse & Yarns, Keeping the Culture, $12.00 US plus postage and handling
Bush Poetry CD, Blacklisted, $15.00 US plus postage and handling
Ballad EP/CD, From Bard to Balladeer, $12.00 US plus postage and handling

Shipping and Handling:  Books  $3.00 plus .50 for each additional item ordered.
                                CD's    $2.00 plus .50  for each additional item ordered.
                        If books and CD's are ordered the $3.00 will apply first.

Email DKFEnterprises@aol.com for availability before ordering.


In April, 2008, Merv wrote:

Storytelling goes back as far as the first inhabitants of a Nation and the storytellers often used the fire to share them around.  Whether it be through the medium of verse, ballads or yarns it is still enjoyed by many folk all around the world today. Cowboy poetry and bush verse are included. I figured that for my sixth album I would make it a combination of original songs and poems. Some of the songs and poems featured include, "Boondooma's Balladeer," "So Many Roadside Epitaphs," "The Oriental Cure," "The Ballad of Faylene Anderson," "Bluey's Reflections," "The Wallet," "Old Jacko in the City," "Flowers on a Friday," "Keeping the Culture," "Something For Our Stevie,"
"Caravanning Mayhem," "That Motel Whiskey Dream," "The Lady in the Locket," "The Payday Dilemma" and "Where's the
Water Gone?"  I invited my daughter Meagen to sing "Flowers on a Friday" and "The Lady in the Locket." This collection of poems and songs reflect the laughter and tears of life today. 
It is available from me, thegrey@tpg.com.au, for $25 (AUS) postpaid. Contact me for PayPal.

Visit Merv Webster's web site, where you can hear samples from The Storyteller.

 

In July, 2006, Merv wrote:

After a rewarding career as a Bush Poet, I've turned my hand to writing Bush Ballads. In 2005, I entered the Katherine Country Music Muster's Northern Territory Country Music Song Writing Competition and won the Lyrics Only Section with "Chasing Buttons." At Tamworth in 2006, I scored three out of the five nominations in the TSA National Song Writing Competition 's Lyrics Only Section  and won with "The Maintop Balladeer." Then again in 2006 I entered the Katherine Country Music Muster's, Northern Territory Country Music Song Writing Competition and won the Lyrics Only Section with "Granddad's Crusty Damper." In May 2006 I was advised that I had three out of the ten nominations in the Lyrics Only of the T.S.A's South-East Queensland Branch's Song Writing Awards and picked up a second place for "I Wish I Were a Crocodile" and third place for "Son Play Another Coster Song."

Some of these award winning songs have been included on a new 7 track EP/CD called From Bard to Balladeer. They include, "Granddad's Crusty Damper," "The Bravest of the Brave" (A tribute to young Sophie Delezio), "R. M. Williams - a Man Who Had Tried," "Son Play Another Coster Song," "I Never Cried For Elvis But I Shed A Tear For Slim," "Chasing Buttons," and "The Maintop Balladeer" (A tribute to Wave Jackson). I wish to thank Buddy Thomson of Outback Studios for engineering the album  and playing rhythm guitar. Lynne Bennett for backing vocals and bass guitar. Michael Pincott, lead  & rhtyhm guitar, also mandolin.  John and Eleanor Briskey of Sundown Music for their encouragement.

 

In July, 2005, Merv wrote:

After the success of my last book, A Muster of Australiana, I have now released a 100 page book of verse and yarns called Keeping the Culture. It was some fourteen years ago that I penned my first rhyming bush poem
called "The Beneficial Duffing."  I had no idea back then that writing bush poetry would become one of the major influences in my life and take me to so many places and win me so many awards.  It has enabled me to meet some wonderful folk who, like myself, have a great love of story telling and preserving the culture of our country.

The early rhyming poets such as Paterson, Lawson, Ogilvie, O'Brien, and C.J. Dennis, to name a few, left us a wonderful legacy in their works. They preserved for us, through their verses, the wonderful tales of the Australian way of life of their day and portrayed the true-blue Aussie character we have come to know and love so well, incorporating the tragedy and humour that was so much a part of everyday living.  This tradition has been carried down to our day and the resurgence of bush poetry, whether in written form or through performance poetry, now enthralls crowds who share their favourite verses around the campfire, nursing homes or gather at bush poet's breakfasts, competitions and shows throughout Australia.

This is now my eighth book of verse and yarns and I have had the opportunity to be a finalist in the Golden Gumleaf Bush Laureate Awards on three occasions at the Tamworth Country Music Festival.  Many of our poems have now been included on four CDs, as well as being sung as bush ballads on my EP/CD, The Bushman and The Balladeer, tributes to R.M. Williams and Slim Dusty.  My last book, A Muster of Australiana, was well received and I have now put together a collection of poems penned since its release.  My thanks goes to my wife Chris who now joins me recording our works as well as performing our show, "Laughter & Tears From The Bush," and whose support I have greatly appreciated.

My thanks to photographer, Tom Keating who allowed me to use his photo, "Two Blokes Having A Yarn," that portrays so well what bush poetry is all about and to Geoffrey for his foreword, Carol Hutcheson for her editing
skills and all the folk who have supported Chris and myself over the years as we have endeavoured to do our bit in KEEPING THE CULTURE.

In November, 2004, Merv told us: "I've taken the bit in my mouth and released my two ballads, 'I Never Cried For Elvis But I Shed A Tear For Slim' and 'R.M. Williams - A Man Who Had Tried' on a new CD called The Bushman & The Balladeer.  Sung and played in the Aussie traditional bush ballad style they are a tribute to two great Aussie Icons." 

The official description:  Bush Poet and Ballad Writer, Merv Webster, alias The Goondiwindi Grey, felt he owed a debt of gratitude to two of Australia's finest sons, for the fine role models they gave us. R.M. with regards to his bushman skills and Slim for his bush ballads. Merv had the opportunity to meet both men in their lifetimes and penned these two songs as a personal tribute . Merv wishes to thank Buddy Thomson of Outback Studios for engineering the album and acoustic guitar, Lynne Bennett for backing vocals and bass guitar, Michael Pincott, lead guitar, Jason Kastner, sketch work and John and Eleanor Briskey: Sundown Records. Lest we forget The Bushman and The Balladeer.

Read more on Merv's web site.

Merv tells us that his new book is "called A Muster of Australiana and has 290 pages of bush verse and yarns which have been mustered from my previous six books and put together in the one holding yard."  It was a finalist in the 2004 finalists Bush Laureate Awards' Best Book of the Year competition.


Foreword

I love people who believe in themselves and have a good go at things that suits their talents. It is a delight to see the way Merv [The Goondiwindi Grey] and Chris take their show "Laughter
and Tears from the Bush" around Australia, charming people with their great range of poetry and yarns. I know good performers when I see them, and here are a couple of the best.

No wonder Merv sold all copies of his first six books and had to reprint. Merv and Chris now present this fine collection, A Muster of Australiana,to give readers a taste of all their earlier books. I am certain that readers will derive as much pleasure as I have had from reading, first, the fascinating Biography "In Days Gone By" and then the selection of poems, the best, from the six previous titles. What a good idea. What a bargain. The poetry ranges right through the emotional scale. You're laughing out loud one minute, reflecting the next and occasionally wiping a tear. That's what good poetry's all about. It's very Australian, and that suits me.

AUS $19.98 plus p&h       Ted Egan AM, Alice Springs

 

Blacklisted is the latest CD from Chris and Merv

Visit their web site www.bushpoets.go.to for details.

 

A Muster of Australiana, and Blacklisted are nominated for the Golden Gumleaf Bush Laureate Awards for the Bush Poets

 


MERV & CHRIS WEBSTER
P.O. Box 8211
Bargara, 4670
QUEENSLAND
AUSTRALIA
bushpoets@go.to
http://www.bushpoets.go.to

 

See poetry by Merv's better half, Chris Webster, right here.

 

 

www.cowboypoetry.com

 

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