The bushranger and Annie McGinnis

 

 

The bushranger and Annie McGinnis

It's a lonely road back from the hilltop                
There a cross waits beside open ground            
This  the saddest of treks on the gravel track
where the sullen dark notes may be found

There the sulkies with horses stand waiting
but  weeping the desolate sound
While the preacher walks slowly among them,
a wistful  look back at the mound

Cruel pain in the chests of the mourners
who loved the young girl from her birth
With  the hymns and the prayers spoken gently
their tears falling soft to the earth

So the songs are not rousing or joyous
there's an ache in the group as they sing
Though the sky lends an ear to their chorus
a shadow hangs low in the ring

There's a rider away on the hillside,
where he waits with a tear in his eye
For he held up the stage near Mildura
not thinking that someone would die

The coach carried Mary McGinnis
the mother with two little girls
Dressed up in their finest of dresses,
Long hair raven black in loose curls

The rider had bailed up the wagon,
demanding the gold from the bank
But the driver was quick with his rifle
and glanced the bushrangers right flank

As he struggled to stay in his saddle,
he let go a single dull round
When he looked at the scene in a moment
a child laying there on the ground

The mother held tight to her Annie
who slipped in a thrice to her fate
That rider took fright as he left them
and knew he was bound for hell,s gate

Now he knows that the gallows awaits him
and he knows that HIS mother will sing
and a thought haunts his mind with a rhythmic grind
, "I was born all along just to swing"

It's a lonely road back from the hilltop
where a cross waits beside open ground
This the saddest of treks  on the old gravel track
where the sullen dark notes make the sound

Mick Martin

20/7/13 version 7

All rights reserved

 

 

A Nurse

A nurse

As life go by we take our turns
At cuts, abrasions maybe burns
cancer, heart, a rebuilt knee
Or cataracts won't let you see

A twisted bowel, a wonky hip
A disc that half way had a slip
It's not confirmed but it's a rumour
Doctor thinks you have A tumor

Your chest has lots of scarlet spots
The waiting room with crying tots
So have your op, pee in that pan
A dressing on, another scan

Appendicitis , painful gout
Fix me up and let me out
The ward is full of folks in pain
A week in here I'll be insane

But when you think it can't get worse
The sun comes out, a smiling nurse
Amidst the pain and peoples cries
She's there to wipe those teary eyes

We hear the talk of budget cuts
Not pollies perks or golden bucks
The chauffeured cars all shining new
But nurses never get their due

I wonder when a pollies sick
Which hospital they think they'll picks
No matter which, the best or worst
There's none they'll find without a nurse

So in the dark of frightened night
Who'll come to ease their tortured plight
That nurse who's working day and nights
Will be the one to set things right

By then the power, pay and perks"
Won't help at all, but still pay clerks
Will send out pay checks to the cursed
Those underpaid, who've always nursed

So thank you nurses one and all
Thank God it's you who found your call
And know inside we love you so
For what you do, the care you show

Mick Martin
17/7/14 v2

The Fence

The fence

by Mick Martin



A band of men as joined by iron chains,
though older souls, now all but free or young.
These rocks of old, the weighty molten grains,
a laboured group with scant a smile among.
The fences rise from rolling ancient plains.


The molten lava fallen from up high,
rests soft on grass, a verdant fertile green,
as convict men, each heave and push then sigh.
A paddock cleared, so not one rock is seen,
work hard so hard they hope they may just die.

Through sadness night and blisters often tend
the songs of old may greet their longing ears.
A task so hard and yet no wretched end
and on and on through all these many years,
the mornings colder still their backs to bend.

What mother may have borne this wasted child?
Trod streets of rock not rough or scarred like these
and smile at father once as she beguiled.
One word from her, this pain to gently ease,
with mothers touch so soft and all too mild.

The guards who flail and crack their bloodied whip
care not, or little, for each ragged man,
unless at night, through darkness thence to slip
before attending fated silent clan
for freedoms drink, the briefest sacred sip!

The gentry ride and click a lofty tongue,
the fence reveals a crooked rocky chain.
"That's where the runaway was fatal hung"
"Then leave the fence to show the rebels pain"
and rumours labour spreads from tongue to tongue.

Will fences fall in time like men as built?
Or stand an epitaph in years to those
whose tears and often blood then flowing spilt.
No words in rock, no books or greater prose
for minor crimes have carried little guilt.

The fence of pain and rock, from here to there,
one hundred years or more and maybe three!
A statue long, theirs many years to bear.
Volcanic, rocky fence and hanging tree.
No don't forget, these men, no don't you dare!

- Mick Martin



Volcanic rock fences were built around Victoria by convict and forced labour

A Beginning

My daughter does blogs

So I thought that I oughta

So this is me now

With my toe in the water.