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C J Dennis - An Old Master
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We were cartin` lathes and palin`s from the slopes of Mount St. Leonard,
With our axles near the road-bed and the mud as stiff as glue;
And our bullocks weren`t precisely what you`d call conditioned nicely,
And meself and Messmate Mitchell had our doubts of gettin` through.

It had rained a tidy skyful in the week before we started,
But our tucker-bag depended on the sellin` of our load;
So we punched `em on by inches, liftin` `em across the pinches,
Till we struck the final section of the worst part of the road.

We were just congratulatin` one another on the goin`,
When we blundered in a pot-hole right within the sight of goal,
Where the bush-track joins the metal. Mitchell, as he saw her settle,
Justified his reputation at the peril of his soul.

We were in a glue-pot, certain —- red and stiff and most tenacious;
Over naves and over axles —- waggon sittin` on the road.
"`Struth," says I, "they`ll never lift her. Take a shot from Hell to shift her.
Nothin` left us but unyoke `em and sling off the blessed load."

Now, beside our scene of trouble stood a little one-roomed humpy,
Home of an enfeebled party by the name of Dad McGee.
Daddy was, I pause to mention, livin` on an old-age pension
Since he gave up bullock-punchin` at the age of eighty-three.

Startled by our exclamations, Daddy hobbled from the shanty,
Gazin` where the stranded waggon looked like some half-foundered ship.
When the state o` things he spotted, "Looks," he says, "like you was potted,"
And he toddles up to Mitchell. "Here," says he, "gimme that whip."

Well! I`ve heard of transformations; heard of fellers sort of changin`
In the face of sudden danger or some great emergency;
Heard the like in song and story and in bush traditions hoary,
But I nearly dropped me bundle as I looked at Dad McGee.

While we gazed he seemed to toughen; as his fingers gripped the handle
His old form grew straight and supple, and a light leapt in his eye;
And he stepped around the waggon, not with footsteps weak and laggin`,
But with firm, determined bearin`, as he flung the whip on high.

Now he swung the leaders over, while the whip-lash snarled and volleyed;
And they answered like one bullock, strainin` to each crack and clout;
But he kept his cursin` under till old Brindle made a blunder;
Then I thought all Hell had hit me, and the master opened out.

And the language! Oh, the language! Seemed to me I must be dreamin`;
While the wondrous words and phrases only genius could produce
Roared and rumbled, fast and faster, in the throat of that Old Master —- 
Oaths and curses tipped with lightning, cracklin` flames of fierce abuse.

Then we knew the man before us was a Master of our callin`;
One of those great lords of language gone for ever from Out-back;
Heroes of an ancient order; men who punched across the border;
Vanished giants of the sixties; puncher-princes of the track.
 
Now we heard the timbers strainin`, heard the waggon`s loud complainin`,
And the master cried triumphant, as he swung `em into line,
As they put their shoulders to it, lifted her, and pulled her through it:
"That`s the way we useter do it in the days o` sixty-nine!"
 
Near the foot of Mount St. Leonard lives an old, enfeebled party
Who retired from bullock-punchin` at the age of eighty-three.
If you seek him folk will mention, merely, that he draws the pension;
But to us he looms a Master -- Prince of Punchers, Dad McGee!
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