FROM a river siding, the railway town, <br />Or the dull new port there three days down, <br />Forward and back on the up-hill track, <br />With a creak of the jinker, a ringing crack, <br />Slow as a funeral, sure as steam, <br />Bullocky Bill and his old red team. <br /> <br />Ploughing around by the ti-tree scrub, <br />Four wheels down to the creeping hub, <br />Swaying they go, with their heads all low, <br />Bally, and Splodger, and Spot, and Jo. <br />Men in the ranges much esteem <br />Bullocky Bill and his old red team. <br /> <br />Worming about where the tall trees spring, <br />Surging ahead when the clay bogs cling; <br />A rattle of lash and of language rash <br />On the narrow edge of immortal smash. <br />He’d thread a bead or walk a beam, <br />Bullocky Bill with his old red team. <br /> <br />Climbing a ridge where the red stars ride; <br />Straddling down on the other side, <br />With a whistle and grind, and a scramble blind, <br />And a thundering gum-tree slung behind. <br />But they always get there, hill or stream, <br />Bullocky Bill and his old red team. <br /> <br />Engines or stamps for the mines about, <br />Tools for the men who are leading out; <br />Tucker, and boose, and the latest news <br />Back where the bunyip stirs the ooze. <br />Pioneers with the best we deem <br />Bullocky Bill and his old red team.<br /><br />Edward George Dyson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bullocky-bill/
