{"id":3804,"date":"2011-12-30T18:35:58","date_gmt":"2011-12-30T18:35:58","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/meeseeks:5080\/blog\/?p=3804"},"modified":"2011-12-30T18:35:58","modified_gmt":"2011-12-30T18:35:58","slug":"poem-the-old-bush-school","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/vukutu.com\/blog\/2011\/12\/poem-the-old-bush-school\/","title":{"rendered":"Poem: The Old Bush School"},"content":{"rendered":"

This poem is by John O’Brien, the pen-name of Fr. Patrick Hartigan (1878-1952), a Catholic priest who wrote about bush life in New South Wales last century.\u00a0\u00a0 His ADB entry is here<\/a>, and he is commemorated with an annual festival at Narrendera<\/a>.\u00a0 This poem is memorable for the line:\u00a0 “And a nickname fitting better than the name their mothers gave”.<\/em>
\n <\/p>\n

The Old Bush School<\/em>
\n‘Tis a queer, old battered landmark that belongs to other years;
\nWith the dog-leg fence around it, and its hat about its ears,
\nAnd the cow-bell in the gum-tree, and the bucket on the stool,
\nThere’s a motley host of memories round that old bush school –
\nWith its seedy desks and benches, where at least I left a name
\nCarved in agricultural letters – ’twas my only bid for fame;
\nAnd the spider-haunted ceilings, and the rafters, firmly set,
\nLined with darts of nibs and paper (doubtless sticking in them yet),
\nAnd the greasy slates and blackboards, where I oft was proved a fool
\nAnd a blur upon the scutcheon of the old bush school.
\nThere I see the boots in order – “‘lastic-sides” we used to wear –
\nWith a pair of “everlastin’s” cracked and dustry here and there;
\nAnd we marched with great “high action” – hands behind and eyes before –
\nWhile we murdered “Swanee River” as we tramped around the floor.
\nStill the scholars pass before me with their freckled features grave,
\nAnd a nickname fitting better than the name their mothers gave;
\nTousled hair and vacant faces, and their garments every one
\nShabby heirlooms in the family, handed down from sire to son.
\nAy, and mine were patched in places, and half-masted, as a rule –
\nThey were fashionable trousers at the old bush school.
\nThere I trudged it from the Three-mile, like a patient, toiling brute,
\nWith a stocking round my ankle, and my heart within my boot,
\nMorgan, Nell and Michael Joseph, Jim and Mary, Kate and Mart
\nTramping down the sheep-track with me, little rebels at the heart;
\nShivery grasses round about us nodding bonnets in the breeze,
\nHappy Jacks and Twelve Apostles hurdle-racing up the trees,
\nPeewees calling from the gullies, living wonders in the pool –
\nHard bare seats and drab gray humdrum at the old bush school.
\nEarly rising in the half-light, when the morn came, bleak and chill;
\nFor the little mother roused us ere the sun had topped the hill,
\n“Up, you children, late ’tis gettin’.” Shook the house beneath her knock,
\nAnd she wasn’t always truthful, and she tampered with the clock.
\nKeen she was about “the learnin’,” and she told us o’er and o’er
\nOf our luck to have “the schoolin”‘ right against our very door.
\nAnd the lectures – Oh, those lectures to our stony hearts addressed!
\n“Don’t he mixin’ with the Regans and the Ryans and the rest” –
\n“Don’t be pickin’ up with Carey’s little talkative kanats” –
\nWell, she had us almost thinking we were born aristocrats.
\nBut we found our level early – in disaster, as a rule –
\nFor they knocked “the notions” sideways at the old bush school.
\nDown the road came Laughing Mary, and the beast that she bestrode
\nWas Maloney’s sorry piebald she had found beside the road;
\nStraight we scrambled up behind her, and as many as could fit
\nClung like circus riders bare-back without bridle-rein or bit,
\nOn that corrugated backbone in a merry row we sat –
\nWe propelled him with our school-bags; Mary steered him with her hat –
\nAnd we rolled the road behind us like a ribbon from the spool,
\n“Making butter,” so we called it, to the old bush school.
\nWhat a girl was Mary Casey in the days of long ago!
\nShe was queen among the scholars, or at least we thought her so;
\nShe was first in every mischief and, when overwhelmed by fate,
\nShe could make delightful drawings of the teacher on her slate.
\nThere was rhythm in every movement, as she gaily passed along
\nWith a rippling laugh that lilted like the music of a song;
\nSo we called her “Laughing Mary,” and a fitful fancy blessed
\nE’en the bashful little daisies that her dainty feet caressed.
\nShe had cheeks like native roses in the fullness of their bloom,
\nAnd she used to sing the sweetest as we marched around the room;
\nIn her eyes there lurked the magic, maiden freshness of the morn,
\nIn her hair the haunting colour I had seen upon the corn;
\nRound her danced the happy sunshine when she smiled upon the stool –
\nAnd I used to swap her dinners at the old bush school.
\nHard the cobbled road of knowledge to the feet of him who plods
\nAfter fragile fragments fallen from the workshop of the gods;
\nLong the quest, and ever thieving pass the pedlars o’er the hill
\nWith the treasures in their bundles, but to leave us questing still.
\nMystic fires horizons redden, but each crimson flash in turn
\nOnly lights the empty places in the bracken and the fern;
\nSo in after years I’ve proved it, spite of pedant, crank, and fool,
\nVery much the way I found it at the old bush school.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This poem is by John O’Brien, the pen-name of Fr. Patrick Hartigan (1878-1952), a Catholic priest who wrote about bush life in New South Wales last century.\u00a0\u00a0 His ADB entry is here, and he is commemorated with an annual festival at Narrendera.\u00a0 This poem is memorable for the line:\u00a0 “And a nickname fitting better than […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[63],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3804","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","p1","y2011","m12","d30","h18"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/vukutu.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3804","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/vukutu.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/vukutu.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vukutu.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vukutu.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3804"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/vukutu.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3804\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/vukutu.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3804"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vukutu.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3804"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vukutu.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3804"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}