G'day again bbc,

I won't start threads for these two poems. They may not be a lot of use to a school Theme Day, but I did mention them in an earlier post.

This one won a verse contest at the Bush Music Festival back in the 80's. It's probably a bit long (and somewhat obscure) for your purposes.

HE'S MY DOG
by David O'Connor

He was waltzing Matilda in Queensland, an ordinary sort of a bloke
His clothes had seen far better days, and his boots were a bit of a joke;
His face had met all sorts of weather, his nose showed signs of the grog;
At his heels as he shuffled along through the dust trotted a sort of a dog.
He came to a wayside grogshop, so he dropped his swag at the door,
Pushed his way through the flyscreen like thousands of swaggies before,
But the landlord was crooked on animals, said "That there mongrel must go!"
The swaggie just turned around and picked up his bluey and muttered "No!
He might he a trifle dusty, he might be a bit on the nose,
He might be a bit of a bitzer, and he's not too quick on his toes,
But he stuck with me all through the hard times, shares me tucker and grog -
He's family and friend, me and him to the end - he's my dog!"

As he scuffled away from the grogshop, the dog sort of swaggered behind,
But a Landcruiser roared up from Longreach, the driver was drunk or blind;,.
And when all the dust had settled, the swaggie lay still in the road,
And his dog lay and whimpered beside him as slowly the lifeblood flowed.
Somehow he got to a doctor, who said 'It could hardly be worse;
We'll have to go into Surgery, but put that dog outside first!'
The swaggie was barely conscious when he heard what they wanted to do;
He ripped off the bandages quick as a flash, and he muttered "No!
He might be a trifle dusty, he might he a bit on the nose,
He might be a bit of a bitzer, and he's not too quick on his toes,
But he-stuck with me all through the hard times, shares me tucker and grog-
He's family and friend, me and him to the end - he's my dog!'

They just couldn't manage to save him: the swaggie died the next day;
The dog died a little later: together they faded away.
The swaggie was buried in Winton; the dog was thrown away;
Nobody cares about paupers and dogs when they've had their day.
Saint Peter was waiting in Heaven as the dog and the swggie drew near,
Opened up the Pearly gates and handed the swaggie a beer.
He said "Here's your wings and your halo, but that there dog has to go -
No pets in Heaven!" the swaggie just said "Then together we'll burn below!
He might he a trifle dusty, he might be a bit on the nose,
He might be a bit of a bitzer, and he's not too quick on his toes,
But he stuck with me all through the hard times, shares me tucker and grog-
He's family and friend, me and him to the end - HE'S MY DOG!'

Yes he stuck with me all through the hard times, shares me tucker and grog-
He's family and friend, me and him to the end - HE'S MY DOG!'

Glossary:
Waltzing Matilda /Swaggie: Pretty well known as travelling about, carrying your swag (bedding-roll) and picking up tucker (food) as best you can.
Grogshop: Less than reputable seller of alcoholic drinks
Bitzer: Mixed breed dog (bitzer [bits of] all sorts of breeds
Landcruiser: Toyota 4WD - fairly powerful, so popular with those who are the reason that the Northern Territory does not set any speed limit out of town.
Winton: The Queensland town where Waltzing Matilda was written
.

This is Edward Harrington's poem Where the black swans fly. Harrington wrote some good gutsy stuff, but this might be a bit too "poetic" for your needs. There is a tune (which I have never heard sung) and I will transcribe to dots and on to MIDItext, it if you are interested.

Where the black swans fly
Edward Harrington

When the evening shades are falling
And the twilight round me clings,
And the swans are flying westward
With the sunset on their wings -
It is then I love to wander
And to dream of days gone by,
When the wild black swans fly westward,
And the stars come out on high.

Where the black swans fly at twilight
In the days departing beams,
Beyond the red horizon
There lies my land of dreams.
I hear their pinions beating,
I hear their plaintive cry,
Where the black swans fly at twilight,
It is there I fain would fly.

The black swans need no compass.
They need no chart nor guide.
They set their course to westward
At the fall of eventide.
Across the darkling meadows,
Their pinions wet with dew;
Where the black swans fly at twilight,
I fain would follow too.

Regards,

Bob Bolton