As children growing up we lived just out of town,
A sister and a brother, we three would be around.
Blind man's bluff we often played,
Our parents would have been dismayed.
Our sister we would blindfold, she claimed it -seemed like night,
While we a bell would ring to guide our sister right.
The creek was skirted, and from the other side
We rang the bell, but failed alas, to be our sisters guide.
She listened most intently while we a bell did toll,
Like a lamb she followed into the waterhole.
As she sank the third time, we thought that she would drown,
She struggled to the shore and there her footing found.
Often is this story told, and as the ending we unfold,
Asks brother Cyril, most conf.idin
"GUESS WHO COPPED THE BLOOMING HIDING ?"
From a large white handkerchief, we made a parachute,
String was tied to corners, and to a ruined boot.
The boot was tossed into the air, while we would run and scramble,
To catch that boot upon our head, sometimes we had to amble.
Another ruse we often used to bring our sister fame ,
Replace the boot with a rusty nut, and let her 2 win the game.
She split her head, and when she'd bleed, her blood upon the ground,
We fronted dad, said we were sad, and made no further sound.
Brother Cyril sat it,out, his time he was abiding,
Again'my brother Cyr·il'asks "GUESS WHO COPP·ED THE HIDING ?"
A ·racing' greyhound father had, Bootlace I think his name,
We had to walk him every day, our father never came.
With dad at work and mother out, we made a billy cart,
Bootlace we·:hanessed and dressed up, he really did look smart.
We all took turns to drive the gig, until our dad came home,
He saw our Cyril driving, then he began to foam.
"That dog, you know, I plan to race, he's not there for the riding
Brother Cyril asks again, "GUESS WHO COPPED THE HIDING ?"
For dinner we would congregate around a large oak table,
This story happended long ago, to remembe I'm still able.
With father seated·at the top, and Cyril near the door,
Father roared for silence, he said "I'll hear no more" ,
One voice alone continued load, above the silence, sounding proud.
"I'll quiten you for sure", that was father's threat ,
"Only if you can catch me" that was Cyril's bet.
"Go on", said dad, "on your blooming way,
Show me, lad, you as speedy as you say".
Off went Cyril like a shot, until he reached the door,
He stopped and turned around, to cheek his father more.
Dad never moved, but from his chair took aim,
Cyril wore the loaf of bread, father won again.
A favourite cup we had for tea,
Said Cyril, "I think you envy me". ·
We other two, unknown to mum,
Soaped up his cup, wegave it some!
With dinner served we sat to sup,
Brother Greg was passed the cup,
He passed it on ta Olga, faster than a squirrel,
"Not mine", she wailed, "this rotten cup belongs to brother Cyril.
"What's up?" said dad, and got real mad,
The tea he tasted, it was bad!
I thought the hiding must be near,
Cyril thinks, "I'm in the clear".
Dad came on with the usual chiding,
You won't believe, there was no hiding.
Adapted from John 0'Brien's poem Tangmalangaloo' with permission of Angus &
Robertson Publishers on behalf of the copyright owner.
At Berala school, it was the rule
To play a game of cricket
Up Rego way on Boxing Day
Against the Public School
Our sporting Nun was full of fun
As she organised the games
She used the roll till it was done
Then called out all our names.
There was Clancy, Boyd and Duncan - just to name a few
Fogarty Grant and Hickey - the Kelly brothers too
All the rest are not forgotten, this will have to do
It's hard to name the total class of 1932.
About this time the bishop came, in purple cap suhli
He galvanised Berala Churcti at Confirmation time
And all the kids were mustered up where ever they were seen
From Auburn South to Georges Hall and all points in between.
Now was it fate, or was it grace, whereby they yarded Phil·,
An overgrown two storey lad, in from Chester Hill.
A heft son of virgin soil, where nature has her fling
And grows the tee-tree three feet high and blossoms in the spring
Where might hills uplift their heads surrounding Potts Hill dam
And trees branch out a hundred feet to cover every lamb
Where everything is big and grand, the Nuns with gentle skill
But Christian Knowledge lags alas at the school house on the hill.
The bishop summed the youngers up as only bishops can
He cast around a se arching glance, then fixed upon his man.
But dumb and glum and undismayed through every bout he sat
He seemad to think that he was there but wasn't sure of that.
The bishop gave a scornful look, as bishops sometimes will
And glared right through the pagan in from Chester Hill.
"Come, tell me boy", his lordship said in crushing tones severe
"Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the ye ar2'
"How is it that around the world we celebrate that day
And send a name upon a card to those who're f ar away?"
"Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and goodwill?"
A squall of knowledge hit the lad in from Chester Hill
He gave a lurch which set ashake the vases on the altar
He knocked the benches all askew, upset the holy water.
And oh, how vexed his lordship was as he paused to say
"Come tell me Phil, come tell me now
and what is Christmas Day?"
The resdy answer bared a fact that bent the bishops will -
"It's the day before our cricket match upon Phillips Hill.
Memories come flooding back as I walk towards the station,
of that tragic day in "52", I was on vacation.
A train from Liverpool it was, bringing workers in
to the city, every day and at night, back home agin.
The date was "seven", the month was May, the year was 52 ,
The train packed to the eyeballs, seats were very few.
A heavy fog lay o'er the surrounding country sids,
Not long descended, engulfing all, just like a rising tide:
Approaching signals by the bridge, the'driver sought instruction,
No fogmen yet, so trip on through, and travel at reduction.
At Berala platform, not very far away,
Another train, brought to a halt and still not on its way.
Next thinq we know, no cause to show, we hear a loud collision,
Help is needed, man the phones, for safety make provision.
Two trains have collided, so much to be done,
Two cars telescoped together, in the space of one.
People living near the station and even further on,
Arm themselves for rescue and join the milling throng,
Bare hands at first, tear seats apart to lift the injured out,
Then help arrives with workers from factories round about,
With oxy torches in their hands to slice the shattered steel,
Prise with bars the splintered wood, the victims to reveals,
Sickening sounds are heard as wreckage tumbles down,
Sweep away the jagged glass, don't leave that around.
Agonising screams rise up from bodies maimed and torn,
On stretchers improvised from seats, dispairing and forlorn,
Two priests, move among the injured, giving consolation,
Last rites for the dying amid the devastation.
Wailing of the sirens as the injured ones are sent,
,to hospitals both near and far, their bodies broke and spent,
Cranes brought in from Enfield, tear carriages apart,
The rescue job is over, now the clean up has to start.
Doctors at the hospitals, their work has just begun,
Long hours to work, both night and day, before the battles won.
The sun is not yet risen, the fog is closing slow,
I shuffle up those station steps where it happened long ago.
All is serene and peaceful as the clock is striking seven
The Liverpool train has just sped by, all is well-thank heaven
Most of the class I am afraid,
By other names were known
They never seemed to use the one s
Their parents had bestowen.
Williams, he was sugar, Farthing fitted Penny
Grant was Scot we soon found out
That Angus fitted Denny.
Mine was Fog, I'll have you know,
Len Clancy, we called "Overflow"
Noeline West from Orange
With Mrs. Lawson, stayed
Her knowledge of our nick names
Had the Nuns dismayed.
The Cullen family lived quite near
Six girls and all devout
Pat has moved away I fear
But Dulcie's still about.
The Grants were twins, Joan and Fred
and younger brother Dennis
All were keen at sport t'was said
and very gnod at tennis.
Another two we knew ere twin
One was Nora - the other Win
At each bazaar they had a stall
With Mary, Gert and Mum
Their goods were ever wall to wall
and always more to come
Kelly, Tom and Fred each night
Would spar with Reg and Clarrie White
Watching always was a girl
Often it was Enid, sometimes it was Merle.
Another sportsman was Vince Mexan
Determination like 'Ben Lexon' .
A boxing ring at home he used
We tried him out - and came home bruised.
By norr you know that I am phoney
These rhymes, alas, are all baloney
Yet this advice we always heeded
When half a football team was needed
We used the family called Maloney.
It's Saturday, the weather's hot, surroundings dry and stark,
We've all come to a party out at Berkshire Park:
The music blares inside the hall as all is put together,
Strobe lights and amplifiers with miles of wire and leather.
The hall looks like a picture, in the background are the stables,
Balloons and streamers on the walls, munchies on the tables.
Two by two the guests arrive dressed for the occassion,
Made up to look like Islander's though mostly they re Caucasian.
Supper's cooking in the ground, a feast its calleda Hungi,
A pig with beef and vegetables is cooking while it's sunny.
The fare, wrapped in banana leaves and placed upon hot stones,
Covered up with lots of earth, and cooked right to the bones.
When cooking time is over the earth is shoveled clear,
Banana leaves, not burnt, still green, removed from pig and steer
Laid out on the table with salads round about,
The pig in all his splendour with an apple in his snout:
Potatoes roasted to a crisp, yellow corn and slabs of pine,
All cooked inside the pig, when served it tasted fine.
Supper's almost over, little left of pork or steak;
Time has come for speeches and cutting of the cake.
Its midnight now, the dancing starts, the elders have dispersed,
A happy time was had by all,at our Grandson's twenty first.
In the early days of marriage we never had a pet,
when the boys requested one their pleas I would forget.
Somehow they kept the pressure on, peace was very rare,
Their persistance finally wore me down, to refuse I couldn't bear.
We went to Paddy's Market, that's an international fair,
You can buy a needle or an anchor, this I do declare.
We looked at chooks and bantams, we thought the birds looked nice,
We looked at fish and guinea pigs, we also looked at mice.
Then we came upon the dogs, all sizes and so cute,
Some of them were noisy, some of them were mute.
There were Dachshunds and Fox Terriers, Sheep dogs and Dalmatians,
There were Bulldogs and Pekingese and very big Alsations.
We settled for a Cattle dog, such a little tot,
We took him home and named him, thereafter "Spot" he got.
Many hours our children spent while they were growing up,
Romping roughly in the yard together with their pup.
One day it seemed our son was lost, had he come to grief?
We searched the house inside and out, also underneath,
On sudden inspiration, in the kennel I did peep.
There lay our son and Spottie, both were fast asleep.
Just before our boys left home, at last our dog departed,
We said, alas, he'd be the last, we're right back where we started.
Time has passed, we're getting old and so is my new pet,
Scamp the Corgi we acquired and he is with us yet.
Sixteen happy years he's been, through all the family,
Moved along when folks passed on, he's now with Mum and me.
Scamp and I have battled on, through good times and through bad,
We don't walk far, both nearly blind, but good times have we had.
The day is fast approaching, when we must surely part,
With one of us remaining, to mend a broken heart.
October, 1986.
"Phil from Quakers Hill" adapted from John O'Brien's "Tangmalangaloo"with the permission of Angus and Robertson Publishers on behalf ofthe copyright owners.
The Bishop sat in loxdly state and purple cap sublime
And galvanized St. Patrick's Church at Confirmation time,
And all the kids were mustered up, where ever they were seen
From Toongabbie to Doonside and all points in between.
McNeillys, Sullivans and Mitchells, just to name a few
Fogartys and Hattons and the Griffiths family too. -
Apologies to those forgot, this will have to do -
It's hard to think of all the class from 1932.
Now was it fate or was it grace, whereby they yarded Phil,
An overgrown two-storey lad from out at Quakers Hill.
A hefty son of virgin soil, where nature has her fling,
Where.grows the cabbage three foot high and melons in the spring,
Where mighty hills uplift their heads surrounding Prospect Dam
and trees shoot up a hundred feet to cover every lamb.
There everything was big and grand - the Nuns are giants still,
But Christian knowledge wilts, alas, out at Quakers Hill.
The Bishop summed the youngsters up, as Bishops only can,
He cast a searching glance around, then fixed upon his man.
But dumb and glum and undismayed through every bout he sat
He seemed to think that he was there, but wasn t sure of that.
The Bishop gave a scornful look, as Bishops sometimes will,
And glared right through the pagan in from sunny Quakers Hill.
"Come tell me, Phil", his lordship said in crushing tones severe,
"Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the year?
Wh is it that around the world we celebrate that day
And send a name upon a card to those who're far away?
Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and greeting still?"
'A squall of knowledge hit the lad just in from Quakers Hill'.
He gave a lurch which set a shake the vases on the alter,
He knocked the benches all askew - upset the holy water.
And oh, how vexed his lordship was, and how he frowned to say
"That's good, my boy, come tell me Phil, and what is Christmas Day ?
The ready answer bared a fact that bent the Bishop's will --
"IT'S THE DAY BEFORE THE TURTLE RACE, OUT AT QUAKERS HILL".
Adaptded by G. FOGARTY