Poetry On A Plate
Wednesday 12 September 2012
Convicts, Conflict & Love
Inspired by “Our Country’s Good”
1. The World Turned Upside Down by Leon Rosselson
2. The Goose and the Commons – Anonymous
3. Van Diemen's Land – Anonymous
4. Jim Jones at Botany Bay – Anonymous
5. The Wild Colonial Boy – Anonymous
6. Language of the Land by Enda Kenny
7. Tolpuddle Man by Graham Moore
8. Do you think that I do not know? by Henry Lawson
9. No Man’s Land by Eric Bogle
10. If you were coming in the fall by Emily Dickinson
11. Disaster at Sea by Les Barker
12. Letter From An Italian Barber by Elizabeth Berridge
13. Freedom on the Wallaby by Henry Lawson
14. If They Come In The Morning by Jack Warshaw
15. Hawks and Eagles by Ian Walker
16. Procedure for Disposal by Clive James
Note: A number of these selections are poems that have been put to music or songs
with poetic lyrics. Those writers listed as anonymous are either not known or kept
their identities secret because it was often too dangerous to be identified for fear of
reprisal by the authorities. Most have a link with Australia, transportation and colonial
exploitation and oppression. There’s also LOVE in different forms!
1
The World Turned Upside Down by Leon Rosselson
In 1649, to St. George's Hill,
A ragged band they called the Diggers
Came to show the people's will
They defied the landlords,
They defied the laws
They were the dispossessed reclaiming what was theirs.
"We come in peace" they said "to dig & sow.
We come to work the lands in common and to make the waste ground grow.
This earth divided we will make whole
So it will be a common treasury for all.”
The sin of property we do disdain
No man has any right to buy and sell the earth for private gain
By theft and murder they took the land
Now everywhere the walls spring up at their command
They make the laws to chain us well
The clergy dazzle us with heaven or they damn us into hell
We will not worship the god they serve
The god of greed who feeds the rich while poor folk starve
We work, we eat together, we need no swords
We will not bow to the masters or pay rent to the lords
Still we are free, though we are poor
You Diggers all, stand up for glory, stand up now!"
From the men of property, the orders came
They sent the hired men and troopers
To wipe out the Diggers' claim
Tear down their cottages, destroy their corn
They were dispersed, but still the vision lingers on
"You poor take courage, you rich take care
This earth was made a common treasury for everyone to share
All things in common, all people one
We come in peace" - the order came to cut them down.
The Diggers were one of many radical movements (including the first Quakers) that
sprang up during the time of Oliver Cromwell and the English Civil War. They were
one of the first groups to articulate a clearly socialist view of society. They actively
resisted efforts of landowners to fence in and take over ownership of what were
originally large tracts of land held in common by villages. Originally recorded as a
song by its author, it has been widely covered by artists like Billy Bragg, Roy Bailey
and Dick Gaughan.
2 The Goose and the Commons – Anonymous
The law locks up the man or woman
Who steals the goose from off the
common
But leaves the greater villain loose
Who steals the common from off the
goose.
The poor and wretched don’t escape
If they conspire the law to break;
This must be so but they endure
Those who conspire to make the law.
The law locks up the man or woman
Who steals the goose from off the
common
And geese will still a common lack
Till they go and steal it back.
The law demands that we atone
When we take things we do not own
But leaves the lords and ladies fine
Who take things that are yours and
mine.
A 17th century protest against English enclosure
3 Van Diemen's Land – Anonymous
Come all you gallant poachers that
ramble void of care
That walk out on a moonlight night with
your dog, your gun and snare
The harmless hare and pheasant you
have at your command
Not thinking of your last career out on
Van Diemen's Land
We had a female comrade, Sue
Summers was her name,
And she was given sentence for aselling of our game.
But the captain fell in love with her and
he married her out of hand
And she proved true and kind to us
going to Van Diemen's Land.
Me and five more went out one night
into Squire Duncan's park
To see if we could catch some game,
the night it being dark
But to our great misfortune we got
dropped on with speed
And they took us off to Warwick gaol
which made our hearts to bleed
As I lay on the deck last night adreaming of my home
I dreamed I was in Harbouree, the
fields and woods among
With my true love beside me and a jug
of ale in hand
But I woke quite broken-hearted out in
Van Diemen's Land.
Then at Warwick assizes at the bar we
did appear
And like Job we stood with patience
our sentence for to hear
But being old offenders it made our
case go hard
And for fourteen long and cruel years
we were all sent on board
So come all you gallant poachers, give
ear unto my song
It is a bit of good advice although it be
not long
Lay by your dog and snare, to you I do
speak plain
If you knew the hardships we endure,
you'd never poach again.
This is a ballad about poachers deported to Van Diemen's Land (today Tasmania),
which was named after Anthony van Diemen, Governor-General of the Dutch East
Indies (1636-1645).
4
Jim Jones at Botany Bay – Anonymous
Oh, listen for a moment, lads, and hear me tell me tale,
How o'er the sea from England's shore I was obliged to sail.
The jury says: “He's guilty, sir,” and says the judge, says he:
“For life, Jim Jones, I'm sending you across the stormy sea.
And take my tip before you ship to join the iron gang,
Don't be too gay at Botany Bay or else you'll surely hang.
Or else you'll surely hang“ says he, “and after that, Jim Jones,
High upon the gallows tree the crows will pick your bones.
You'll have no chance for mischief then, remember what I say:
They'll flog the poaching out of you down there at Botany Bay.”
The wind blew high upon the sea and the pirates come along,
But the soldiers in our convict ship was nigh five hundred strong.
They opened fire and somehow drove that pirate ship away.
I'd rather have joined the skull-and-bones than go to Botany Bay.
Now night and day the irons clang, and like poor galley-slaves
We toil and strive and when we die, we fill dishonoured graves.
But by and by I'll break me chains and to the bush I'll go,
And join the brave bushrangers there like Donahue and Co.
And some dark night when everything is silent in the town,
I'll kill them tyrants one by one and shoot the floggers down.
I'll give the law a little shock, remember what I say,
They'll yet regret they sent Jim Jones in chains to Botany Bay.
Jim Jones at Botany Bay is a traditional Australian folk ballad first published in
1907but sometimes attributed to Francis McNamara, known as Frank the Poet, who
arrived on the convict ship Eliza in 1832.
The narrator, Jim Jones, is found guilty of an unnamed crime (although the song
refers to "flog the poaching out of you"; Poaching was a transportable offence) and
sentenced to transportation. En route, his ship is attacked by pirates, but the crew
holds them off. Just when the narrator remarks that he would rather have joined the
pirates (or indeed drowned at sea than have gone to Botany Bay) he is reminded by
his captors that any mischief will be met with the whip.
The final verse sees the narrator describing the daily drudgery and degradation of
life in the penal colony, and dreaming of joining the bushrangers and taking revenge
on his floggers.
5 The Wild Colonial Boy – Anonymous
There was a Wild Colonial Boy,
Jack Doolan was his name,
Of poor but honest parents,
He was born in Castlemaine.
He was his father's only hope
His mother’s pride and joy,
And dearly did his parents love
The Wild Colonial Boy.
At the age of sixteen years
He left his native home,
And to Australia's sunny shores
A bushranger did roam.
They put him in an iron gang
In the government employ,
But never an iron on earth could hold
The Wild Colonial Boy.
In sixty-one this daring youth
Commenced his wild career,
With a heart that knew no danger
And no foreman did he fear.
He stuck up the Beechworth mail
coach
And robbed Judge MacEvoy,
Who, trembling cold, gave up his gold
To the Wild Colonial Boy.
He bade the Judge good morning
And he told him to beware,
That he'd never rob a needy man
Or one who acted square,
But a Judge who'd robbed a mother
Of her one and only joy
Sure, he must be a worse outlaw
Than, The Wild Colonial Boy.
'Surrender now! Jack Doolan,
For you see it’s three to one;
Surrender in the Queen's Own Name,
You are a highwayman'.
Jack drew his pistol from his belt
And waved it like a toy,
'I'll fight, but not surrender', cried
The Wild Colonial Boy.
He fired at Trooper Kelly
And brought him to the ground,
And in return from Davis,
Received a mortal wound,
All shattered through the jaws he lay
Still firing at Fitzroy,
And that's the way they captured him,
The Wild Colonial Boy.
So come away me hearties
We'll roam the mountains high,
Together we will plunder
And together we will die.
We'll scour along the valleys
And we'll gallop o'er the plains,
And scorn to live in slavery,
Bound down by iron chains.
"The Wild Colonial Boy" is a traditional Irish–Australian ballad of which there are
many different versions. The original version was about Jack Donahue, an Irish rebel
who became a convict, then a bushranger, who was eventually shot down by police.
This version was outlawed as seditious so the name changed.
The Irish version is about a young emigrant, named Jack Duggan, who left the town
of Castlemaine, County Kerry, Ireland, for Australia in the 19th century. According to
the song, he spent his time there 'robbing from the rich to feed the poor'. The
protagonist is fatally wounded in an ambush when his heart is pierced by the bullet of
Fitzroy.
6 Language of the Land by Enda Kenny
They called you the new world
Who were they to understand?
Unwillingly they settled here
Upon your ancient land
They never tried to learn your
language
To them you must have looked so
strange
You offered them nothing they
knew
And all they offered you was
change
You talked with your people
In silent ways that they all knew
While others gathered nouns and
verbs
The meaning never quite got
through
Your lungs were the forests
Mighty rivers were your blood.
They stole the shade from over
them
Salted soil where once they stood
You led son and daughter
Asking kindness in return
They kept poison from your
waters
They knew when you should
burn
Yet the settlers tried to tame you
Ignoring providence for greed
All in vain they tried to claim you
And we're still trying to succeed
They had weapons of progress
But all their weapons were no
good
For what's the use in fighting
Where drought follows flood
If they'd only learned the
language
The simple language of the land
They could have walked beside
you
You could have grown up hand in
hand
For you were never the new
world
You'd been here since time
began
And those who'd been here with
you
Knew the ways in which you ran
There's still time to learn the
language
To seek the wisdom of their ways
A knowledge born of centuries
While ours is one of days
A consequence of British settlement was appropriation of land and water
resources, which continued throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries as rural
lands were converted for sheep and cattle grazing. In the era of colonial and postcolonial government, access to basic human rights depended upon your race. If
you were a "full blooded Aboriginal native ... [or] any person apparently having an
admixture of Aboriginal blood", you were forced to live on Reserves or Missions,
work for rations, given minimal education, and needed governmental approval to
marry, visit relatives or use electrical appliances.
(Enda Kenny is an Irishman who migrated to Australia - no relation to the Irish
politician of the same name)
7 Tolpuddle Man by Graham Moore
Farewell to my family, it's now I must leave you
That far fatal shore in chains we shall see
Although we are taken, do not be mistaken
As brothers in union we shall be free
They can bring down our wages
Starve all our children
In chains they can bind us, steal all our land
They can mock our religion
From our family divide us
But they can't break the oath of a Tolpuddle man
To those who rule us we are the Dissenters
Do your duty be thankful, don't complain we are taught
For God in his wisdom divided his Kingdom
For few to have much while so many have nought
As brothers together with an oath we will bind us
The labouring man in all England shall rise
Though Frampton has framed us they never will tame us
Arise men of Britain we'll yet win the prize.
In 1824/5 the Combination Acts, which made "combining" or organising in order to
gain better working conditions illegal, had been repealed, so trade unions were no
longer illegal. In 1832 six men from Tolpuddle in Dorset founded the Friendly Society
of Agricultural Labourers to protest against the gradual lowering of agricultural wages
in the 1830s. In 1834 James Frampton, a local landowner, wrote to the Prime
Minister, Lord Melbourne, to complain about the union, invoking an obscure law from
1797 prohibiting people from swearing oaths to each other, which the members of
the Friendly Society had done. James Brine, James Hammett, George Loveless,
George's brother James Loveless, George's brother in-law Thomas Standfield, and
Thomas's son John Standfield were arrested, found guilty, and transported to
Australia.
When sentenced to seven years' transportation, George Loveless wrote on a scrap
of paper the following lines:
God is our guide! from field, from wave,
From plough, from anvil, and from loom;
We come, our country's rights to save,
And speak a tyrant faction's doom:
We raise the watch-word liberty;
We will, we will, we will be free!
8 Do you think that I do not know? by Henry Lawson
They say that I never have written of love, as a writer of songs should do
They say that I never could touch the strings with a touch that is firm and true
They say I know nothing of women and men in the fields where Love's roses grow
I must write, they say, with a halting pen do you think that I do not know?
My love-burst came, like an English Spring, in days when our hair was brown
And the hem of her skirt was a sacred thing and her hair was an angel's crown
The shock when another man touched her arm, where the dancers sat in a row
The hope, the despair, and the false alarm do you think that I do not know
By the arbour lights on the western farms, you remember the question put
While you held her warm in your quivering arms and you trembled from head to foot
The electric shock from her finger-tips, and the murmuring answer low
The soft, shy yielding of warm red lips do you think that I do not know
She was buried at Brighton, where Gordon sleeps, when I was a world away
And the sad old garden its secret keeps, for nobody knows to-day
She left a message for me to read, where the wild wide oceans flow
Do you know how the heart of a man can bleed do you think that I do not know
I stood by the grave where the dead girl lies, when the sunlit scenes were fair
Neath white clouds high in the autumn skies, and I answered the message there
But the haunting words of the dead to me shall go wherever I go
She lives in the Marriage that Might Have Been do you think that I do not know
They sneer or scoff, and they pray or groan, and the false friend plays his part.
Do you think that the blackguard who drinks alone knows aught of a pure girl's
heart?
Knows aught of the first pure love of a boy with his warm young blood aglow,
Knows aught of the thrill of the world-old joy do you think that I do not know?
They say that I never have written of love, they say that my heart is such
That finer feelings are far above; but a writer may know too much.
There are darkest depths in the brightest nights, when the clustering stars hang low;
There are things it would break his strong heart to write do you think that I do not
know?
The poem, written in 1910 by Australian, Henry Lawson, has been adapted as a
song by English folk singer and political activist Roy Bailey on his 1997 album “New
Directions in the Old”. Roy has a close association with Australia and a number of its
artists.
9 No Man’s Land by Eric Bogle
Well, how do you do, Private William McBride,
Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside?
And rest for a while in the warm summer sun.
I've been walking all day, and I'm nearly done.
And I see by your gravestone you were only 19
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916,
Well, I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean
Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?
Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fire o'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?
And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined?
And, though you died back in 1916,
To that loyal heart are you always 19?
Or are you a stranger without even a name,
Forever enshrined behind some glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained,
And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?
The sun's shining down on these green fields of France;
The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished long under the plow;
No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard that's still No Man's Land
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man,
And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.
And I can't help but wonder now, Willie McBride,
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you 'The Cause?'
Did you really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain.
For Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.
Also known as "The Green Fields of France" or "Willie McBride", this song was
written in 1976 by the Scottish-Australian singer-songwriter Eric Bogle. It’s about a
man reflecting by the graveside of a young man who died in World War I.
10 If you were coming in the fall by Emily Dickinson
If you were coming in the fall,
I'd brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.
If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.
If only centuries delayed,
I'd count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen's Land.
If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I'd toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.
But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time's uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.
A bit of a tenuous link to Australia – the mention of Van Diemen’s Land – but it’s
such a beautiful poem it was hard not to include!
11 Disaster at Sea by Les Barker
It was calm, still day in Yarmouth,
The channel clear and wide,
As the last of the timber sailing ships
Sailed out on the evening tide.
They never saw that ship again;
They searched when it was light,
But that fine old timber vessel sank
That clear and peaceful night.
No one knows what happened
On that night in 1910;
But the crew and her cargo of woodpeckers
Were never seen again.
Les Barker is a Manchester born poet who has settled in Wales and now speaks and writes
in the language. His books and performances typically feature a mixture of monologues and
comic songs, with a few serious songs. Many of his poems have been recorded by
renowned musicians and broadcasters for a major Guide Dogs charity. He has an elliptical
view of the world!
12 Letter From An Italian Barber by Elizabeth Berridge
I am a barber.
You, Violetta, know this.
You know too that my paunch
Is not meant for farm-work.
You, Violetta, olive wife, soft one
Will you laugh at your husband Your Luisi, Luisippi?
They have taught me to plough
And, without boasting,
I can drive the two horses
Straight as a parting.
The mayor - remember
The slap of his wet hair,
His beam while I combed him?
But, Violetta, being alone here
A city man, small man; a barber.
I have to remember my craft.
The other day, in the morning
I caught a sheep, shaved him Sheep love the ploughed land When I had finished he looked like a poodle.
I have learned very slowly
Many things I must tell you.
Animals are better than men, Violetta.
I would need Jaco's tongue To say why. (Is he dead, Violetta?)
On market days I weep for, my friends
Herded, together on vans - just like, men.
Through this cold mountain valley
The spring shudders - so slowly.
I long for processions, the white
Girls of Easter, and too I remember
Staring at you at our first communion.
I come to love the priests. It is
better to be robbed with a little ceremony.
At evening the soft bellies of calves
Is your softness, oh yielding dark wife.
I think, are you faithful?
I fear, are you living?
O Violetta, the warmth of your loving
Eases my cold days - your eyes hold
Such darkness of giving.
The pain of this poem
Has held me all winter.
I could not enter my countryman's singing
Nothing can defeat this cold, cheerful country.
This poem written,
I look with more hope to the sun, and even
Like a little the flat pink faces of the English.
Elizabeth Berridge was an English novelist and poet. This poem was published in
1947and relates the story of an Italian prisoner of war.
13 Freedom on the Wallaby by Henry Lawson
"Australia's a big country
An' Freedom's humping bluey,
An' Freedom's on the wallaby
Oh! don't you hear 'er cooey?
She's just begun to boomerang,
She'll knock the tyrants silly,
She's goin' to light another fire
And boil another billy.
The chains have come ter bind her –
She little thought to see again
The wrongs she left behind her.
"Our fathers toiled for bitter bread
While loafers thrived beside 'em,
But food to eat and clothes to wear,
Their native land denied 'em.
An' so they left their native land
In spite of their devotion,
An' so they came, or if they stole,
Were sent across the ocean.
But now that we have made the land
A garden full of promise,
Old Greed must crook 'is dirty hand
And come ter take it from us.
"Then Freedom couldn't stand the
glare
O' Royalty's regalia,
She left the loafers where they were,
An' came out to Australia.
But now across the mighty main
"Our parents toil'd to make a home
Hard grubbin 'twas an' clearin'
They wasn't crowded much with lords
When they was pioneering.
So we must fly a rebel flag,
As others did before us,
And we must sing a rebel song
And join in rebel chorus.
We'll make the tyrants feel the sting
O' those that they would throttle;
They needn't say the fault is ours
If blood should stain the wattle!"
Henry Lawson was an Australian writer and poet. Along with his contemporary Banjo
Paterson, Lawson is among the best-known Australian poets and fiction writers of
the colonial period and is often called Australia's "greatest writer". He was the son of
the poet, publisher and feminist Louisa Lawson.
"Freedom on the Wallaby" was written as a comment on the 1891 Australian
shearers' strike and published by William Lane in ‘The Worker’ in Brisbane, 16 May
1891.The last two stanzas of the poem were read out by Frederick Brentnall MP on
15 July 1891 in the Queensland Legislative Council during a 'Vote of Thanks' to the
armed police who broke up the Barcaldine strike camp. There were calls in the
chamber for Lawson's arrest for sedition. Lawson wrote a bitter rejoinder to Brentnall,
The Vote of Thanks Debate.
The "Rebel flag" referred to in the poem is the Eureka Flag that was first raised at
the Eureka Stockade in 1854, above the Shearers' strike camp in 1891 and carried
on the first Australian May Day march in Barcaldine on 1 May 1891.
14 If They Come In The Morning by Jack Warshaw
You call it the law: we call it apartheid, internment, conscription, partition and silence.
It’s the law that they make to keep you and me where they think we belong.
They hide behind steel and bullet-proof glass, machine guns and spies,
And tell us who suffer the tear gas and the torture that we’re in the wrong.
The trade union leaders, the writers, the rebels, the fighters and all
And the strikers who fought with police at the factory gate
The sons and the daughters of unnumbered heroes who paid with their lives
And the poor folk whose class or creed or belief was their only mistake
They took away Sacco, Vanzetti, Connolly and Pearse in their time
They came for Newton and Seale and the Panthers and some of their friends
In London, Chicago, Saigon, Santiago, Cape Town and Belfast
And the places that never made headlines, the list never ends
The boys in blue are only a few of the everyday cops on their beat
The CID, Branch men and spies and informers do their job well
Behind them the men who tap phones, take pictures and programme computers and
file
And the ones who give the orders which tell them when to come and take you to a
cell
So come all you people, give to your sisters and brothers the will to fight on
They say you get used to a war but that doesn't mean the war isn't on
The fish needs the sea to survive just like your comrades do
And the death squad can only get to them if first they can get through to you
No time for love if they come in the morning
No time to show fear or for tears in the morning
No time for goodbyes no time to ask why
And the wail of the siren is the cry of the morning
Jack's musical journey began in New York’s Greenwich Village and developed in
southern Ohio. Early influences include the Seegers, Guthrie, Doc Watson, Tom
Paley and traditional musicians, like Mississippi John Hurt, the Carter Family and
Dock Boggs.
Jack worked with Ed McCurdy before moving to England in the sixties folk boom. He
performed at the London Singers Club, working with Ewan MacColl and Peggy
Seeger until 1973.. "I try to pass on what I have learned over 50 years with passion
that keeps faith and touches the soul," he says. "I find that precision and pacing pays
off, musically and emotionally. Everyone who's met me knows that folk songs are
one of the three great passions of my life."
15 Hawks and Eagles by Ian Walker
As I was walking down the road,
I met my brother with a heavy load
I said to him what have you seen,
He said to me
I have a dream.
In 1960, I thought I'd died in Sharpeville's bloody town,
But I got up I walked on tall; nobody's going to put me down.
As I walked out along the way
I saw my sister bend and pray,
I said to her why do you kneel,
She says you don't know how I feel.
I had a little boy and a little girl,
I loved to watch them grow.
But they were butchered on the streets in the blood of Soweto.
It's '85 and I'm walking still,
Across Uitenhaage Hill,
Saw a crowd set off at the dawn of day,
The soldiers said don't come this way.
Then somebody threw a stone as they walked up the track
A boy on a bike was the first to fall with a bullet in his back.
It's been a long, long hard road,
Three hundred years since the settlers strode
Into that Southern land,
Now they rule with an iron hand.
Low pay, no vote and passbook laws,
Don't talk back they say.
But the hawks and the eagles will fly like doves,
When the people rise one day.
"When the Missionaries arrived, the Africans had the Land and the Missionaries had
the Bible. They taught us how to pray with our eyes closed. When we opened them,
they had the land and we had the Bible." Jomo Kenyatta
The recent murders of the 34 striking Platinum miners in South Africa make these
words particularly resonant.
16 Procedure for Disposal by Clive James
It may not come to this, but if I should
Fail to survive this year of feebleness
Which irks me so and may have killed for good
Whatever gift I had for quick success For I could talk an hour alone on stage
And mostly make it up along the way,
But now when I compose a single page
Of double-spaced, it takes me half the day If I, that is, should finally succumb
To these infirmities I'm slow to learn
The names of, lest my brain be rendered numb
With boredom even as I toss and turn,
Then send my ashes home, where they can fall
In their own sweet time from the harbour wall.
Australian born writer and broadcaster, Clive James, wrote this particularly poignant
poem about his on-going illness; it was published in the New Statesman magazine in
2011.