DAWSON COUNTRY by Laurie Pointing

DAWSON COUNTRY
By Laurie Pointing

Ludwig Leichhardt named the Dawson in Eighteen Forty-Four
Then marked a tree to show the date before they journeyed north,
They travelled on to Palm Tree, named Murphy’s Lake,
Camped there late that evening, dined on fish and Johnny Cakes.

Exploring virgin country on their expedition north,
Rivers like the Dawson where fish supplies were sought,
They departed Jimbour Station in October of that year,
Port Essington their target, their plan was very clear.

Early settlers followed in the tracks of Leichhardt’s men,
Squatted on the unclaimed land and drove their claim pegs in,
They brought with them their flocks of sheep, walked them,
Their shepherds were freed convict lads transported for far isles.

A settlement soon developed – Post Office soon to be,
The name Taroom selected from a locally grown tree,
Constructions undertaken by those happy to be free,
Leichhardt’s efforts were rewarded, his name etched in history.

Sheep grazing proved unsuited for the densely timbered land,
Their numbers were diminished by roving dingo bands,
Larger stations were established, smaller holdings made as one,
Cattle herds arrived in thousands from distant southern runs.

Rogue cattle soon found shelter in the vine and mountain scrub,
Brumby horses roamed the ranges as the moon shone bright above,
Horsemen ever riding to yard scrubbers earned their pay,
They rode from camp at daybreak, top horsemen here to stay.

Descendants of the settlers pioneered those early days,
Mastered all the hardships in tried and proven ways,
By the early Nineteen Hundreds they had clearly shown their hand,
Men and women of the Dawson, no better in the land.

We owe a debt to Leichhardt and the brave men by his side,
Exploring ever northward through the untamed countryside,
The naming of the Dawson and pastures they had found,
Were the first of many chapters for Taroom our cattle town.

Laurie wrote the following poem “Glenhaughton Run” about JIM BOOTHE, head stockman on Glenhaughton in 1957 when Laurie was a young ringer there. Jim was popular with all the ringers, and Laurie credits Jim as the best he worked for. Jim was a great mate of Glenhaughton Manager DICK McCULLAGH who was also a popular Manager with the men. They both travelled south from the Northern Territory to begin work on Glenhaughton station together. Dick and Jim made a great team.

GLENHAUGHTON RUN by Laurie Pointing
A poem about Head Stockman JIM BOOTHE

GLENHAUGHTON RUN
By Laurie Pointing

He was more like a father figure then the boss of a big cattle run
In those days I was just a young ringer 
And he treated me more like a son.
I arrived on the Saturday mail coach, with a swag and a battered old port,
Unprepared – with a thrill of adventure
For this was the life that I sought.

He greeted me there by the homestead, his handshake was solid and firm,
His dress was that of a stockman,
There was much from this man I would learn.
He was cut from the cloth of a bushman, the pride in his eyes said it all,
Respected by people who knew him,
No job was too big or too small.

We were months at a time in the stock camps, with packhorse and mustering team gear,
He was firm with his everyday orders,
His instructions explicit and clear.
The country was heavily timbered, with wattle and forest-type trees,
Wild cattle were nervous and man shy,
They would vanish through scrub as they pleased.

I was taught the art of a horseman, our horses were our next of kin,
Their value was worth a small fortune
To neglect them a ringers worst sin.
I learnt how to muster scrub cattle, how to bend them and race to the lead,
To head them towards the old coaches,
Then hold them to settle and feed.

I was taught the hard work of a stockyard, how to pen-up and draft different ways,
To castrate and earmark; brand cleanskins,
Stockwork that took several days.
We’d tail out the weaners each morning, hold them and settle them down,
Paddock them close to the station,
Then drive the old Blitz into town.

If I’m chosen to ride that great muster, like I rode in the days of my youth,
I’d be privileged to work in the stock camp
With Head Stockman, the late Jimmy Booth.
He was more like a father figure, that man from the Glenhaughton Run,
In those days I was just a young ringer,
And he treated me more like a son.

Jim Boothe’s Dogs

HIS SADDLE HANGS THERE IDLE by Laurie Pointing
A poem about good mate JACK CLARRIS

Jack left the yards this morning,
To find horses gone astray,
He had to round up quiet a few,
and meet the boys in town next day.

For the rodeo was coming
Where the Dawson River flows
He wouldn’t miss it for the world,
But alas, he never showed.

Next day they got together
And decided things looked bad,
They rode their horses sixty miles
To try and find the lad.

The horse had fallen down a bank
And landed on his head,
Jack’s body lay beside it,
I’m afraid the horse was dead.

Three days, two nights, out in the bush
He lay there all alone
With the meat ants and flies, crows, and broken leg
They carried Jack back home.

But he was tough and fought back well
To have another go,
But he was crooked on himself you know –
He missed the rodeo!

His saddle hangs there idle
In a rusty shed,
If it wasn’t for his mates, you know,
This ringer could be dead.

They found him with a broken leg,
His body racked in pain,
He cheated old Saint Peter
And lived to ride again.

For years and years, he broke them in,
And rode the rough ones out.
No more he’ll climb down in the chute
And hear the big crowds shout.

He will not ride them any more
As once before he did,
And that’s the reason why
His saddle’s hanging in the shed.

Now the years rolled on and soon passed by
And memories do come back,
They even wrote a book you see
About this ringer – Jack.

He has a true blue Aussie spirit
But seeks no call to fame,
Saint Peter missed that only chance –
Jack Clarris is his name.