My pleasure, Squeers.

Houellie,

"...yearning is more fun..."

I think yearning is vastly overrated (I'm trying to give it up)

(in the words of Mr Horse from Ren & Stimpy - "No Sir, I don't like it."

: )

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Dear Squeers,

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Thanks for letting me off the hook. It would have been quite a challenge for me, an old time boxer, rugby player and something of a bushwhacker in my day, to live up to that image of a romanticist in the adjectival or vernacular sense.

I am not so sure that romanticism in the canonical-literary sense is quite within my reach either. You are right in thinking I am not a youngster any more, however, I do not have the qualities of a Dorian Gray and am by no means a contemporary of romantic poets such as Blake, Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley or Byron.

Even my namesake could have been my grandfather.

"Back to the road, and I crossed again
Over the miles of the saltbush plain -
The shining plain that is said to be
The dried-up bed of an inland sea,
Where the air so dry and so clear and bright
Refracts the sun and a wondrous light,
And out in the dim horizon makes
The deep blue gleam of the phantom lakes

At dawn of day we would feel the breeze
That stirred the boughs of sleeping trees,
And brought a breath of the fragrance rare
That comes and goes in that scented air;
For the trees and grass and the shrubs contain
A dry sweet scent on the saltbush plain.
For those that love it and understand,
The saltbush plain is a wonderland.
A wondrous country, where Nature's ways
Were revealed to me in the droving days.

We saw the fleet wild horses pass,
And the kangaroo through the Mitchell grass,
The emu ran with her frightened brood
All unmolested and unpursued.
But there rose a shout and a wild hubbub
When the dingo raced for his native scrub,
And he paid right dear for his stolen meals
With the drover's dog on his wretched heels.
For we ran him down at a rattling pace,
While the packhorse joined in the stirring chase.
And a wild halloo at the kill we'd raise -
We were light of heart in the droving days".

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Ah, but Banjo Paterson "was" a romantic! guilty of idealising the bush You're familiar with the "dual" between he and Henry Lawson. The latter being the bleak realist?
Here are links to the poems, though I dare say you know them: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bulletin_Debate#Works_of_poetry_involved_in_the_debate
Much as I enjoyed your poetic recollections of Dalby, with your eyes turned to the sky, the hard grind of living on the ground there in the early days, with squatters as well as vicious old mother nature to contend with, must have been wretched indeed. All that's forgotten by us moderns when we compose our pastorals on the same tamed landscapes.

If you haven't read them, Lawson's "Water Them Geraniums", "The Bush Undertaker" or "The Drover's Wife" are great short samplers. These short sketches are worth a look in light of the discussion here.

Having said all that, Lawson was himself a dreamer (and a drinker), as are his characters, and he himself never knew a life without the luxury of culture.

Have a nice day, cobber (I bet you don't get called that much in France : )

Sorry, "duel".

Joust him!

I love a good joust.

Ren and Stiiiimpy.

Man I'm off to you tube for some na-stalja.

You filthy worm!

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Dear Squeers,

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Sorry I couldn't get back earlier to you, cobber, I went on walkabout.

Actually I think there might still be some erudite Parisians to be found quietly savouring a glass of calvados hors d'âge on the terrace of the Café de Flore at Saint-Germain-des-Prés who would be delighted to air their knowledge of popular Australian colloquial terms such as cobber. In fact, there may be just as many erudite Frenchmen who are acquainted with them as there are well educated young Australians.

I must confess I am unfamiliar with Henry Lawson's writings. We never had to recite any of his poems at the Dalby State Primary School which I attended. Miss Diplock, my primary school teacher, only gave us a couple of Banjo Paterson's poems to learn: The man from Snowy River and The man from Ironbark. I enjoyed them so much I read a few more.

I never thought of Banjo's poems as being particularly romantic. Most of his description of the bush and Australian country bumpkins seemed to me to correspond to the reality I experienced in my own environment. He saw what I saw and heard what I heard and described it in vivid, concise, poetic language which was music to my ears.

Presumably it was the same reality with which Henry Lawson was confronted. The difference, no doubt, was only to be found in the eyes of the beholder. Visions vary. Truth is subjective. I am willing to believe that both poets rendered an honest account of what they perceived.

Perhaps if I had looked over Henry Lawson's shoulder I too should have painted a different tableau, but I doubt he ever heard the music I heard ... Henry Lawson was deaf, wasn't he ?

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