Vonda Stanley's collection of early Australian bush poems
Mulga Bill's
Bicycle
‘Twas
Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He
turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He
dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He
hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And
as he weheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The
grinning shop assistant said, ‘Excuse me, can you ride?’
‘See
here, young man.’ Said Mulga bill, ‘from Walgett to the sea,
From
Conroy’s Gap to Castlereagh, there’s none can ride like me.
I’m
good all round at everything, as everybody knows,
Although
I’m not the one to talk – I hate a man that blows.
But
riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just
ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There’s
nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There’s
nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But
what I’ll sit, while hide will hold the girths and straps are tight:
I’ll
ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.’
‘Twas
Mulga Bill from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
That
perched above the Dead Man’s Creek, beside the mountain road.
He
turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
But
ere he’d gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It
left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak,
It
whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man’s Creek.
It
shaved a stump by half an inch, It dodged a big white-box:
The
very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The
wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
As
Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It
struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It
raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And
then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
It
made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man’s Creek.
‘Twas
Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He
said, “I’ve had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
I’ve
rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five pound bet,
But
this was the most awful ride that I’ve encountered yet.
I’ll
give that two-outlaw best; it’s shaken all my nerve
To
feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It’s
safe at rest in Dead Man’s Creek, we’ll leave it lying still;
A
horse’s back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.’
A. B. Paterson