On a mountain bleak, in Monaro,
Bypsssed by the tourist trade,
As you pound along the track
With eye well out and ears pinned back
PDF scan of the publication of this poem in the 1980 Cooma Monaro Express.
Emily McGufficke (Handwritten)
In 1918 at a picture Theatre in (?Cosmo)
Sad captive now, her stumbling fettered feet,
No longer free to dance the hours away.
Oh! hurry little river,
How you prattle, how you quiver,
To me there's magic in the word,
Be it scats, poo, crap or turd.
So we snared an old man Wombat
And we tied him to a pole
To ride those hills and valleys
Where once I used to roam
"I'm looking for a wife," he said
"And there's plenty I can give
MOTHER SNOWY, LIVE OR DIE???
(AN OPEN LETTER TO THE POLITICIANS WHO LIED)
FROM THE RECOLLECTIONS OF OSSIE & DON WELLSMORE
THE DAY THE FIRES CAME 1939.