Just lately we have been seeing quite a few mentions of the plight of farmers in the current climate. Whether it be the issue of foreign ownership, avaricious banks, drought or the drift to the city of the younger generation, it seems that the poor old farmer is really “up against it”.
And the facts very much support the gloomy outlook that is facing our primary industries. But, lest it be thought that this situation is new, I’d like to point out that, despite us being the so-called lucky country, nothing much HAS changed and I tender these examples to support my contention. Firstly, the above clip from 1988 of Aussie singer/songwriter, Graeme Connors. The sentiments expressed are nothing new but they show that this situation has been going on for a long time.
Further to that, I offer the poem, “On Kiley’s Run, by A B Paterson (1864-1941) If you know the poem you will grasp immediately what I am saying. If you don’t know it, I encourage you to read it through and let the content sink in.
ON KILEY’S RUN by A.B. “Banjo” Paterson
The roving breezes come and go On Kiley's Run, The sleepy river murmurs low, And far away one dimly sees Beyond the stretch of forest trees -- Beyond the foothills dusk and dun -- The ranges sleeping in the sun On Kiley's Run. 'Tis many years since first I came To Kiley's Run, More years than I would care to name Since I, a stripling, used to ride For miles and miles at Kiley's side, The while in stirring tones he told The stories of the days of old On Kiley's Run. I see the old bush homestead now On Kiley's Run, Just nestled down beneath the brow Of one small ridge above the sweep Of river-flat, where willows weep And jasmine flowers and roses bloom, The air was laden with perfume On Kiley's Run. We lived the good old station life On Kiley's Run, With little thought of care or strife. Old Kiley seldom used to roam, He liked to make the Run his home, The swagman never turned away With empty hand at close of day From Kiley's Run. We kept a racehorse now and then On Kiley's Run, And neighb'ring stations brought their men To meetings where the sport was free, And dainty ladies came to see Their champions ride; with laugh and song The old house rang the whole night long On Kiley's Run. The station hands were friends I wot On Kiley's Run, A reckless, merry-hearted lot -- All splendid riders, and they knew The `boss' was kindness through and through. Old Kiley always stood their friend, And so they served him to the end On Kiley's Run. But droughts and losses came apace To Kiley's Run, Till ruin stared him in the face; He toiled and toiled while lived the light, He dreamed of overdrafts at night: At length, because he could not pay, His bankers took the stock away From Kiley's Run. Old Kiley stood and saw them go From Kiley's Run. The well-bred cattle marching slow; His stockmen, mates for many a day, They wrung his hand and went away. Too old to make another start, Old Kiley died -- of broken heart, On Kiley's Run. . . . . . The owner lives in England now Of Kiley's Run. He knows a racehorse from a cow; But that is all he knows of stock: His chiefest care is how to dock Expenses, and he sends from town To cut the shearers' wages down On Kiley's Run. There are no neighbours anywhere Near Kiley's Run. The hospitable homes are bare, The gardens gone; for no pretence Must hinder cutting down expense: The homestead that we held so dear Contains a half-paid overseer On Kiley's Run. All life and sport and hope have died On Kiley's Run. No longer there the stockmen ride; For sour-faced boundary riders creep On mongrel horses after sheep, Through ranges where, at racing speed, Old Kiley used to `wheel the lead' On Kiley's Run. There runs a lane for thirty miles Through Kiley's Run. On either side the herbage smiles, But wretched trav'lling sheep must pass Without a drink or blade of grass Thro' that long lane of death and shame: The weary drovers curse the name Of Kiley's Run. The name itself is changed of late Of Kiley's Run. They call it `Chandos Park Estate'. The lonely swagman through the dark Must hump his swag past Chandos Park. The name is English, don't you see, The old name sweeter sounds to me Of `Kiley's Run'. I cannot guess what fate will bring To Kiley's Run -- For chances come and changes ring -- I scarcely think 'twill always be Locked up to suit an absentee; And if he lets it out in farms His tenants soon will carry arms On Kiley's Run.
The Bulletin, 20 December 1890.
My dad grew up on the land and he loved Paterson’s poetry. He taught my brother and I many of Paterson’s poems and we could recite them off by heart. But he always struggled with this poem and it wasn’t until I was much older that I realised that the emotions that it generated in him were because it basically told the story of what had happened to his own family in the wake of the Great Depression. I challenge you to read it and not be moved by how eloquently Paterson speaks to the plight of the myriad of farming families who fell on hard times and lost everything they had.
It’s still happening so things haven’t changed at all. How sad that we haven’t learned.
On a happier (far) note, I’ve just got back from the Illawarra Folk Festival where Henry, Elwyn and I (“Three Sixty”) did our 45 minute set that we have been practising for some time. The venue was far from ideal, a tiny tent at the very top of Bulli Showground, accessible only by shuttle bus and the crowd was distressingly small. However, the show went on and we had a great time performing. It certainly was appreciated judging by the comments afterwards but I think that Elwyn will be seriously looking at our options for 2018 as the venue where we are booked to perform seems to get smaller and less accessible each year (maybe they are trying to tell us something?). Nevertheless, a big thank you to Elwyn and Henry.
Anyway, as they say, it’s all fun until somebody gets hurt and nobody got hurt so that’s good, I guess.
It’s 36 degrees outside so time to switch on the air-con and hunker down; till next time.