Mulga Bill of Eaglehawk....

Don’t forget to read the poem at the bottom of my description.

 

A.B (Banjo) Patterson’s poems of late 19th and early 20th. century are not only frequently very funny but so deftly describe activities and life in our great country as to be works of art. Who could forget The Man from Snowy River, Clancy of the Overflow and one of my favourites, the Geebung Polo Club. It was pure pleasure, even as a kid who wasn’t that enamoured with poetry to learn about these. And then there is Mulga Bill and his bicycle, who, as you can see, ended up in Deadman’s Creek. This is an amazing piece of poetry, humorous to its roots and I consider it a privilege to also own an original artwork featuring Mulga Bill and his infamous runaway beastly bike.

 

The scene of the incident as written is Eaglehawk, an outer suburb of Bendigo that celebrates its famous son. And here he is, after the wild ride, confidence in his ability to subdue the beast completely quashed!

 

Thanks A.B. for the ride and your amazing legacy.

 

Give it a read and remember your own early days, subduing the beast! Enjoy, but remember where being boastful can get you!

 

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 wheeled 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 and 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 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-wheeled outlaw beast; 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."

 

With thanks to this website: www.middlemiss.org/lit/authors/patersonab/poetry/mulgab.html

 

Eaglehawk, Bendigo, Victoria.

Done