Australian Food & Cooking Poems
The Big Gun Cook
By Keith Garvey
Away out in the backblocks
Where at scabs they will not look
Gor’blimey they all know me
I’m ‘Arry the big gun cook.
In shearing sheds and homesteads
The tucker I dish out
For every busted ringer
And each lowly rouseabout.
I specialise in curries
And baked legs of mutton fat
And in places where no meat is
I cut up a dog or cat
They all believe it’s mutton
It’s so tastily prepared
And the bagmen love to slurp it
Through moustache and greasy beard.
Boiled shanks are quite a favourite
I go searching far and wide
To collect them from a paddock
Where the flyblown sheep have died
My stews are hot and tasty
From a wombat’s leg embroiled
And the tails of frilly lizards
With goanna’s call-fat oiled.
The rich liver of a possum
Camouflaged with herbs galore
Is a special only equalled
By my cutlets of wild boar.
There are many other dishes
That are tasty, rich and fine
But I haven’t time to tell you
All the specials in the line.
So should you seek variation
Of the modern menu dull
Come and try my roasted rib bones
From a Booroomooka cull.
And I’m sure you’ll recommend me
Tell your friends to take a look
At the outback chef unequalled
I’m ‘Arry the big gun cook.
The Drovers’ Cook
by Thomas John Quilty
Now the drovers cook weighed 15 stone and he had one bloodshot eye,
He had no laces in his boots and no buttons on his fly.
His pants hung loosely round his hips, hitched by a piece of wire,
And they concertinaed round his boots, in a way that you'd admire.
Well he stuck the billy on the boil and then emptied out his pipe,
And with his greasy shirt sleeve, he gave his nose a wipe.
And with pipe in mouth he mixed a sod and a drip hung from his chin,
As he mixed the damper up, the drip kept dripping in.
I walked quietly over to him and I said "toss that mixture out,
And in future when you're working keep your pipe out of your mouth".
Ooh he stood erect and eyed me, with such a dirty look,
And he said in choice Australian, "Get another bloody cook".
A cook, I said, you call yourself, you greasy slob made lout,
Why you should be jailed for taking work, you cannot carry out.
He then uncorked come language, and I felt a thrill of fear,
As he swung his hairy paws about and said “Trot your frame out here”.
In outback brawls there are no rules or limits to the weight,
So I had to squib or meet him, with my meek and 9 stone 8.
We both bounced into action, and fell into a clinch,
I put a headlock on him, but I couldn't make him flinch.
For hours we fought in deathly grips, swung upper cuts and crosses,
We staggered and floundered in distress like rogue and winded horses.
And then gaspingly he muttered, “why I've fought all through the north,
You're the gamest thing I've ever struck, give me your hand old sport”.
Well I can't explain my feelings, with joy I nearly cried,
As we staggered to a shade close by, where he sank down and died.
Now you talk about that saltbush scrap why it was only clay,
Compared to that gruelling battle we fought that fateful day.
And now above his resting place where the grass has grown to seed,
On stone is carved his epitaph for travellers to read.
Here lies the son of Donald Gunn, none gamer ever stood,
And he died in dinkum battle, with Jimmy Underwood.
Thank you to Darryl Ross for emailing us the above poem, The Drover's Cook by Thomas Quilty.
A Change of Menu
by Andrew Barton Paterson
Now the new chum loaded his three-nought-three,
It's a small-bore gun, but his hopes were big.
"I am fed to the teeth with old ewe," said he,
"And I might be able to shoot a pig."
And he trusted more to his nose than ear
To give him warning when pigs were near.
Out of his lair in the lignum dark.
Where the wild duck nests and the bilbie digs,
With a whoof and a snort and a kind of bark
There rose the father of all the pigs:
And a tiger would have walked wide of him
As he stropped his tusks on a leaning limb.
Then the new chum's three-nought-three gave tongue
Like a popgun fired in an opera bouffe:
But a pig that was old when the world was young
Is near as possible bullet-proof.
(The more you shoot him the less he dies,
Unless you catch him between the eyes.)
So the new chum saw it was up to him
To become extinct if he stopped to shoot;
So he made a leap for a gidgee limb
While the tusker narrowly missed his boot.
Then he found a fork, where he swayed in air
As he gripped the boughs like a native bear.
The pig sat silent and gaunt and grim
To wait and wait till his foe should fall:
For night and day were the same to him,
And home was any old place at all.
"I must wait," said he, "till this sportsman drops;
I could use his boots for a pair of strops."
The crows that watch from the distant blue
Came down to see what it all might mean;
An eaglehawk and a cockatoo
Bestowed their patronage on the scene.
Till a far-off boundary rider said
"I must have a look -- there is something dead."
Now the new chum sits at his Christmas fare
Of a dried-up chop from a tough old ewe.
Says he, "It's better than native bear
And nearly as tender as kangaroo.
An emu's egg I can masticate,
But pork," says he, "is the thing I hate."
To a Billy
By James Cuthbertson
Old Billy, battered, brown and black
With many days of camping,
Companion of the bulging sack,
And friend in all our tramping:
How often on the Friday night –
Your cubic measure testing –
With jam and tea we stuffed you tight
Before we started nesting!
How often, in the moonlight pale,
Through gums and gullies toiling,
We’ve been the first the hill to scale,
The first to watch you boiling;
When at the lane the tent was spread
The silver wattle under,
And early shafts of rosy red
Cleft sea-born mists asunder!
And so, old Billy, you recall
A host of sun-burnt faces,
And bring us back again to all
The best of camping places.
True flavour of the bush you bear,
Of camp and its surrounding,
Of freedom and of open air,
Of healthy life abounding.
You bring us more, with those we love
We watched you boil and bubble,
And in the sunny skies above
Forgot each schoolboy trouble
So not without a kindly glance
We eye you in the study,
Although you’ve met with some mischance,
Although you’re black and muddy!
The Shearers' Cook by W.T. Goodge
Now, shearers' cooks, as shearers know,
Are very seldom wont to blow;
But when I took to dabbing tar
And "picking-up" on Blaringar,
The cook, when "barbers" came at morn
To get a snack, would say, with scorn:
"Tea on the left,
Coffee on the right,
Brownie on the bunk, and blast yez!"
The "bunk" or slab was in the hut,
And on it "brownie" ready cut;
Two buckets o'er the fire would be -
One filled with coffee, one with tea;
And when the chaps came filing in
The cook would say, with mirthless grin:
"Tea on the left,
Coffee on the right,
Brownie on the bunk, and blast yez!"
Peculiar man, this shearers' cook,
And had a very ugly look.
To me - a new-chum rouseabout,
Said he, one day when all were out:
"There's nothing in this world, my lad,
That's worth your worry, good or bad;
Grief on the left,
Sorrow on the right,
Trouble on the bunk, but blast it!"
The Flour Bin
by Henry Lawson
By Lawson's Hill, near Mudgee,
On old Eurunderee -
The place they called "New Pipeclay",
Where the diggers used to be -
On a dreary old selection,
Where times were dry and thin,
In a slab and shingle kitchen
There stood a flour bin.
'Twas "ploorer" with the cattle,
'Twas rust and smut in wheat,
'Twas blight in eyes and orchards,
And course salt-beef to eat.
Oh, how our mothers struggled
Till eyes and brain were dull -
Oh, how our fathers slaved and toiled
To keep those flour bins full!
We've been in many countries,
We've sailed on many seas;
We've travelled in the steerage
And lived on land at ease.
We've seen the world together
Through laughter and through tears -
And not been far from baker's bread
These five and thirty years.
The flats are green as ever,
The creeks go rippling through;
The Mudgee Hills are showing
Their deepest shades of blue;
Those mountains in the distance
That ever held a charm
Are fairer than a picture
As seen from Cox's farm.
On a German farm by Mudgee,
That took long years to win,
On the wide bricked back verandah
There stands a flour bin;
And the dear old German lady -
Though the bakers' carts run out -
Still keeps a "fifty" in it
Against a time of drought.
It was my father made it,
It stands as good as new,
And of the others like it
There still remain a few.
God grant, when drought shall strike us,
The young will "take a pull",
And the old folk their strength anew
To keep those flour bins full.
Corned Meat Days
by Keith Garvey
The tough old heroes away out West
Who roamed the bush in an earlier year
No ice or refrigeration possessed
So they corned the meat and mutton with care.
Smothered in salt, in a corn sack hung
From the tie-beam of kitchen, hut or shed
Brisket and flaps and flank and tongue
From a bullock hastily killed and bled.
Or a sheep tough and old, dissected smart
While the blowflies danced in joyous parade
Even the skirting, shanks and heart
Into corn junk was quickly made.
Hard and tough as the fireproof hinges
Supporting the gates that enter hell
Turning green on the outer fringes
Soon developing noiseome smell.
Dampness and close confinement soured it
Tainted it grew in the summer sun
But gamely the old bush folk devoured it
Knowing none better and seeking none.
Saline and salty for hours they stewed it
In kerosene-tin or blackened pot
And the hardened bushmen manfully chewed it
A pitiful product greasy and hot.
'That's bloody good meat! The best I've saw mate.'
'My oath yer right! It's bonzergrub.'
'Termorrer night I'll cook some more, mate.
After we sink a few at the pub.'
Rough old folk, sadly unenlightened
Knowing no path but hardship's way
Lives by a small diversion brightened
Are we as happy and strong today
As the corn-meat eaters stoic and durable
Who won the way for a weaker band
Defying poverty's pain deplorable
Pioneering the great south land
Scotty's Wild Stuff Stew
by Francis H. Brown
The cause of all the trouble
Was McCabe, the jackeroo,
Who had ordered what, facetiously,
He’d christened “Wild Stuff Stew”
He had shot a brace of pigeons
And had brought them home unplucked;
It was not the first occasion,
And no wonder Scotty bucked
As aside he threw the pigeons
And addressed the jackeroo:
“Ye’ll pluck those blinded pigeons,
Or ye’ll get no blinded stoo.”
But the jackeroo objected,
And objected strongly, too.
But Scotty didn’t argue much,
He winked across at Blue
And, turning to the slushy, said,
“I’ll give him ‘Wild Stuff Stoo’.”
The next day it was Sunday, and,
Not having much to do,
We all assisted Scotty
In the making of a stoo.
We raked along the wool-sheds,
In the pens and round about
It was marvellous, all the wild things
That us rousies fossicked out;
There was Ginger found a lizard,
Which they reckoned was a Jew
It was rather rough to handle,
But it softened in the stew
Then Snowy found some hairy things
Inside a musterer’s tent;
And Splinter found a lady frog –
And in the lady went.
From McGregor, who’d been foxing,
We obtained a skin or two,
It should have gone to bootlace
But it went into the stoo.
Then someone found a “Kelly”
That the boundary-rider shot –
It was more or less fermented,
Still, it went inside the pot
And Scotty found some insects
With an overpowering scent,
And the slushy trapped a mother mouse –
And in poor mother went.
There was some hesitation
’bout a spider in a tin:
We didn’t like the small red spot,
But Scotty dumped it in.
There were a host of other things
I can’t recall the lot
That were cast into eternity
Per medium of the pot.
Those strange and weird concoctions
That the Abos sometimes brew
Would be as mild potations
If compared with Scotty’s stew
And when the jackeroo arrived
A happy man was he
To find that Scotty, after all,
Had cooked a stoo for tea.
He rolled his eyes, and snuffed the fumes,
’twas dinkum stuff he swore;
He complimented Scotty, and
He passed his plate for more.
And when we’d let him have his fill,
We took him round to view
A list of what had left this world
To enter Scotty’s stew.
I grant you there were wild things
Connected with that stoo,
But there was nothing wilder
Than McCabe the jackeroo.
He got the dries and then the shakes,
And we felt shaky too;
We were thinking of the spider
With the red spot in the stoo.
We rushed him to the homestead,
They told him there ’twas flu,
But us rousies, we knew better –
It was Scotty’s “Wild Stuff Stoo”.
But Scotty isn’t cooking now,
For Scotty is long dead;
They say he turned it in through booze
At Thurlagoona shed;
And away across the border
There’s a certain jackeroo,
Who for years has never tasted
What he christened “Wild Stuff Stoo”.
The Old Black Billy and Me
by Louis Esson
The sheep are yarded, an’ I sit
Beside the fire an’ poke at it.
Far from talk an’ booze o’ men
Glad, I’m glad I’m back agen
On the station, wi’ me traps
An’ fencin’ wire, an’ tanks an’ taps,
Back to salt-bush plains, an’ flocks,
An’ old bark hut be the apple-box.
I turn the slipjack, make the tea,
All’s as still as still can be -
An’ the old black billy winks at me.
Dampers
by Keith Garvey
Knew a bloke once called Damper Dan
Remember the bludger well I can
And his dampers
Bottomless moleskins hangin' slack
Tin of treacle, sticky and black,
Heap of flour in a dirty sack
For dampers
Always camped by a bore-drains flow
Whiskery and greasy and foul and low
Eatin' dampers
Never would buy a loaf of bread
'Too bloody dear' he always said
Cooked every day like lumps of lead
Heavy dampers
Down he'd sit with a toothless grin
Mixin' the dough in a gallon tin
For dampers
Over his bulgin' bottom lip
Nicotine and slobber would slip
Run down his pipe and slowly drip
In the damper
Bore-drain water and weevily flour
Welded into a mixture sour
For damper
Stick to yer ribs and clog yer pipes
Give the goes as well as the gripes
And he'd say, 'She's a lovely feed, by cripes
Bonzer damper'
Beef or mutton he wouldn't touch
Brownie or cake he didn't like much
Only damper
'Nothin' he'd say, 'like good clean flour
Never gets stale or mouldy or sour
Nothin' gives yer muscular power
Like damper'
Follered his funeral without regret
Went where there's plenty of heat, I'll bet
For dampers
And it's safe to bet the devil could tell
How he sits all day by the hearth of hell
With his sack of flour and his evil smell
Cookin' dampers.....Soddy bloody dampers
Duck an’ Fowl
by C. J. Dennis
Now when a bloke ‘e cracks a bloke for insults to a skirt,
An’ wrecks a joint to square a lady’s name,
They used to call it chivalry, but now they calls it dirt,
An’ the end of it is cops an’ quod an’ shame.
Fer insults to fair Gwendoline they ‘ad to be wiped out;
But Rosie’s sort is just fair game --- when Ginger ain’t about.
It wus Jimmie Ah Foo’s cook-shop, which is close by Spadger’s Lane,
Where a variegated comp’ny tears the scran,
An’ there’s some is “tup’ny coloured”, an’ some is “penny plain”,
Frum a lawyer to a common lumper-man.
Or a writer for the papers, or a slaver on the prowl,
An’ noiseless Chows a-glidin’ ‘round wiv plates uv duck an’ fowl.
But if yeh wanted juicy bits that ‘ung around Foo’s perch
Yeh fetched ‘em down an’ wolfed ‘em in your place.
An’ Foo sat sad an’ solim, like an’ ‘oly man in church,
Wiv an early-martyr look upon ‘is face,
Wot never changed, not even when a toff upon a jag
Tried to pick up Ginger’s Rosie, an’ collided wiv a snag.
Ginger Mick’s bin at the races; an’ ‘e’d made a little rise,
‘Avin knowed a bloke wot knowed the trainer’s cook.
An’ easy money’s very sweet, as punters reckernize,
An’ sweetest when yeh’ve prized it orf a “book”.
So ginger calls fer Rosie, an’ to celebrate ‘is win
‘E trots ‘er down to Ah Foo’s joint to splash a bit uv tin.
There wuz lights, an’ smells of Asia, an’ a strange, Chow-‘aunted scene,
Floatin’ scraps of forrin lingo ‘it the ear;
But Rose sails in an’ takes ‘er seat like any soshul queen
Sich as stokes ‘erself wiv foy grass orl the year.
“Duck an’ Fowl” ‘s ‘er nomination, so ole Ginger jerks ‘is frame
‘Cross to git some fancy pickin’s; an’ to give ‘is choice a name.
While Ginger paws the tucker; an’ ‘as words about the price,
There’s a shickered toff slings Rosie goo-goo eyes.
‘E’s a mug ‘oo thinks ‘e’s ‘it a flamin’ ‘all uv scarlet vice
An ‘e picks on gentle Rosie fer a prize.
Then ‘e tries to play at ‘andies; an’ arrange about a meet;
But Rosie fetches ‘im a welt that shifts ‘im in ‘is seat.
Ginger’s busy makin’ bargins; an’ ‘e never seen the clout;
‘E’s ‘agglin’ wiv Ah Foo fer ‘arf a Duck;
But the toff’s too shick or silly fer to ‘eave ‘is carkis out;
An’ to fade while goin’s good an’ e’s in luck.
Then ginger clinched ‘is bargin’ an’ as down the room ‘e came,
‘E seen the toff jump frum ‘is seat; an’ call the girl a name.
That done it. Less than ‘arf a mo; an’ ‘ell got orf the chain;
An’ the swell stopped ‘arf a ducklin’ wiv ‘is neck.
As Ginger guv the war-cry that is dreaded in the Lane.
An’ the rest was whirlin’ toff an’ sudden wreck.
Mick never reely stoushed ‘im; but ‘e used ‘im fer a mop,
Then someone doused the bloomin’ glim, an’ Foo run fer a cop.
Down the stairs an’ in the passidge comes the shufflin’ feet of Chows;
An’ the crash, as Ah Foo’s chiner found it’s mark.
Fer more than Mick ‘ad ancient scores left over frum old rows;
An’ more than one stopped somethin’ in the dark.
Then the tabbies took to screamin’ an’ a Chow remarked “wha’ for?”
While the live ducks quacked blue murder frum their corner uv the floor.
Fer full ten minutes it wus joy, reel willin’ an’ to spare,
Wiv noise uv tarts, an’ Chows, an’ ducks, an’ lash;
An’ plates uv fowl an’ bird-nest soup went whizzin’ thro’ the air,
While arf’-a dozen fought to reach Foo’s cash.
Then thro’ the open doorway, three Chows’ ‘eads is framed in light,
An’ sudden in Mick’s corner orl is gentle peace an’ quiet.
Up goes the lights, in comes the cops; an’ there’s a sudden rush;
But the Johns ‘as got ‘em safe an’ ‘emmed ‘em in;
An’ ev’ryone looks innercent. Then thro’ the anxious ‘ush
The toff’s voice frum the floor calls fer a gin . . .
But Mick an’ Rose, O where are they? Arst uv the silent night!
They ‘ad a date about a dawg, an’ vanished out o’ sight.
Then Foo an’ orl ‘is cousins an’ the ducks torks all at once,
An’ the tabbies pitch the weary Johns a tale,
‘Ow they orl is puffick ladies ‘oo ‘ave not bin pinched fer munce;
An’ the crooks does mental sums concernin’ bail.
The cops they takes a name er two, then gathers in the toff,
An’ lobs ‘im in a cold, ‘ard cell to sleep ‘is love-quest off.
But down in Rosie’s kipsie, at the end uv Spadger’s Lane,
‘Er an’ Mick is layin’ supper out fer two.
“Now, I ‘ate the game” , sez Ginger, “an’ it goes agin the grain;
But wot’s a ‘elpless, ‘ungry bloke to do?”
An’ ‘e yanks a cold roast chicken frum the bosom uv ‘is shirt,
An’ Rosie finds a ducklin’ underneath ‘er Sunday skirt.
So, when a bloke fergits ‘imself an’ soils a lady’s name,
Altho’ Romance is dead an’ in the dirt,
In ole Madrid or Little Bourke they treats ‘im much the same,
An’ ‘e collects wot’s comin’ fer a cert.
But, spite uv ‘igh-falutin’ tork, the fact is jist the same
Ole ginger Mick wus out fer loot; an’ played a risky game.
To fight an’ forage . . . Spare me days! It’s been man’s leadin’ soot
Since ‘e learned to word a tart an’ make a date.
‘E’s been at it, good an’ solid, since ole Adam bit the froot.
To fight an’ forage, an’ pertect ‘is mate.
But this story ‘as no moral; an’ it ‘as a vulgar plot;
It is jist a small igzample of a way ole Ginger’s got.
Cinder Black, or Cold and Raw!
by Phillip R. Rush
The most important bloke, they say, in every drover's crew,
Is any fellow who can cook a roast or decent stew.
But expert cooks have always been a little hard to find,
Which brings, as often is the case, another tale to mind.
We had a job in 'forty-eight, along an outback route,
But didn't take our usual cook, we'd given him the boot!
He'd been with us for several months, but we could not ignore
That every meal was cinder black, or else completely raw!
So we enquired about the place for some experienced cook;
And, luckily, or so we thought, we hadn't far to look.
It wasn't very long before a scruffy fellow came
And said, "I've been a shearer's cook, and Joseph is my name."
Joseph, as we quickly found, and each of us recall,
Was not the cleanest bloke around; he rarely washed at all!
He never wore his boots in camp, his feet were always bare,
Except for several layers of grime to match his filthy hair!
He did the cooking well enough, as far as we could tell,
But everything we ate, it seemed, had similar taste and smell!
The johnnie cakes and brownies, the potatoes and the stew,
All smelt and tasted just the same, as did the billy's brew!
We rarely saw him at his work, for we were on the Track,
And he'd reach camp before us all and, naturally, unpack.
Once preparations were complete, the meal was under way;
So all was cooked when we arrived toward the end of day.
But once our stockman, Davy, was feeling rather off,
He had a stinking headache, and a very nasty cough.
We told him that we'd manage, for him to go ahead,
That's when he saw how Joseph the evening meal prepared!
All the food that Joseph cooked was always shaped the same,
No matter what went into it, or what the food was named.
The dumplings, patties, brownies, they all were carefully pressed
Beneath Joe's armpits, left or right, next to his hairy chest.
And Joseph heavily perspired, he sweated like a pig:
Sweat dripped into his cooking, but he didn't care a fig!
It ran into the billy tea from matted whiskers grey,
And so both drink and cooking tasted just the same each day!
We managed to survive the trip, despite Joe's sweaty food;
But, at the end, we paid him off, we didn't think it rude!
We couldn't find another cook, except the one we'd had;
But cinder black, or cold and raw, now didn't taste so bad!
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The poems "Dampers" and "Corned Meat Days" by Keith Garvey are just two of the many great Australian verses from the authors' book, Rhymes of a Ratbag, published by HUTCHINSON of AUSTRALIA. Available at all leading book stores in Australia. I thoroughly enjoyed, as you will, the entire collection of verses by Keith Garvey. Look for his writings.
Cinder Black, or Cold and Raw! by Phillip R. Rush. Copyright Binding. From the Author's Book Australian Outback Poems by Phillip R. Rush Enjoy the Author's Website