Old Australian Food Recipes

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

 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.

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.