Old Larry of the Overland
With a thousand head of stores,
Is camped tonight on the Mulga sand,
And they're waiting on the scores.
New fangled things like motor cars
Old Larry won't have yet;
But, set apart in the tucker cart,
The pride and joy of his stubborn heart --
Is a battered wireless set.
The boy had fixed the wire that day
To a tall tree by the creek;
And they hear a voice long leagues away
From the old tin trumpet speak:
"Six two seven, England declares,"
Then Larry cries enough.
"Bunks boys," says he, some sleep for me.
We start sun-up for the bottle tree
On a long, dry stage and tough.
The bells of hobbled horses ring,
The stars wink overhead,
And stealthily -- a furtive thing --
The boy creeps from his bed.
Ever so softly he tunes in
While the sleeping drovers snore,
And with a happy, nervous grin
He bends his ear to listen in
And hear Australia's score.
Sun-up. The dogs and horses wait,
Old Larry peers about.
"That kid," says he, "is sleeping late.
Root the young blighter out . . ."
Now o'er the plain the cattle creep,
Whips crack, and hoof beats pound;
But one small boy, a huddled heap,
Perched on the cart-tail fast asleep,
Dreams of Old Trafford ground.
First published in The Herald, 9 July 1934
Author reference sites: C.J. Dennis, Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library
See also.
