“Left to the Pen”
Written by Dick Roberts
The creeks start to churn,
A reminder of yesterday’s past.
When the bullock’s still roamed,
And the bushmen called home,
A place that once was so vast.
It’s where the candle bark falls,
And Mountain Ash grows tall,
A place forgotten and left out of view.
Where sheep bells once clanged,
And stockman once sang,
As they slowly cooked up the stew.
The Webb’s and the Cochran’s
Miners and Sephton’s.
Were all there a long time ago.
The Wares and O’Ryans.
Bradley’s and Obriens,
All felt the first fall of snow.
The seasons still turn,
And the creeks they still churn.
To re-new the bush once again.
The mountain winds blow,
The snow grass still grows,
But its history, now left to the pen.
The Webb’s and the Cochran’s
Miners and Sephton’s.
Were all there a long time ago.
The Wares and O’Ryans.
Bradley’s and Obriens,
All felt the first fall of snow.
Nelle's journey 