“No Room Left for Grace”

Written by Dick Roberts

The fences have vanished from long ago now,

No mountain musters, no sign of a cow.

The quart pots not needed up there in the hills,

No mountain stockmen, No more old bush skills.

The stories, the pictures, the films and the poems,

All told a story of a time once known.

A time when our country was proud of itself.

Now left discarded up there on the shelf.

Smoke from the chimney was a welcoming sight,

After mustering stock well into the night.

Back in the hut beside the old kero light.

Stoking the coals, he thought his future looked bright.

Down in the city, with their pens they’re at work,

Drafting a plan, but the bushman they’d shirk.

Their future, their history, their culture they’d erase,

A sweep of their pens, no room left for grace.

One final muster to remove the stock out,

Their horses and dogs travelled down the stock route,

Leaving behind generations of history,

All now claimed by the park, proud of their victory.

The huts now all deserted, bulldozed or burnt out,

Generations of history left scattered about.

The removal of the bushman has never been forgiven,

By those that still ride and keep to the old traditions.

Sixty years later, their grandchildren are back,

To save the brumby, and the legacy they have.

A living identity, of what the mountains once were,

As tough as the bushman as they strap on their spurs.

Down in the city, again they’re at work,

Drafting a plan, but the bushman they shirk.

Their future, their history, their culture they’ll erase,

A sweep of their pens, no room left for grace.