The Dairyman's Ball.

Another of my Dads poems, he wrote a good verse, and his

recitals were always popular.

The Dairyman’s Ball.

The horses were tied to the post and rail fence

On the lee of the little bush hall

Their feeders and nose bags were bulging and full

On the night of the dairyman’s ball.

We covered their backs with a couple of rugs

For a chill wind howled ore the plain

And contented they rested on this foot and that

As their noses went deep for the grain.

A tarpaulin was stretched over stringy bark poles

From the ridge hung a hurricane lamp

That shone bright on tables of unpolished slabs

To brighten the hall, and help keep out the damp.

Plump women were brewing great buckets of tea

Some sandwiched thick wedges of meat

Twixt slices of bread that were camp oven cooked

For those who were dancing to eat.

The hall was bedecked with green bushes and ferns

With sorghum stalks crossed ore the door

And a sheaf of white maize towered 7 feet high

In a cream can that stood on the floor.

No programs were needed; each dance had its turn

And placards were nailed to the wall

That stated, “No Smoking or Swearing inside”

Were the rules of the dairyman’s ball.

Few couples arose when the first set was called

For the bush boys were awkward and shy

To long seemed their coats and their trouser to short

And strange felt the collar and tie.

But the music aroused them, they rose for a waltz

With hitching of braces and belts

Reverse and balance then circle again

Shook the dust from the yard as they went.

The bush girls were smiling, their eyes shining bright

Smooth bosoms and shoulders were bare

While suntan and freckles were powdered and rouged

And shingled or bobbed was their hair.

Forgotten the dresses bedraggled and stiff

With the odor of milk overall

But dresses of chiffon and stockings of silk

For the night of the dairyman’s ball.

Old timers were seated on stools round the wall

Dirt wrinkled and lined were their brows

With toe and heel tapping and grey beards aside

Their minds were away from the cows.

And the birds were asong when the horses were brought

With backs humped and tightly pressed tails

One was contrary, his shoulders were sore

Ran backwards and crashed through the rails.

And the babies awakened, cried loud in the chill

That their pleasure at dancing was small

Young couples hung back, for a kiss in the dawn

At the close of the dairyman’s ball.

Mervyn Holt 1911 - 2002