A Letter to Fred

This was a letter written by my Dad to his Brother Fred in 1936.

Letter To Fred

I undertake in these few verses,
My dear old brother Fred,
To tell you just how light my purse is.
And what I’ve been doing of late.

Last year in 1935, I was working In Yallourn
But snatched it coming on the summer
I think the only trouble was
The weather got too warm.

For when a man is hanging all day
To the end of a pick or shovel,
It’s then he tries to better himself
And gets further into trouble.

I finished up, and went to town
And to those city agents I went and did the rounds,
Of course I didn’t know the ropes too well,
But everytime I got lost, I managed to locate the bell.

I’ll tell you Fred it weren’t no easy task,
Climbing all those flights of stairs
Until at last I took a tumble,
And got in those lift affairs.

When I introduced myself
And said, “ I want to buy a farm”
They held out their hands to me
Of course I took it calm.

They praised up the blocks they had,
And made me feel like a squatter too
When they asked if I’d like to go,
And inspect a block or two.

The first place I went and saw Fred,
It had no boundary fence,
It was 3 parts heath and scrub
And bracken fern the rest.

Of course I turned it down Fred,
Don’t you think that that was best?
It was then I went to Hawsley, he’s another city sneak,
He took me out to where I am, out here at Dixons Creek.

He praised the place right up to me
As that they’re paid to do,
Until at last I said I’d take the place
And put the business through.

‘Twas then he took my shillings Fred
Every one I had
And things have set in dry my lad,
And things are bloody bad.

The little bit of fruit I had
It hardly paid to spray.
And to those Melbourne agents
I went and gave away.

So now then Fred I’ve done my best,
With this you should agree,
So think yourself lucky
That Freddie isn’t me.

So now then Fred I’ve got to close
At expenses I must look,
I’ve used up a 1/4 inch of pencil
And of paper , near a book.

So now I’ll say goodbye
To Fred my fondest brother
Although we are so very close
We all love one another.

Merve Holt

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

Jazz Garters.

This is one of my favourites, Dad wrote this one he thought in 1947, straight after WW 2,

The returning “diggers” were able to take up “Soldier Settlement Blocks” if they chose to,

These were usually about 100 acre blocks of land, they had to build a home and carry out certain improvements over a five year period to qualify.

Huge areas were converted to these “Blocks” over a period of 10/15 years.

Jazz Garters.

We all thought old Bill must be crazy

The day that he first brought her down,

The wrong kind of wife for a digger.

That frail looking girl from the town.

High heels, silk stockings and shingled

She wasn’t what we called a sport,

So instead of young Mrs. Delhunty

We called her Jazz Garters for short.

We thought she was too fond of pictures

And we reckoned old Bill was a fool

When they’d drive off at night in the sulky

To a concert or dance at the school.

She’d make him tog up in the evening

White shoes and a collar and tie

But what beat us, he always seemed happy

With a grin for the troops passing by.

But one day he was a little despondent

He was changing a shear on the plough

And he swore at the horse as he stumbled

That life on the farm was a cow.

The dust he said always is rising

And clings to your legs till they’re red

But he smiled as he glanced at the humpy

And she won’t let me take it to bed.

Bill was ill with his wound in the winter

He’d been hit with a fragment of shell

In the spring it was worse, so the doctor

Sent him off to the coast for a spell.

We were sorry for little Jazz Garters

We’d begun to get used to her ways

She mothered old Bill on the journey

And was back in a couple of days.

Then came the greatest of wonders

The hardened old troops got a shock

For dust flew where weeds covered the vineyard

And Jazz Garters was plowing the block.

Wouldn’t have any assistance

Said she’d manage alright on her own

She’d never made friends with the women

Day and night she was ever alone.

Ere Bill came home she’d gathered the harvest

Full plenty and rich was the yield

Smooth skinned were the cattle and horses

And clean were the vineyard and field.

Bill, he came back fitter than ever

And contented he soon settled down

And Jazz Garters went off for a visit

For a fortnight or less to the town.

And as Bill brought her home in the twilight

‘Twas a sight that would gladden ones heart

In her arms was a dainty white bundle

And a pram in the back of the cart.

Mervyn Holt 1911 - 2002

Tin Lizzie

My Dad lay claim to writing this poem, which sings some of the praises and
problems of the old Model T Ford.

I must admit that I’ve always thought he was joshing me about this one, I have
no real reason to believe he didn’t write it, he certainly wrote some other good poetry.

Perhaps he had a twinkle in his eye at the time he first told me he wrote it, I don’t recall.

I have searched the web extensively in case somebody else was making a claim
for it, all to no avail, I’m sorry Pop for doubting you, it’s your poem.

Tin Lizzie

I brought home a second hand Lizzie

Oh it fair knocked the old woman dizzy

She kept sayin’ to me

What might that thing be?

Till I told her it was a Tin Lizzie.

The bloke reckoned that she was a snorter,

So that was the reason I bought her,

She’d run for a while,

Say about a mile,

Yet she don’t seem to run like she oughta.

Since I bought this second hand fliver,

I keep sayin’ to myself well I never,

She’ll run down the hills,

She’ll run up the bills,

No wonder I’ve got a crook liver.

I was fixin’ the old carburetor,

I thought that might make her run better;

When the wife says, “look out,

Or she’ll blow us both up”

I said, “if she wants to, then let her”.

At this the wife gets a bit crazy,

When she’s wild she’s a daisy,

She said, “look out”

And gave me a clout,

My brainbox still feels a bit hazy.

So I took her back to the bloke where I got her,

And I told him that he was a rotter;

He said, “cut out that stuff,

Or I’ll handle you rough,

The car was all right when you got her”.

So after a bit of a barter,

He said, “well I’ll come out and start her”

He cursed this and that,

And he tore off his hat,

He said, “strike me pink she’s a tarter”.

After two hours puffing and blowing

We managed to get old Lizz going,

We went for a run

Well she fair took the bun,

For we couldn’t see where we were going.

He said there was nothing to match her,

Well I’m sure there was nothing could catch her,

For she fair took the bit in her teeth,

We ended up underneath;

And it would take 3 new Lizzies to patch her.

Mervyn Holt 1911 - 2002