William Henry Ogilvie
Born in Kelso, Scotland, Ogilvie moved to Australia at the age of twenty. One of his reasons for leaving his homeland was his admiration of the writer Adam Lindsay Gordon and like Gordon, a great love for horses. When he arrived in Australia he found work as a drover, a breaker, and a musterer. He worked at Maroupe, located in South Australia as well as Belalie on the Warrego. It was during this time that he began writing, his poetry focusing on the Outback life and it's many adventures in an acclamatory, romantic verse. Ogilvie had many of his works published in the Mount Gambier Border Watch, the Australasian and the Bulletin. A couple of years before his return to Scotland in 1901 he ... more »
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William Henry Ogilvie Poems
My road is fenced with the bleached, white bones And strewn with the blind, white sand, Beside me a suffering, dumb world moans On the breast of a lonely land.
The hats of a man may be many In the course of a varied career,
Great big lolloping lovable things! Rolling and tumbling on every lawn, Tearing at slippers and bones and wings-
The Bush, My Lover
The camp-fire gleams resistance To every twinkling star; The horse-bells in the distance Are jangling faint and far;
The Horse of your Heart
When you've ridden a four-year-old half of the day And, foam to the fetlock, they lead him away,
From the Gulf
Store cattle from Nelanjie! The mob goes feeding past, With half-a-mile of sandhill 'twixt the leaders and the last; The nags that move behind them are the good old Queensland stamp- Short backs and perfect shoulders that are priceless on a camp;
The Death of Ben Hall
Ben Hall was out on Lachlans side With a thousand pounds on his head; A score of troopers were scattered wide
His Gippsland Girl
Now, money was scarce and work was slack And love to his heart Crept in, And he rode away on the Northern track To war with the world and win;
The skies that arched his land were blue, His bush-born winds were warm and sweet,
The True Sportsman
The real ones, the right ones, the straight ones and the true, The pukka, peerless sportsmen-their numbers are but few;
The Filling of the Swamps
Hurrah for the storm-clouds sweeping! Hurrah for the driving rain!
The Last Muster
All day we had driven the starving sheep to the scrub where the axes ply, And the weakest had lagged upon weary feet and dropped from the ranks to die; And the crows Hew up from the rotting heaps and the ewes too weak to stand, And the fences Haunted red skins like flags, and the dour drought held the land.
The Men of the Open Spaces
These are the men with the sun-tanned faces and the keen far-sighted eyes- the men of the open spaces, and the land where the mirage lies.
As I wandered home
As I wandered home By Hedworth Combe I heard a lone horse whinney,
Comments about William Henry Ogilvie
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
My road is fenced with the bleached, white bones
And strewn with the blind, white sand,
Beside me a suffering, dumb world moans
On the breast of a lonely land.
On the rim of the world the lightnings play,
The heat-waves quiver and dance,
And the breath of the wind is a sword to slay
And the sunbeams each a lance.
I have withered the grass where my hot hoofs tread,
I have whitened the sapless trees,
I have driven the faint-heart rains ahead
To hide in their soft green seas.
I have bound the plains with an iron band,
I have stricken the...