The Loggers Day
Poem By George Savige
In the bush where trees are high,
Reaching up into the sky.
This is where we made our cash,
Cutting down the Mountain Ash.
We used no chainsaws in those days,
The trees were felled in other ways.
With aching limbs and tortured back,
We'd listen for the tree to crack.
And there would be a thunderous sound,
As it came crashing to the ground.
We'd stop a while, our strength renew.
Then we'd have more work to do,
Like stripping bark and cutting logs.
Then load the truck and tie with dogs.
The work was hard. The job is done.
And we're off home with setting sun.