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by Chris Donaldson

 

South of Frenchman’s Cap, where the tiger's yap

Can be heard any day of the week,

In an old bark shack by the Jane River track,

Lived the Hermit of Thirkells Creek.

 

He'd an old fur hat that was native cat,

He'd a platypus coat on his shoulder ;

And he'd made his strides out of wallaby hides

And the leaves of the pandanifolia.

 

In his window at night was his kerosene light;

If you saw it when evening was nigh,

You'd be asked to partake of some kangaroo steak,

Or a slice of his possum-tail pie.

 

It was known for sure he was past fourscore :

He'd tell you his simple philosophy —

"Lead a quiet bush life; don't marry a wife,

Drink plenty of sassafras tea."

 

He knew the Southwest like the hairs on his chest.

He'd say "I just want to be free;

Only give me a home where the wallabies roam

And all the trees grow horizontally."

 

On one fine sunny day in the middle of May

In the Jane he was doing some fishing,

When he saw them arrive in a four-wheel drive

From the Hydro-electric Commission.

 

They tied him in knots with cusecs, kilowatts,

And other such technical jargon ;

But they soon made it plain they were flooding the Jane,

And they'd no intention to bargain.

 

"You'd be much better off where it's not quite so rough,

Just drawing your old age pension:

The Government Benches will pay your expenses."

That's what they called compensation.

 

So they carried him down to our old Hobart Town

To a house on the far Eastern Shore,

Newly painted all through, with a wonderful view,

And a light switch by every door.

 

An old dog, so they say, cannot learn a new way;

One night he woke up cold and sore,

He thought he was back on the Jane River track,

So he made for the axe by the door.

 

Now the trees in the city are scarce, more's the pity,

The hermit found none, bless his soul,

Till he felt in the dark a tall tree with no bark,

And he chopped down an H.E.C. pole.

 

They found him stone dead, 'Man Electrocuted':

T'was a sight that was none too pretty.

But he'd levelled the score: for an hour or more

He'd blacked out the whole darn city.

 

 

Skyline no 18 November 1968