Local History Stories

By Ivan Skaines, Trevallyn, Gresford District Historical Society

The accompanying poem about Barrington Tops was written 100 years ago, coinciding with an extensive campaign by locals (including John Hopson and Edgar Marceau from Eccleston) and others from Dungog, Maitland, Newcastle and elsewhere who lobbied for the opening of the Barrington Tops as a mountain sanatorium and tourist resort (the phrase "the Blue Mountains of the north" was often used).

Barrington Tops

Dungog Chronicle: Durham and Gloucester Advertiser Tue 17 July

1923 Page 5

Barrington Tops

(By G. Burrows.)

The following poem was recited by Mr. Burrows at last meeting of the Barrington Tops Committee, Dungog, to illustrate his recent trip.

A little story I would tell

If you will patient be

And do not criticise too much

Or be too hard on me.

This story is about the Tops, This great Australian land So, just you come along with me And view the scenery grand.

The times is early morning, There's excitement in the air; Our party's off up to the Tops To see the country there.

So, on with your saddles and bridles, boys, And buckle your pack on tight, For it's a rough track up the ranges And we may not get back tonight.

Tally ho! Tally ho! away we go With our faces turned to the west Our goal in the top of the ranges, lads, Up where the wombats nest.

Into the brush on the winding track Into the shady glen

There's beauty here in beauty's home Away from the haunts of men.

You glorious fern of this brushy land, Your beauty, it is sublime. Let's leave you alone in your paradise And climb the hill, boys, climb!

Our guide points away to the north To one glorious towering peak. Ah! What wonderful tales you hills could tell If hills could only speak.

Yes, speak of the snow white flying clouds That cover its crest with snow. Yes, wonderful tales if yon hills could tell, Tales we will never know.

We are climbing up the Corker now, The stiffest pinch we've had; The hills look nice in their coat of blue The scenery makes one glad.

Then rounding a bend on this mountain track There's a beautiful sight to be seen, There are thousands of tree ferns growing there In their wonderful shades of green.

Oh, for the power of Milton's pen Or a touch of Shakespeare's art; I would carry this beauty right home to you And plunge it down deep in your heart.

The leaves of the trees like silver shine, As they're waving to and fro. They seem to bid us adieu, adieu, As up the track we go.

Up the track to the top of the hill, Up by the easiest way; Up where the out-lawed Governors camped Yes, camped there many a day.

Then around the bluff where the wind' blows hard, Blows hard through the horse's mane, And hit the trail for Carey's Peak, Up from the sun-kissed plain.

Walking and trotting and jogging along With the sunlight in our eyes, We wind along the old bush track And up the last short rise.

Now up on the great high peak at last, And we gaze as in a spell. Of the wondrous beauty of this wondrous scene, No living tongue could tell.

How stupendous! how noble and ruggedly grand, This scene that's presented to you This beauty that's calling for thousands to see, But alas, only seen by a few.

Then thoughts like these flash across your brain, Conveyed through your far-seeing eye, Of the wonderful Artist who made this scene, The Artist who lives in the sky.

Hark! I fancy I hear it now, So solemn, so grand and low, Like the hum of a busy city, Thousands of feet below.

It's the hum of the wind down the ranges. As it curls and eddies around And clutches the hills in its fury And tears up the trees from the ground.

Ye cliffs and crags and towering peaks, You have nobly stood the test, You will stand in your glory for ages to come, When we have gone to rest.

Ah, Thunderbolt; you crossed these hills, This was your natural home. Your outlaw blood called you to the bush Out on the hills to roam.

In fancy I see your flying form On your beautiful galloping steed With the Law pressing hard upon your track And to escape is your greatest need.

It's then you show your wonderful skill As down the range you sweep, And clear that fearful rocky gorge, Thunderbolt's famous leap.

Away, wild thoughts of outlaw days, Come in sweet thoughts of peace When outlaw days are gone for good And wars forever cease.

Now, out on the plain where the snow piles high High up on the tableland, Like snow white billows of fairy wool The scene is beautifully grand.

The snow grass covers the spreading plain, As if trying to keep it warm As the snow folds down like a blanket white In the teeth of the flying storm.

Cold winter, grand winter Roll on, with your glistening snow But give me a touch of your healthy hand As around the world you go.

My story is almost finished friends, If roughly cast and set, We'll boost the Tops for all we're worth And see the road through yet.

Q

The next meeting of the Gresford District Historical Society will be held at the Therese Doyle Hall on Saturday, 11 February at 5 pm (the second Saturday of each month).

The Gresford Heritage Museum, also in the Therese Doyle Hall, is open 10 am to 2 pm on the 1st, 2nd and 3rd Sundays of the month. Other times by appointment.

Anglican Parish of Gresford Paterson

Weekly Services 10.30am Sundays at St Annes COVID safe practices in place CONTACT

Fr Peter Rothnie 0438 413 007, email priest@gpanglican.com.au