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In Ballarat Where History Don't Fade

In Ballarat where history don't fade
They still honour the Eureka Stockade,
The miners who fought some of them even died
For their rights to them that for years they had been denied

The Town of Ballarat known far and wide
And the people there in their history take pride
Their ancestors fought against their oppressors laws
And even took up arms for their worthy cause.

The name of Peter Lalor they revere
He led the miners fight and conquered fear
But for his fame a huge price he did pay
He lost an arm on that historic day.

The miners were defeated in the bloody fight
They succumbed to the Government forces greater might
But they won their rights for which they went to war
And the story of their bravery travelled far.

[...] Read more

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Peonage System

The religious wars of Europe have been numbered with the past,
But a worse thing, bright America with clouds has overcast,
'Tis the heinous contract system that plantation life contains,
Worse than slavery's conditions in a land where freedom reigns.

Negroes forced in one roomed cabins, mother's from their children torn
All the day till dark of evening from the dawn of early morn,
Sweet affection, thrift and neatness, all that perfect homes would bring,
Yea, humanity is buried at command of money's king.

Shall the future of the Negro by the white man be suppressed,
In his forcing from the present all that makes the future best?
Shall the training of the children be neglected? passing strange
Things material for the morals of the Negro they exchange.

Oft we find an overseer with a gun and club and whip,
Who at night within the stockade locks the Negroes, lest they skip,
If they offer a resistance for their treatment in this cage,
They are clubed into submission in the overseer's rage.

[...] Read more

poem by Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer
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The Fight at Eureka Stockade

"Was I at Eureka?" His figure was drawn to a youthful height,
And a flood of proud recollections made the fire in his grey eyes bright;
With pleasure they lighted and glisten'd, tho' the digger was grizzled and old,
And we gathered about him and listen'd while the tale of Eureka he told.

"Ah, those were the days," said the digger, "twas a glorious life that we led,
When fortunes were dug up and lost in a day in the whirl of the years that are dead.
But there's many a veteran now in the land - old knights of the pick and the spade,
Who could tell you in language far stronger than mine 'bout the fight at Eureka Stockade.

"We were all of us young on the diggings in days when the nation had birth -
Light-hearted, and careless, and happy, and the flower of all nations on earth;
But we would have been peaceful an' quiet if the law had but let us alone;
And the fight - let them call it a riot - was due to no fault of our own.

"The creed of our rulers was narrow - they ruled with a merciless hand,
For the mark of the cursed broad arrow was deep in the heart of the land.
They treated us worse than the negroes were treated in slavery's day -
And justice was not for the diggers, as shown by the Bently affray.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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Eureka

Stand up, my young Australian,
In the brave light of the sun,
And hear how Freedom's battle
Was in the old days lost - and won.
The blood burns in my veins, boy,
As it did in years of yore,
Remembering Eureka,
And the men of 'Fifty-four.

The old times were the grand times,
And to me the Past appears
As rich as seas at sunset,
With its many-coloured years;
And like a lonely island
Aglow in sunset light,
One day stands out in splendour -
The day of the Good Fight.

Where Ballarat the Golden
On her throne sits like a Queen,

[...] Read more

poem by Victor James Daley
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Cigarettes And Whiskey And Wild, Wild Women

(from a song)

Perhaps I was born kneeling,
born coughing on the long winter,
born expecting the kiss of mercy,
born with a passion for quickness
and yet, as things progressed,
I learned early about the stockade
or taken out, the fume of the enema.
By two or three I learned not to kneel,
not to expect, to plant my fires underground
where none but the dolls, perfect and awful,
could be whispered to or laid down to die.

Now that I have written many words,
and let out so many loves, for so many,
and been altogether what I always was—
a woman of excess, of zeal and greed,
I find the effort useless.
Do I not look in the mirror,

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Sexton
Added by Dan Costinaş
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In order to drill into young men the need to stay alert and stay alive, I used to punish offenders with my fists, boots and rifle butt, and with stockade time.

quote by David Hackworth
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Eureka Stockade

The Bard stopped at Footscray
on the road to Ballarat
researching The Eureka Stockade
imagined the boys
manning the barricades
police bullets flying
hoisting the Southern Cross
and dying.

poem by Vince Gullaci
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The surplus Teddy Bear

The surplus Teddy Bear

open handed receive
package with navel hope, a beauty
that last for lifetime

stockade for ages, wonder that only few
have accepted, for nothing compare
than a cedar of Lebanon

oh! hail Israel, the Zion of Heaven
reveals, cast all the wonder, the day
arise form Bethlehem

receive.....

poem by Antonio Liao
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Coyote Visits a Fort (Native American)

Coyote and Dog watched the fort from the hill.
“I have everything I need in my new home, ”
Dog said. “Come, I will show you what to do.”
They walked past the guard at the stockade gate.

The fort was dusty and full of human noise.
They had to be alert for hooves and boots.
Dog drank from a muddy puddle, then showed
The stables where he slept. A boy threw a rock.

Coming to the kitchen, Dog wagged his tail.
He gazed up hopefully at a man cutting meat.
He whimpered and rubbed against the man’s leg.
The man gave Dog a scrap and shooed him away.

Coyote watched more, then grabbed a slab of bacon,
Left by a hole in the fence, and returned to his family.

poem by Chuck Toll
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Somewhere Precious

A sun bleached fence facing the sea.
Sand dunes, sea grass, on windblown shore.
Seagulls hovering, wings spread wide,
calling as they’ve done times before.

A welcome break from hard routine.
A pressure gone, a restful spell.
Sitting with backs against the slats,
of this stockade, with fears to quell.

When last we surveyed the blue sea,
the tide was laundering the sands.
As up the beach we watched it race,
and touched its ripples with our hands.

Cool salty air invades weak lungs,
giving us a refreshing lift.
With tickling grains between our toes,
our relaxed minds begin to drift.

[...] Read more

poem by Ernestine Northover
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