Millamolong & Poetry

Polo – Millamolong Polo Club Style

To mark the 25th anniversary

Bring me a pint of your best ‘Badland’s’ beer
And for m’ lady, ‘Angulong’ wine— will bring her good cheer!
And maybe a mug of ‘Bills Beans’ coffee for you
Whilst of polo- humour me, and I’ll tell you a tale or two…

The rules, they are simple- to avoid a quick death,
You’ll need derring-do, horse sense, the ability to guess,
what four opposing, accomplished and slick horsemen will try,
to unsettle you, hassle you, ‘til your tank runneth dry…

For polo is fast- it is seriously quick,
(you try riding a half ton of pure muscle, while hitting small ball with a stick)
While your mate’s busy colliding into his opponent at pace,
their shoulders jostling to push each other out of the race

Another team-mate’s corralling his opposite away-
“Clear the way for the Back”- he shoots at goal- and we pray,
that his aim may be true,
his seat not too horrid,
that his line is correct,
his horse’s footing be solid.

These are the variables at play on the field,
most polo players from busters off horses have healed,
’Tis the gasp of spectators watching thrills and spills on the deck,
that define what is polo- “Rougher than rugby, and Better than Sex!

A Family Handover – Millamolong Polo Club

L. Andrew Ashton

It was somewhere west of Sydney,
in the Central West dry scrub,
That James Ashton formed an institution
called the Millamolong Polo Club.

He was a tough and hardy horseman,
who as a boy had learned to ride,
And he’d turned to playing polo,
down by the Belubula River side.

He’d known of his father’s exploits,
With four brothers: James, Bob, Geoff and Phil,
Twenty-six horses they’d shipped to England,
Played the high goal season, with consummate skill.

James had grown up loving horses,
And competitive sports to boot –
A natural fit he was to polo
And the club he formed bore fruit.

Toompang was his early polo Club,
Though he knew the family plan,
He teamed up with his brother Wal,
40 years on the Southern Circuit they ran.

His son James Jnr to polo was also wed
And a ‘Four Goaler’ he did become
Two generations of brothers: a formidable team,
James, Jamie, Wal, and me at number One

So Dad brought in the land levellers,
And hooked up pipes to the nearest dam,
And built a tank on top of the hill,
to irrigate his plan

“Winter cooch” he proclaimed loudly
“is the stuff we’ll plant down here,
If it’s good enough for Kerry Packer,
It’ll do our little square”

The polo club it flourished,
though sadly a gravesite it did become,
when we lost our brother and father – both James’
we feared the end – it may have come.

But through our sheer hard work and will,
We built it once again,
Neither floods nor droughts would break us
And our work was not in vain…

A complete committee we did become,
Most skill sets covered as one,
Were it plumbing, farming or building
even viticulture – our commitment was second to none.

With spirited teams, our Club did grow,
though success would come and go,
Our tournaments were lavish affairs
To the community we became well known.

Strong communal feeling – it did blossom,
Built by stylish, hard-working women,
the Social Team, they brought in true panache,
our tournaments showcased great Country Living’

The magic of this wonderful club:
Comradery and family ties,
It’s with this in mind, we welcome the Heads
The next chapter, theirs to define.

The Head family team are a Cobbity lot,
Their pedigree in polo is clear,
Dave played as a ‘pro, now with family in tow,
Jim and Harry are cleaning the gear

Brothers in polo together,
A hard act it is to beat,
Three Ashton generations have shown the way,
At Milla; polo will always have a seat

So now to the family Head we turn
And it’s our pleasure to present
The “Brothers Cup” to be won by those
showing true sportsmanship intent.

THE GEEBUNG POLO CLUB

by A.B. “Banjo” Paterson

It was somewhere up the country in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
They were long and wiry natives of the rugged mountainside,
And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn’t ride;
But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash –
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long.
And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub:
They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.

It was somewhere down the country, in a city’s smoke and steam,
That a polo club existed, called the Cuff and Collar Team.
As a social institution ’twas a marvellous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners only rode ’em once a week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets with them – just to give their boots a rub
Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.

Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road;
And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
A spectator’s leg was broken – just from merely looking on.
For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
And the Cuff and Collar captain, when he tumbled off to die,
Was the last surviving player – so the game was called a tie.

Then the captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him – all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck at goal – and missed it – then he tumbled off and died.

By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,
There’s a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a crude inscription saying, “Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here.”
And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies’ feet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub –
He’s been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.