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Twas Mulga Bill

‘Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;

He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;’

When I was a kid I had a book called Mulga Bill’s Bicycle. It’s actually a Banjo Paterson poem, first published in the Sydney Mail on July 25, 1896. It tells the story of a man, Mulga Bill, who cycles a penny-farthing with rather disastrous results.

It has always been a story dear to my family’s heart after an incident I had as a child. We were visiting family friends in the Adelaide Hills one day, who owned a house that sat down the side of a ridge. The house was so deep in the gully it couldn’t be seen at street level.

I was always a bit of a Tom boy as a kid and asked whether I could play on the adult bicycle of their daughter who was probably 18 or so at the time. I was about 11.

I have always had tiny hands and feet and my fingers couldn’t quite reach the brakes on the handlebars of the bike. Unperturbed,  I took the bike up to the street, which was a cul-de-sac, and rode around for a while, turning in a circle at the end of the court in lieu of braking.

Then I got a bit cocky and decided I could totally cycle down the driveway without consequence.

The second I came over the lip of the driveway I was out of control. I came flying down – luckily missing three cars and two trailers – past the outdoor entertaining area, where everyone looked on in horror, and face-planted into a large overgrown bush which saved me from the fate of a barbed-wire fence and a pond.

‘Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,

That perched above Dead Man’s Creek, beside the mountain road.

He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,

But ‘ere he’d gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.

It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver steak,

It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man’s Creek.

Sound familiar. Hence my comparison to Mulga Bill.

I haven’t thought of that book for  many years but it popped into my head this morning when I travelled to Bendigo in country Victoria. When I got off the train I came across this sign at the bus stop.

Apparently,  you can do a cycling tour around Eaglehawk, encompassing mining attractions, historic sites and modern-day amenities of Eaglehawk.

I should give it a go one day. 🙂

* For those non-Australians – A “Mulga” is a common species of Acacia tree which is common in the Australian bush. In fact the bush is sometimes colloquially referred to as the mulga.

 

 

MULGA BILL’S BICYCLE by A.B. “Banjo” Paterson

‘Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;

He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;

He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;

He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;

And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,

The grinning shop assistant said, “Excuse me, can you ride?”

 

“See here, young man,” said Mulga Bill, “from Walgett to the sea,

From Conroy’s Gap to Castlereagh, there’s none can ride like me.

I’m good all round at everything as everybody knows,

Although I’m not the one to talk – I hate a man that blows.

But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;

Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.

There’s nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,

There’s nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,

But what I’ll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:

I’ll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.”

 

‘Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,

That perched above Dead Man’s Creek, beside the mountain road.

He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,

But ‘ere he’d gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.

It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver steak,

It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man’s Creek.

 

It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:

The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,

The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,

As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.

It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,

It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;

And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek

It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dean Man’s Creek.

 

‘Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:

He said, “I’ve had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;

I’ve rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet,

But this was the most awful ride that I’ve encountered yet.

I’ll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it’s shaken all my nerve

To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.

It’s safe at rest in Dead Man’s Creek, we’ll leave it lying still;

A horse’s back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.”