From the Lambing To The Wool

Judy Small

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My father was a cocky as his father was before him
And I married me a cocky nearly fifty years ago
And I've lived here on this station and I've seen the seasons changing
From the drought round to the flooding, from the lambing to the wool

CHORUS:
And there've been times when I've wondered
If it all was worth the doing
And there've been times when I've thought
This was the finest place there is
For though the life here's never easy
And the hours are long and heavy
I'm quite contented nowadays
To have joined my life to his

Together through the thirties while others' lives were broken
We worked from dawn to twilight to hold on to what was ours
And at night we'd sit exhausted and I'd stroke his dusty forehead
With him too tired to talk to me and me too tired to care

Then the children came unbidden bringing laughter to the homestead
And I thanked the Lord my sons were young, too young for battle then
And I counted myself lucky to lose no one close to family
Though the neighbours lost their only son, sold up and moved to town

And the children have grown and left me for careers in town and city
And I'm proud of them but sadly for none chose station life
And now I smile to hear them talking of the hard slog in the office
For when I think of working hard I see a cocky and his wife



Another from the wonderful Judy Small.
The illustration to this site is The Drover's Wife by Russel Drysdale.

One Voice In The Crowd

Judy Small

I've lived a life of privilege, I've never known what hunger is
I've never laboured with my hands except to play guitar
Middle class my middle name, life's been more or less a game
But in the end it's all the same, the buck stops where you are

And we are foolish people who do nothing
Because we know how little one person can do
Yes we are foolish people who do nothing
Because we know how little one can do

It's not my issue, not my scene, I've got to get my own house clean
I keep it neat and tidy just in case the Queen should call
Come back to me another day and gladly I'll join in, we say
And I'm just one voice anyway, just one brick in the wall

One brick in the wall you may be, one voice in the crowd
But without you we are weaker and our song may not be heard
One drop in the ocean, but each drop will swell the tide
So be your one brick in the wall, be one voice in the crowd

And we are foolish people who do nothing
Because we know how little one person can do
Yes we are foolish people who do nothing
Because we know how little one can do


Written by Judy Small in 1985.

Mothers, Daughters, Wives

Judy Small



CHORUS:
The first time it was fathers
The last time it was sons
And in between your husbands
Marched away with drums and guns
And you never thought to question
You just went on with your lives
'Cause all they taught you who to be
Was mothers, daughters, wives


You can only just remember the tears your mothers shed
As they sat and read their papers through the lists and lists of dead
And the gold frames held the photographs that mothers kissed each night
And the doorframe held the shocked and silent stranger from the fight


It was twenty-one years later with children of your own
The trumpets sounded once again, the soldier boys were gone
So you made their guns and drove their trucks and tended to their wounds
And at night you kissed their photographs and prayed for safe returns
And after it was over you had to learn again
To be just wives and mothers when you'd done the work of men
So you worked to help the needy and you never trod on toes
The photos on the pianos struck a happy family pose

Then your daughters grew to women and your little boys to men
And you prayed that you were dreaming when the call-up came again
But you proudly smiled and held your tears as they bravely waved goodbye
The photos on the mantelpiece, they always made you cry
And now you're getting older, and in time the photos fade
And in widowhood you sit back and reflect on the parade
Of the passing of your memories, how your daughters changed their lives
Seeing more to our existence than just mothers, daughters, wives



From Judy Small's 1982 album, A Natural Selection.