The Tumut (A Poem)

23 February 1887 Cootamundra Herald 

On elevated land, with hills on every hand, 

O,er looking a very fertile plain, 

In Tumut,s early day was it hidden faraway, 

But at present more attention it must gain. 

Oh! it is a pretty spot and wher's one can say it's not 

Who's ever seen its beauty in the spring   

Every hue and shade of green on the budding trees are seen, 

And the blossoms keep the bee upon the wing. 

For there is the Hawthorn gay, we used to call it May 

In childhood's early days where life was yet a dream, 

Like spires Poplars rise direct toward the skies,

Weeping Willows cast their shadows on the stream. 

On every orchard tree what varied tints we see, 

From snowiest snowy white to red and pink.

All those their sweets exhale, and thus perfume the gale, 

As if Tumut were of Paradise the brink.   

The hills are clothed indeed with splendid pasture feed,

Hungry far off sheep in thousands come along, 

our mountain passes devoured the sweet grasses. 

Then home again return, woolly, fat and strong. 

The far-famed Tumut plain for tobacco corn and grain 

Can even hold its own 'gainst any place or clime; 

The river overflows, and every farmer knows 

The great richness of its fertilising slime. 

The Summer's blazing sun its goodly work hath done,

 And bonny is the rustling of the grain, 

As swept by every breeze it rolls along the seas,

Like billows on the might ocean main 

Then is heard the hum of the swiftly whirling drum 

As the stripper goes its circulating round, 

And minus golden ears the naked straw appears 

Forlornly springing upward from the ground,   

The lofty stalks of maize their tassel'd  heads upraise 

From many a joint producing cobs of corn, 

Whose toughly sheathy felt and filament of silk 

For utility and ornament are worn. 

When ripe their gathered in then the rattle and the din 

Of the Sheller as it acts like any flail, 

Fast as cobs can enter throws away the centre 

An showers forth a stream if golden hail.  

In autumn time again Pomona here doth reign. 

In the Tumut she has built her fruity throne,      

 And on prime orchard land has she with bounteous hand    

Rich delicious gifts most plenteously strewn. 

Instead of barren gums we have apples peaches, plums, 

Fruits of every sort, may also hare be found     

That grow in temperate clime whose names wont suit the rhyme 

The melons and the pumpkins cumber up the ground.     

The Bogong ranges show in winter wreaths of snow, 

Giving thus a purer aspect to the scene;     

For lower hills abound on every side around, 

Making contrast with their dark and sombre green. 

And who seeking health, the weekly child-of wealth   

Has been told to try a balmy charge of air, 

Lo, thither should he roam and try it for a home;  

The same remarks apply to ladies fair 

For it is a lovely spot, and who can say its not 

Who's ever seen its beauty in the spring;

 Every hue and shade of green on the budding trees are seen, 

And the blossoms keep the bee upon the wing.”

16/2/1887

W. E. Alleyne

On the 21^st of December 1923, The Tumut and Adelong Times reprinted the above poem with the following note –

“The following poem on Tumut was written by Mr. Ned. Alleyne in 1887. We are indebted to Mrs. F. Bourke, of Blowering, for the copy, which will be interesting to readers, as an item of ''boost' for Tumut. Many old hands will remember Ned. Alleyne.” 

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