Winning Poem: The 2025 Rae Cerhan Australiana Ballad Award

Song of The Depression

Helen Harvey

The wool demand has fallen and it’s much the same for wheat – 
    the country-side is ringing with the sound of tramping feet.
In sombre solitude we wander as we wonder why
    our land is so much poorer since the world has passed us by.

We are the sons who sailed away from home to fight The War
    beside a distant Empire, now, we have to ask  what for?
We tramp around the country seeking only to survive,
    in search of work and shelter in our quest to stay alive.

With swags swung round our shoulders and black billy by our side,
    we cross a lot of country as we try to salvage pride.
We wonder what the day will bring or where to camp the night,
    then pray the family at home is getting by alright.

And so, The Great Depression marches on with us in tow;
    some falter and may stumble if esteem becomes too low.
You know that times are hard when men no longer can provide,
    a meagre meal for children clinging to their mother’s side.

Is this the cause for which we fought? We cannot fathom why,
    the reason we deserve these times that drag on slowly by.
A campfire out along the track is such a welcome sight –
    some company to share with men adrift in the same plight

a chance to break the silence of the daily, numbing grind,
    by trading conversation which can leave hard times behind,
if only as a respite but we know that come the morn,
    we’re back to tramping roads again just as the day is born.

We hear the children singing in the streets as we pass through,
    ‘our dads are on the susso, so tonight we eat real stew.’
We see their dirt-stained faces and are glad that they are spared,
    the worries of their fathers with defeated spirits bared.

We tramp along the endless roads just searching for a job, 
    but one day we’ll get lucky when we join the susso mob.
One day we’ll give up tramping when we join the susso mob,
    but vacancies are few and far with scant chance of a job.

We live in hope that one day we can stop and settle down –
    set down some roots and bide awhile – perhaps in our home town.
For now, we keep on walking with a hope stored in each heart,
    that times will turn for families who have been torn apart

For now, The Great Depression calls the tune and sets the beat,
    which keeps us all a-tramping through this land on weary feet.
While mothers of our children pause to wonder where we are,
    or pray that we are safe somewhere beneath the evening star,

which shines upon a country gripped by hard days that still roll,
    without the prospect of an end, which takes a heavy toll.
Sometimes we feast on pigeon stew if aim is true and right,
    or yellow belly from the creeks when they are on the bight.

We set up camp on loamy banks in welcome gum tree shade,
    and while away a day or two as wary herons wade
among the muddy waters where the cunning crayfish hide,
    in waterholes where we can rest nearby the river side.

We’ve tramped away from quarries nestled in the Wollemi,
    near cliffs and tall escarpments standing stark against the sky.
We said goodbye to families when we rolled up our swags,
    with rations and some clothing tucked away in sugar bags.

Our hearts abide with loved ones who are now so far away.
    When will this Great Depression end? Seems no one dares to say.
We’re sons of working miners who are not afraid of work,
    but quarry gates were locked and so we walked right out to Bourke,

in tracks of camel pads or sheep the droving stock had made
    on stretches without water and no trees to throw some shade.
Just common men in search of toil with hopes to earn a bob,
    until we’re on the susso, and can hold a steady job.

Our working boots are almost done and let the damp seep through,
    but with no extra earnings there is nothing we can do,
until some honest work comes up then we can quit the track,
    and bid farewell to camping days and pray they don’t come back.

Then with some steady wages when we earn a bob or two –
    we’ll bid farewell to tramping and to eating pigeon stew.
We walked away as younger men, but somewhere on the track,
    our softer ways had hardened and they won’t be coming back.

One day this Great Depression will be just a memory,
    and children singing susso songs will fade from history.
Until that day we walk and pray that time will not repeat,
    another Great Depression with the sound of tramping feet.