Oh, the convicts built this roadway To another promised land A land they may get used to But never understand Showing they were here to stay They gouged their history Up old Devine’s wild ascent Passed twisted things called trees. The creaking of the hand cart With stone fill for the road The bellow of the bullocks As they heave their heavy load The Great North Road is winding Up ridges passed ravines Helping spread the colony And realise many dreams. Alone, I stand in wonder Amazed by all around Roused from midday reverie By a whip bird’s piercing sound Cutting through the moment Like an overseer’s blast Once cursed the idle convict And set him to his task. Glimpses of the river A jigsaw through the trees Down there on the flat land Silently it weaves Giant, buttressed walls above Support the new made way Shaped from local sandstone Surviving still today. Oh, the convicts built this roadway To another promised land A land they may get used to But never understand The Great North Road is winding Up ridges passed ravines Helping spread the colony And realise many dreams. © Jim Low
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