by Elizabeth Lhuede
A post in our 2026 series featuring works published in 1946 (or by authors who died in 1946).

One of the disadvantages of choosing to feature works published in the 1940s is that we’re restricted to ones that are out of copyright. Because the range of texts is small, we’re compelled to feature works we might otherwise overlook for one reason or another – mostly to do with our own tastes, biases and prejudices.

Today’s poem by Isolde Ramsay is one I wouldn’t normally select to feature. Yet there’s an honesty of simply putting out there what we find, rather than curating the material. Ramsay’s “To an old-timer” gives very little suggestion that it was written amid the flux of post-WWII Australia with its American influences and the changing status of women. There is no hint of the poetry battles that gave rise to the experimentation of Ern Malley or the sensitivities to the landscape and Indigenous culture shown in the writing of the Jindyworobaks. Rather, it reads as unapologetically nostalgic for a time long gone, the ethos of the bush celebrated by The Bulletin writers of the 1890s, the “bush tradition” that hung on long after the time most Australians lived in the cities and suburbs.

The little we know about the poet comes from Trove and AustLit. She was born Isolde Brunhilde Wurfel in Dubbo, NSW, in 1898. Her father was an orange orchardist who got into trouble in 1912 brawling with a neighbour – perhaps the victim of racism and anti-German sentiment in the lead-up to the First World War. She appears to have published only a handful of poems, beginning in her 20s, and mostly in the Sydney Morning Herald. In 1939, she contributed to a volume of Australian poetry called Australia Speaks, her poem reprinted in the Herald in 1941. To my surprise, this anthologised poem, appearing under the title, “White Man Beware!“, shows Ramsay, far from being a mere “bush poet”, was very much politically aware, standing “almost alone…in defence of the Australian aborigine”. It makes me rethink the reference to smoking in her poem below: maybe Ramsay was a lot more contemporary than this poem makes her appear.

She died as the result of a riding accident in June 1946 and was survived by two sons.

~

To an old-timer
I sat beside your camp-fire, feeling
pleasantly at ease,
Dispensing for a welcome hour
with all formalities,
The smoke rose up like incense
through the cold, clear morning air;
The grass was bending down with
dew, and peace was everywhere
The sun peeped over hedge and
tree, perhaps, to listen in
To all our quips and sallies and the
tales that you could spin,
Of course I burned the toast, and
then, of course, you laughed at
me;
You branded me a new-chum, not
much used to billy-tea,
But it was flavoured with the bush.
the open road and sky—
And all the things you’ve loved a
long while—and so have I.
I sat beside your camp-fire, by
your battered caravan,
While sausages were sizzling in
your ancient frying-pan.
Your dog crept up beside me, and
your horses grazed near-by,
You quoted Lindsay Gordon, with
a twinkle in your eye
In setting unconvential, but satisfactory,
We breakfasted al fresco in a
spacious liberty,
While magpies warbled, jubilant,
and larks were on the wing.
The splendour of the young day
shining over everything.
With lines from Henry Lawson, or
a verse from Ogilvie,
We yarned of men and horses, and
the days that used to be;
Of cattle kings and outlaws, fire
and flood and Cobb and Co—
The romance of our country that
will never let us go.
The beauty we have cherished,
whether stars were blazing bright,
Or morning full of melodies splashed
hills with amber light.
The yarran and the salt bush, and
the brown bloom on the pine,
The purple drifts of bule-flower
—these have touched your
heart and mine,
And though the ever-marching
years may steal our youth away.
They cannot dim the wattle-gold
or make the birds less gay,
Where happy-jacks go hopping.
where the everlastings grow,
Where iron-barks top the ridge,
and the things we love and know.
I’m thinking, as I thought then, as
we puffed our cigarettes;
Some moments are like highlights,
such as nobody forgets;
A brief and blest reminder of
delight in simple things,
Until we thank the humblest flower
for happiness it brings.
I count the miles in hundreds that
to-day between us lie—
To conjure up your camp-fire
brings a chuckle or a sigh.
As fancy takes me back there to
our bush philosophy.
Where even burning toast becomes
a fragrant memory.
ISOLDE RAMSAY.
~
References
Isolde Ramsay, AustLit entry: https://www-austlit-edu-au.ezproxy.sl.nsw.gov.au/austlit/page/A51220
“Neighbours Quarrel”, The Dubbo Liberal and Macquarie Advocate, 29 Mar 1912.
Ramsay, I. “To an old-timer”, The North-Western Watchman, 15 Aug 1946.
Ramsay, I. “White Man Beware!” The Sydney Morning Herald, 12 Apr 1941.
~

Elizabeth Lhuede has a PhD in Australian Poetry from Macquarie University. In 2012, she instigated the Australian Women Writers Challenge as a contribution to overcoming gender bias in the reviewing of works by Australian women. More recently she has focused on bringing to light the life and works of forgotten Australian women writers.