This Fisher and a partner snide,
Once farmed a grant of land.
Both of them were ‘ticket’ men,
Their prison terms now spanned.
There came a time when Fisher’s form,
No longer trod the wold,
He had returned to England -
That was the story told.
But now a phantom form appeared,
By creek below a ridge;
‘Twas Fisher’s Ghost, which oft would come,
To haunt the rodd and bridge.
None dared pause to note it move,
Far more intent of course,
To stretch the distance in between,
By putting whip to horse.
And never draw a flowing rein,
O’er road still lined with scrub,
‘Til reaching sanctuary of his home,
Or portals of the pub.
At last there spoke a braver soul
(Endowed with O.P. strength)
Who vowed: ‘I’ll watch what e’er it does;
I’ll go to any length’.
So, ‘twixt Campbelltown and Camden,
On a night quite stygian black,
When ghosty came and sat itself,
Beside the haunted track.
He watched it rise, and beckon:
To ‘follow if he will’,
It paused, it pointed at a mound
Below a distant hill.
The eerie gloom, so unrelieved,
Saw O.P. strength decline,
Now chilling waves of terror,
Sent shivers down his spine.
In trembling haste he dug the sod,
As dawn awoke the day
And - down there in a shallow grave,
The bones of Fisher lay.
From Campbelltown to Camden,
By creek below a ridge,
No longer sits a ghostly form,
Upon a haunted bridge.
It sought to solve a hidden crime,
Not be a scaring pest,
So once poor Fisher’s fate was clear,
The ghost now lays at rest.
Back To Clarry
Dunstan Verse Summary
to Rodd's Gallery