The Bywong Bullock Team
Like his father John, Tom Casey was a bullocky. Tom Casey is Irene’s father, and you can read more about his life and marriage with Caroline King here.
I’m Tom’s great grandson, and one of my many relatives is Pat Dwyer, who’s Tom’s grandson. I believe that Pat might be one of Roy Casey’s sons, and Roy is Irene’s youngest brother. I think that makes me Pat’s second cousin once removed, but I find this “cousins” thing all a bit confusing, hence why I’ve included a document that I hope will explain it a little better - click here.
Patrick wrote the poem “The Bywong Bullock Team” in honour of his grandfather. The poem includes a couple of stanzas that cover the ghost story that’s included in Tom’s story here.
The rest of this page is all in Pat’s words.
Tom Casey and the Bullock Team, circa 1900
THE BYWONG BULLOCK TEAM
By Pat Dwyer
To the memory of my Grandfather Thomas Casey who drove the Bywong Station Bullock team from "Bywong" Gundaroo near Canberra to Sydney for several years during the 1860's.
Tom Casey drove the bullock team from Bywong to the sea.
The load was Bywong wool clip, it was fine as it could be.
He travelled on the Sydney Road made by Hume and Hovel
It was just a dirt track, with little sign of gravel.
The rain poured down in torrents and filled up every creek.
Casey knew he must push on, or he might be stopped a week.
The bullocks shook their heads to repel the driving rain,
They knew the whip would crack, if they slowed up again.
The wagon wheels creaked and cracked as the potholes they went through.
The team almost stopped stone dead when they spied a kangaroo.
As Casey went through Goulburn, he admired the bricks and mortar.
He didn't know, come one day, he'd marry the brick layer’s daughter.
The town common was a place where all the teamsters stopped.
The bullocks fed, his brother Bill in charge, Thomas went and shopped.
A new pub built in Cowper Street served the best of beer.
Thomas thought he'd try one, he hadn't for a year.
As he enjoyed quite a few, he felt he was reborn.
He didn't think of bullocks or the job he had at dawn.
He told a tale of droughts and floods as he had gone to Sydney town.
About the Wollondilly when the water was so brown.
Next morning as his head ached, he yoked the bullocks ready.
He knew he must be alert and keep the load so steady.
The hills got steep, the creeks ran high, he knew he had to risk it.
As bullocks heaved the wagon on through water to their briskets.
The rain stopped, the sun shone through,
The birds all made a hullabaloo,
The bush it shone and glistened, like a new spring clean.
The bullocks thought of tall green grass, it made their faces gleam.
As the days go on, it's Marulan, then on to Mittagong.
The trip it's not so easy and seems to take so long.
Before the sun sets in the West they camp down by the road.
The wagon wheels need greasing, to support the heavy load.
The nights are cold and frosty, and fog is all around.
The campfire is a welcome place when sleeping on the ground.
A bloke called Charlie Jones was with another team.
He'd been drinking too much wine, or that's how it did seem.
At night he went for water with a pannikin in his hand.
He disappeared for ever more, which they couldn't understand.
When morning came, they combed the bush but didn't find a clue.
All they found was bush and birds and lots of wallabies too.
They wondered if he got a ride or maybe walked away.
They decided to yoke up the team and look another day.
Now Casey's off to Sydney and downhill rolls along.
With the whip upon his shoulder as he sings a brand new song.
The song had come from England by some sailors on a ship.
He learnt it down in Sydney when he came on his last trip,
The wool it was unloaded in a wool store at the quay.
Now it was supplies for home, that had arrived by ship and sea.
Then it was the same trip home only in reverse,
The bullocks laboured up the hills and made young Thomas curse,
As they passed along that way, they camped at that same place.
And everyone around the fire wore a worried face.
Charlie Jones walked right in with a pannikin in his hand.
The dog growled and cringed, for there the ghost did stand.
Then just as quick as it came in it seemed to disappear.
The men wondered why or how and tried to hide their fear.
Next morning at their breakfast they chewed a piece of toast.
And one said to the other," do you think it was a ghost".
The other said "I don't know and really cannot tell".
And if we talk about it, our mates will laugh like hell.
Now Tom and Bill are nearly home, the family's very near.
They'll be telling yarns of every kind, but none about their fear.
Written by Pat Dwyer and Rob Landsberry, last updated 18 May 2023