Every now and then, something lands in the inbox that makes you stop, smile, and appreciate just how deeply people care about this place. This week, it was a message from longtime supporter and friend of Toganmain, Ralph Greenham.
Ralph wrote to thank the committee for the AGM information and the Annual Report, but what followed was something quite special. After celebrating with us at last year's 150th anniversary, he found himself so inspired that—at the age of 84—he decided to do something he'd never done before:
He wrote a ballad.
In fact, he ended up writing two.
Ralph describes the sesquicentennial celebration as "most enjoyable," and so enjoyable, in fact, that it nudged him into the world of verse. He first penned Toganmain Woolshed Sesquicentennial, and more recently completed The Ballad of Toganmain, which he hopes is historically accurate (and has invited us to suggest any amendments).
Both are heartfelt, beautifully crafted tributes to the place we're all working so hard to restore. And with Ralph's blessing, we're proud to share them here in full.
Update: Ralph has since added six new verses to The Ballad of Toganmain, rounding out its story with the paddle steamers, bullock drays and railway that once carried Toganmain's wool to market. The version below is his latest, with the new verses highlighted in yellow so you can see what's been added.
The Ballad of Toganmain
By Ralph Greenham, 2025
When the Crown gave out the land in eighteen, thirty-seven’s year,
In George MacLeay’s name the lease was written clear.
But then, in eighteen seventy-three, new masters took the rein,
The Robertsons would hold it fast — the heart of Toganmain.
Through drought and flood, through boom and bust, they held it firm and long,
From early days till eighty-eight, their stewardship was strong.
For more than one full century they shaped the station’s reign,
And left a legacy that’s grand, upon the Riverina plain.
It grew into a settlement proud, a hub of toil and play,
With amenities and services folk need from day to day.
A tram on steel-railed sleepers ran, drawn steady by a team,
To carry bales down to the scour, that smoked beside the stream.
The Riverina sun beat down, the flat plain stretched away,
And there beside the Murrumbidgee’s bend, the steaming fleeces lay.
For here was more than a shearing shed — it was a whole domain,
A working world and village, the heart of Toganmain.
****
The paddle steamers plied the bends where Bidgee waters ran,
With barges deep in wool and trade that served the inland span.
They brought the stores and station goods from ports so far away,
Then bore the season’s clip downstream when rivers held their sway.
A thousand bales and hundreds more they carried in their train,
The lifeblood of the outer runs like proud old Toganmain.
But when the channels shrank and stilled beneath a hot dry sky,
The river trade would falter slow and idle barges lie.
Then creaked the drays to Echuca’s hub across the dusty plain,
With bullock teams in straining lines that hauled for Toganmain.
Through ruts and heat and choking dust they dragged their heavy loads,
To the teamster’s whip and cursing call, along the inland roads.
In eighty-two the iron road steamed with Carrathool’s new rail,
And changed the pace of station life beyond the bullock trail.
No longer bound to river rise nor drays that crossed the plain,
The bales were carted thirteen miles from the woolshed to the train.
Within a week or so the clip would stand in Sydney’s wool store sale,
A modern age at last had reached beyond the inland trail.
The iron road had bridged the gulf that once the bush had known,
And linked the lonely western plains to cities far from home.
They brought the flour, the tools, the mail, the goods the station claimed,
And kept the far-flung outposts bound when river trade was tamed.
So, river, rail, and bullock track together forged the chain,
That kept the lifeblood flowing through the heart of Toganmain.
****
The Woolshed rose, a marvel vast across the saltbush plain,
A sprawling hall of timber beams — the pride of Toganmain.
The largest shed the Riverina holds, within its sweeping span,
And fourth among the nation’s sheds that mark the toiling man.
The stands were built for one hundred and ten, a sight both bold and rare,
And ninety-two once filled the boards, their blades all flashing there.
In seventy-six’s September shear, the counters told the feat,
Over two hundred thousand sheep were shorn — a record yet to beat.*
Next year another change was born, a trial both bold and new,
The Wolseley shears were handed round to just a chosen few.
The shearers praised the marvellous shears that eased the weary strain,
And soon the B-bows disappeared from sheds like Toganmain.
The tar boys ran, the rousies called, the pressers strained all day,
The ringing never seemed to pause, nor shears be put away.
The air was thick with sweat and fleece, gun shearers pushed ahead,
Each striving for the title, “Ringer of the Shed”.
But history holds its sterner yarns - the union songs were strong,
When shearers fought for better rates, the battles lingered long.
The Riverina carries still the echoes of that time,
When many men struck, but others shore, despite the picket line.
But Toganmain Woolshed was more than boards, more than the shearing floor,
It sprawled into a precinct wide, with huts, kitchens and more:
The shearers’ quarters lined with pine, the kitchens old and worn,
The meat room and the freestanding huts that faced the river dawn.
The shearers’ quarters tell the tales of men from far and near,
Who travelled rough to earn their pay, and found their welcome here.
And though the years have weathered them, the precinct stands today,
With volunteers to clean and mend, and keep the past in play.
Yet still the rafters bore it all — the dust, the wool, the years,
The laughter, sweat, and fellowship, the triumphs and the tears.
And when the shearing slowed at last, the shed stood firm and true,
Awaiting hands to guard its past, and bring it pride anew.
The ageing woolshed’s final shear was in twenty-o-one
Declared unsafe by authorities, its working days were done
There it stood for a decade, neglected, on that saltbush plain
Ravaged by the elements – strong winds and driving rain.
****
Then Peter Freeman and Graeme Nalder, to the rescue came
to save this heritage woolshed that time could not reclaim.
Australia rode on a sheep’s back for a hundred years or so
And, Toganmain, an icon of that era, they couldn’t let her go.
They laid plans and garnered support to stem the shed’s decay,
They sought the ground and held their course, though years would slip away.
Through Paraway and bankers’ halls their pleading voices ran,
’til Macquarie marked the title down - and backed the Toganmain plan.
Two decades on, the timbers wept beneath a sagging crown,
Some cladding gone, the roofing torn, the rain came driving down.
Yet Friends of Toganmain stood firm, with spirit tried and true,
To raise once more those weathered walls and see the old shed through.
****
When Christine Chirgwin took the lead, her vision firm and clear,
To celebrate this grand old woolshed, in its hundred and fiftieth year.
She pictured tables set to dine beneath the rafters’ span,
And quietly the work began - her hope became the plan.
November twenty-three, saw a faithful few, with little gear in store,
Clear the huts and woolshed of grass piled high on every floor.
They blocked the gaps with doors and boards to keep the weather clear,
And laid out plans for future work - the start of what we’d cheer.
When Landline told the woolshed’s tale, the call rang loud and clear,
And volunteers came pouring in with willing hands and cheer
From Bribie Island to Geelong, from Eden to Adelaide
To give their time and lend a hand - long journeys many made.
For volunteers with steady will, restore it board by board,
And Heritage now keeps it safe, its legacy assured.
One hundred and fifty years were marked, the people came again,
To feast and sing and toast the night, inside of Toganmain.
By day the music filled the air, and when the band fell still,
Bush ballads then were spoken loud, their verses linger still.
At dinner came three ballads more, recited clear and plain,
And voices joined a three-piece band to honour Toganmain.
The tables stretched from wall to wall, it was a wonderful sight
One hundred eighty-six guests dined, beneath its beams that night.
The yarns were told, the stories shared, the rafters shook with song,
And time itself sat down to feast, as past and now grew strong.
So, raise a cheer for those who keep this noble place alive,
Where history and the present meet, and memories still thrive.
For on the Riverina’s plains, one truth will long remain:
Australia’s heart beats strong and proud inside of Toganmain.
*Actual number – 202,292 by 92 blade shearers.
Toganmain Woolshed Sesquicentennial
By Ralph Greenham, 2025
Out where the Murrumbidgee flows,
Across the sweeping plain,
They built a shed the world would know —
The mighty Toganmain.
The stands were built for one hundred and ten,
A marvel bold and fine,
And ninety-two once shore in row,
Their blades in flashing line.
In eighty-seven’s springtime heat,
A bold trial made its start
The Wolseley handpiece took the board,
And won the shearers’ heart.
The "B-bows" soon were cast aside,
Their spring-blades seen no more,
For powered shears had claimed their place
Upon that famous floor.
But Toganmain was more than woolshed,
It sprawled both far and wide,
With huts and kitchens, dairy and more,
All things a community required.
The shearers slept in hut and bunk,
The kitchens fed the crowd,
And now the precinct being saved,
Still stands both strong and proud.
The rousies called, the tar boy ran,
The pressers bent with pain
In one of the biggest sheds ever built
That graced the saltbush plain.
And still it stands — a giant yet,
Its rafters firm and sound,
Being restored with care, it bears the past
And draws the people round.
For in its one hundred and fiftieth year,
The music played again,
And ballads rose, and stories flowed,
Through proud old Toganmain.
The tables stretched from wall to wall,
It was a wonderful sight,
One hundred and eighty-six guests were fed
Beneath its beams that night.
So, raise a glass to those who care,
Who keep its heart aflame -
Australia’s past and future meet
Thanks to the Friends of Toganmain.
Ralph finished his note with apologies for not being able to join us at the Christmas gathering, and sent his warmest wishes to all.
We hope you enjoy his work as much as we did. It's a privilege to share the stories of Toganmain — past and present — with people who continue to help shape its future.
Thank you, Ralph. Your words now form part of the story too.
