Funeral Notice
Live Stream
Condolences
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Deepest condolences to the Connolly and Alcorn Families. Terribly sad news and sorry I could not be there for the service today.👍 1
- so sorry I was unable to be there today, sending love, hugs and strength - Annette
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Thoughts are with Bruce's family in this difficult period. The whole Tama cotton team were sorry to hear of Bruce's passing.He was a great man and will be missed by many.Simon Long❤ 3
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The Giz.
By David Connolly – April 2026.
Born at Cunnamulla, where the Burrenbilla mulga grew,
A final son for Rob and Shirley, raised in skies, big, wide and blue,
From that country rough and honest, where a man learns what is true,
Came a life of fun and laughter—mate, that life belonged to you.
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From the Southport School in younger days, with brothers by his side,
David there to share the road, in that bond of boyhood pride,
With his sisters, Jenelle and Debbie, through the seasons’ ebb and flow,
There were roots that held him steady, deeper than you’d ever know.
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His father tagged him Giz, a name that stuck for life,
A boyhood name that stayed with him, through work and any strife,
It rang across the years and followed where he’d roam,
And Giz became the man we knew, a name that felt at home.
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At Emerald College in his youth, new adventures, tales to tell,
They named him “sliprail” quick enough – He wore it pretty well.
Then west he pushed for station work, where the dry winds never sleep,
A Ringer out at Ethel Creek, where the desert stretches deep.
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He was a bushman of the old style, where the red dirt meets the sky,
With a swag of tales and stories, and a straight and steady eye,
From the scrub to winding rivers, where the wild tracks always led,
There was nowhere Giz would not go, nor a life he hadn’t led.
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He’d ride the ranges fearless, where the ridgelines twist and fall,
On an old bike chasing sunsets, hearing freedom’s distant call,
With the throttle singing loudly and the dust behind him thrown,
He was never more at home, mate, than out there on his own.
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He knew the call of morning, when the bush begins to wake,
And the stillness on the water when the dawn begins to break,
With a rifle or a fishing line, or yarns by firelight told,
He lived the life he loved the most—unpolished, free, and bold.
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And Lord, he had a way to laugh, to find the lighter side,
With a grin that caught you off your guard and lines that were well tried,
He’d spin a yarn that’d have you bent, or stir you just for fun,
A Bundaberg Rum in hand, when the long day’s work was done.
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But more than all the miles he rode, or all the things he’d see,
Was the pride he held for those he loved, as strong as it could be,
For Tanya stood beside him, with his boys—Jack, Gus, and Darcy too,
They were the finest work he’d ever done, the best of all he knew.
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At Cubbie Station country, where cotton dreams had spanned,
When drought at Dirranbandi, stole the water from the land,
With dams and seasons failing, and the creeks ran dry and low,
He accepted my offer north, to see what he could grow.
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We worked a dream together, chasing vision through the sky,
To bring a crop of cotton, to the Tipperary dry,
Giz turned trial into triumph, through the seasons hot and long,
And proved it could be grown there, when your will is hard and strong.
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And when the day was winding down, and stories found their voice,
He’d spin a yarn in bushman’s style, his words were always choice,
A poet born of open land, where truth is plainly said,
And the verses ran like rivers from the thoughts inside his head.
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And there was Todd Joyce beside him too, more twin brother than a mate,
Through the wild and reckless younger years, they’d laugh and tempt their fate,
On roads less travelled, side by side, with stories hard to beat,
A bond that time could never break, nor distance could defeat.
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When a blade went wrong and Todd went down, it was Bruce who held the line,
Saved his mate and stood there steady—proved a bond that won’t unwind.
As Bruce once stood and saved his mate—when that final road was run,
Todd stood fast and held him there… a life-debt paid, now done.
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There’s a sadness in the telling, for the bush can take its due,
And a rogue ‘roo on the track one day, did what Roo’s can do,
In a heartbeat all was altered, in a moment wild and stark,
Left a silence in the daylight, and an echo in the dark.
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But measure not his passing, by the way he met his end,
For he lived more in his years, mate, than most could comprehend,
With a heart that beat for family, for his boys, his loving wife,
They were the truest north he followed, they were everything—his life.
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And to the mates he left behind him, well, they’ll carry him for years,
In the laughter and the stories, and with a quiet round of beers,
For to know him was a privilege, and to walk a while his track,
Was to gain a wealth of memories that time just won’t take back.
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And to all of us he’s left behind, know the measure of the man,
In the easy way he gave his time, or in the way he’d lend a hand,
There was a joy in simply knowing him, and the times we got to share,
And that kind of bond stays with you, long after he’s not there.
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So, we’ll not just speak of sorrow, though it’s with us standing here,
We’ll remember all the laughter, and the man we held so dear,
For the tracks he rode still wander, and the rivers still run free,
And his spirit rides beside them, like it always used to be.
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And somewhere in bush country, where the wide horizons roll,
There’s a rider still out roaming - that is Bruce, and that’s his soul.
So, here’s to you, old Giz, - for all the laughter and the fun,
We raise a glass to you, mate - And share a final Rum.
******
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The Kununurra farming community mourns the passing of Bruce Connolly.
Bruce’s service and hard work helped shape what the Northern cotton industry is today, and his kindness, integrity and mateship will endure as part of its future. We hold his family in our hearts and will keep them in our thoughts during this time.
On behalf of the Kimberely Cotton Industry Association and the wider Kununurra farming community.
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