A favourite for the comparison of the rough and ready Geebung Polo Club members and their wealthy city competitors The Cuff and Collar Team. Lonely and sadly one night in NovemberI laid down my weary head in search of reposeOn my wallet of straw, which I long shall remember,Tired and weary I fell into a doze.Tired from working hardDown in the labour yard,Night brought relief to my sad, aching brain.Locked in my prison cell,Surely an earthly hell,I fell asleep and began for to dream.I dreamt that I stood on the green fields of Erin,In joyous meditation that victory was won.Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing. For you must give the field the slip; So never draw the rein, But keep him moving with the whip, And, if he falter, set your lip And rouse him up again. `I spurred him on to get the lead, I chanced full many a fall; But swifter still each phantom steed Kept with me, and at racing speed We reached the big stone wall. The mountains saw them marching by: They faced the all-consuming drought, They would not rest in settled land: But, taking each his life in hand, Their faces ever westward bent Beyond the farthest settlement, Responding to the challenge cry of "better country farther out". And lo, a miracle! The Pledge!MACBREATH: I say I never signed the gory pledge. And the lavin's of the grub! that's a sweet township -- a shindy To them is board, lodging, and sup. The Last Parade 153. They bred him out back on the "Never", His mother was Mameluke breed. And if they have racing hereafter, (And who is to say they will not?) There he divided the junior Knox Prize with another student. "I dreamt I was homeward, back over the mountain track,With joy my mother fainted and gave a loud scream.With the shock I awoke, just as the day had broke,And found myself an exile, and 'twas all but a dream. How Gilbert Died Poem by Banjo Paterson It was not much! Fourth Man "I am an editor, bold and free. Their version of "The man from Snowy River" is the best I have ever heard (about 15mins long) A very stirring poem set to music. He looked to left and looked to right, As though men rode beside; And Rio Grande, with foam-flecks white, Raced at his jumps in headlong flight And cleared them in his stride. In fact I should think he was one of their weediest: 'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, That a "stag" makes quite good enough mutton for shearers. But when they reached the big stone wall, Down went the bridle-hand, And loud we heard Macpherson call, `Make room, or half the field will fall! (The ghost of Thompson disappears, and Macbreath revives himselfwith a great effort. In the depth of night there are forms that glide As stealthily as serpents creep, And around the hut where the outlaws hide They plant in the shadows deep, And they wait till the first faint flush of dawn Shall waken their prey from sleep. And I know full well that the strangers' faces Would meet us now is our dearest places; For our day is dead and has left no traces But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night. Get a pair of dogs and try it, let the snake give both a nip; Give your dog the snakebite mixture, let the other fellow rip; If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good. Fearless he was beyond credence, looking at death eye to eye: This was his formula always, "All man go dead by and by -- S'posing time come no can help it -- s'pose time no come, then no die." Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough? Unnumbered I told them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright? He was educated at Sydney Grammar School. Eye-openers they are, and their system Is never to suffer defeat; It's "win, tie, or wrangle" -- to best 'em You must lose 'em, or else it's "dead heat". His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. Young Andrew spent his formative years living at a station called "Buckenbah' in the western . Sure the plan ought to suit yer. The Man From Snowy River There was mo Unnumbered I hold them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright? Enter a Messenger. I don't want no harping nor singing -- Such things with my style don't agree; Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing There's music sufficient for me. Anon we'll all be fittedWith Parliamentary seats. Owner say'st thou?The owner does the paying, and the talk;Hears the tale afterwards when it gets beatAnd sucks it in as hungry babes suck milk.Look you how ride the books in motor carsWhile owners go on foot, or ride in trams,Crushed with the vulgar herd and doomed to hearFrom mouths of striplings that their horse was stiff,When they themselves are broke from backing it.SCENE IIIEnter an Owner and a JockeyOWNER: 'Tis a good horse. (Banjo) Paterson. Missing a bursary tenable at the University, he entered a solicitors office, eventually qualified, and practised until 1900 in partnership with Mr. William Street, a brother of the former Chief Justice. Rataplan never will catch him if only he keeps on his pins; Now! Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post! . He neared his home as the east was bright. Prithee, chase thyself! In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, "The trail of the serpent was over them all." Another search for Leichhardt's tomb, Though fifty years have fled Since Leichhardt vanished in the gloom, Our one Illustrious Dead! And horse and man Lay quiet side by side! Still bracing as the mountain wind, these rhymed stories of small adventure and obscure people reflect the pastoral-equestrian phase of Australian development with a fidelity of feeling and atmosphere for which generations to come will be grateful. (That "pal" as I've heard, is an elegant word, Derived from the Persian "Palaykhur" or "Pallaghur"), As the scapegoat strains and tugs at the reins The Rabbi yells rapidly, "Let her go, Gallagher!" More than a Poet. Jack Thompson: The Campfire Yarns of Henry Lawson. But maybe you're only a Johnnie And don't know a horse from a hoe? A Dog's Mistake. For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance, Nor odds, though the others were fast; He'd race with a dogged persistence, And wear them all down at the last. Then if the diver was sighted, pearl-shell and lugger must go -- Joe Nagasaki decided (quick was the word and the blow), Cut both the pipe and the life-line, leaving the diver below! 'Ten to One, Golumpus. A Disqualified Jockey's Story. By the Lord, he's got most of 'em beat -- Ho! Experience docet, they tell us, At least so I've frequently heard; But, "dosing" or "stuffing", those fellows Were up to each move on the board: They got to his stall -- it is sinful To think what such villains will do -- And they gave him a regular skinful Of barley -- green barley -- to chew. This was the way of it, don't you know -- Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep, And never a trooper, high or low, Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep! Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins! Banjo Paterson Complete Poems. He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist, And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click, Recovered his wits as they turned to go, For fright will sober a man as quick As all the drugs that the doctors know. Captain Andrew Barton Banjo Paterson (Right) of 2nd Remounts, Australian Imperial Force in Egypt. A B Banjo Paterson 1864-1941 Ranked #79 in the top 500 poets Andrew Barton Paterson was born on the 17th February 1864 in the township of Narambla, New South Wales. There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, There's never a fence beside, And the wandering stock on the grave may tread Unnoticed and undenied; But the smallest child on the Watershed Can tell you how Gilbert died. * * Well, sir, you rode him just perfect -- I knew from the fust you could ride. He rolled and he weltered and wallowed -- You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet; They finished all bunched, and he followed All lathered and dripping with sweat. And the scientific person hurried off with utmost speed, Tested Johnsons drug and found it was a deadly poison-weed; Half a tumbler killed an emu, half a spoonful killed a goat, All the snakes on earth were harmless to that awful antidote. For faster horses might well be found On racing tracks, or a plain's extent, But few, if any, on broken ground Could see the way that The Swagman went. The Favourite drifts,And not a single wager has been laidAbout Golumpus. Far to the Northward there lies a land, A wonderful land that the winds blow over, And none may fathom or understand The charm it holds for the restless rover; A great grey chaos -- a land half made, Where endless space is and no life stirreth; There the soul of a man will recoil afraid From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth. )There's blood upon thy face.VOTER: 'Tis Thompsons's, then.MACBREATH: Is he thrown out? Banjo Paterson - Banjo Paterson Poems | Best Poems A Change of Menu. Second time round, and, by Jingo! And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win, And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!" Hast thou seenThe good red gold Go in. This poem tells of a man who reacts badly to a practical joke sprung on him by a Sydney barber. And down along the Monaro now they're starting out to shear, I can picture the excitement and the row; But they'll miss me on the Lachlan when they call the roll this year, For we're going on a long job now. Nay, rather death!Death before picnic! But as one halk-bearing An old-time refrain, With memory clearing, Recalls it again, These tales roughly wrought of The Bush and its ways, May call back a thought of The wandering days; And, blending with each In the memories that throng There haply shall reach You some echo of song. Dustjacket synopsis: "The poetry selected for this collection reveals Paterson's love and appreciation for the Australina bush and its people. Andrew Barton Paterson was born on the 17th February 1864 in the township of Narambla, New South Wales. "And I never shall find the rails." And sometimes columns of print appear About a mine, and it makes it clear That the same is all that one's heart could wish -- A dozen ounces to every dish. A word let fall Gave him the hint as the girl passed by; Nothing but "Swagman -- stable wall; Go to the stable and mind your eye." But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol! "Stand," was the cry, "every man to his gun. The Bushfire - An Allegory 161. Behind the great impersonal 'We' I hold the power of the Mystic Three. The waving of grasses, The song of the river That sings as it passes For ever and ever, The hobble-chains' rattle, The calling of birds, The lowing of cattle Must blend with the words. I am as skilled as skilled can be In every matter of s. d. I count the money, and night by night I balance it up to a farthing right: In sooth, 'twould a stranger's soul perplex My double entry and double checks. Loafing once beside the river, while he thought his heart would break, There he saw a big goanna fighting with a tiger-snake, In and out they rolled and wriggled, bit each other, heart and soul, Till the valiant old goanna swallowed his opponent whole. Johnson was a free-selector, and his brain went rather queer, For the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear; So he tramped his free-selection, morning, afternoon, and night, Seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpents bite. Sit down and ride for your life now! Can't somebody stop him? And it's what's the need of schoolin' or of workin' on the track, Whin the saints are there to guide him round the course! And they read the nominations for the races with surprise And amusement at the Father's little joke, For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize, And they found it was Father Riley's moke! Roll up to the Hall!! He showed 'em the method of travel -- The boy sat still as a stone -- They never could see him for gravel; He came in hard-held, and alone. Close to the headlands they drifted, picking up shell by the ton, Piled up on deck were the oysters, opening wide in the sun, When, from the lee of the headland, boomed the report of a gun. I watch as the wild black swans fly over With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; And I hear the clang of their leader crying To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, And they fade away in the darkness dying, Where the stars are mustering one by one. Scarce grew the shell in the shallows, rarely a patch could they touch; Always the take was so little, always the labour so much; Always they thought of the Islands held by the lumbering Dutch -- Islands where shell was in plenty lying in passage and bay, Islands where divers could gather hundreds of shell in a day. Read all poems by Banjo Paterson written. Lawson almost always wrote as one who travelled afoot - Paterson as one who saw plain and bush from the back of a galloping horse. . It was shearing time at the Myall Lake, And then rose the sound through the livelong day Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make When the fastest shearers are making play; But there wasn't a man in the shearers' lines That could shear a sheep with the two Devines. [Editor: This poem by "Banjo" Patersonwas published in The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses, 1895; previously published in The Bulletin, 24 December 1892.] Well, now, I can hardly believe! I Bought a Record and Tape called "Pioneers" by "Wallis and Matilda" a tribute to A.B. and his spurs like a pair of harpoons; Ought to be under the Dog Act, he ought, and be kept off the course. Mr. Paterson was a prolific writer of light topical verse. And then it came out, as the rabble and rout Streamed over the desert with many a shout -- The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, Had been in his youth a bold metallician, And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, "Any price Abraham! Kanzo was king of his lugger, master and diver in one, Diving wherever it pleased him, taking instructions from none; Hither and thither he wandered, steering by stars and by sun. And some have said that Nature's face To us is always sad; but these Have never felt the smiling grace Of waving grass and forest trees On sunlit plains as wide as seas. )GHOST: The Pledge! hes down! And horse and man Lay quiet side by side! Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can;All our mates in the paddock are dead.Let us wave our farewells to Glen Eva's sweet dellsAnd the hills where your lordship was bred;Together to roam from our drought-stricken homeIt seems hard that such things have to be,And its hard on a "hogs" when he's nought for a bossBut a broken-down squatter like me!For the banks are all broken, they say,And the merchants are all up a tree.When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court,What chance for a squatter like me.No more shall we muster the river for fats,Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain,Or rip through the scrub by the light of the moon,Or see the old stockyard again.Leave the slip-panels down, it won't matter much now,There are none but the crows left to see,Perching gaunt in yon pine, as though longing to dineOn a broken-down squatter like me.When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst,And the cattle were dying in scores,Though down on my luck, I kept up my pluck,Thinking justice might temper the laws.But the farce has been played, and the Government aidAin't extended to squatters, old son;When my dollars were spent they doubled the rent,And resumed the best half of the run. Banjo Paterson's Poems of the Bush A.B. make room!" They had rung the sheds of the east and west, Had beaten the cracks of the Walgett side, And the Cooma shearers had given them best -- When they saw them shear, they were satisfied. Your six-furlong vermin that scamper Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up, They wouldn't earn much of their damper In a race like the President's Cup. But when you reach the big stone wall Put down your bridle-hand And let him sail-he cannot fall, But dont you interfere at all; You trust old Rio Grande. We started, and in front we showed, The big horse running free: Right fearlessly and game he strode, And by my side those dead men rode Whom no one else could see. "Then cut down a couple of saplings,Place one at my head and my toe,Carve on them cross, stockwhip, and saddle,To show there's a stockman below."Hark! . Get incredible stories of extraordinary wildlife, enlightening discoveries and stunning destinations, delivered to your inbox. Joe Nagasaki, his "tender", is owner and diver instead. But on lonely nights we should hear them calling, We should hear their steps on the pathways falling, We should loathe the life with a hate appalling In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain In the silent park a scent of clover, And the distant roar of the town is dead, And I hear once more, as the swans fly over, Their far-off clamour from overhead. "I'm into the swagman's yard," he said. I dreamt last night I rode this race That I today must ride, And cantering down to take my place I saw full many an old friends face Come stealing to my side. Its based on a letter Paterson received from Thomas Gerald Clancy which he replied to, only to receive the reply: Clancys gone to Queensland droving and we dont know where he are. on Mar 14 2005 06:57 PM PST x edit . That unkempt mound Shows where they slumber united still; Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound Out on the range as in holy ground, Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill. And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, Oh, wonderful night. The poet is survived by Mrs. Paterson and the two children by the marriage, Mrs. K. Harvey, whose husband is a naval officer, and Mr. Hugh Paterson of Queensland, who is at present a member of the Australian Imperial Force on active service abroad. The Winds Message 162. LEGAL INNOVATION | Tu Agente Digitalizador; LEGAL3 | Gestin Definitiva de Despachos; LEGAL GOV | Gestin Avanzada Sector Pblico A man once read with mind surprised Of the way that people were "hypnotised"; By waving hands you produced, forsooth, A kind of trance where men told the truth! Their rifles stood at the stretcher head, Their bridles lay to hand; They wakened the old man out of his bed, When they heard the sharp command: "In the name of the Queen lay down your arms, Now, Dun and Gilbert, stand!" I loudly cried, But right in front they seemed to ride - I cursed them in my sleep. The way is won! And he was a hundred miles from home, As flies the crow, with never a track Through plains as pathless as ocean's foam; He mounted straight on The Swagman's back. "For I've always heard --" here his voice grew weak, His strength was wellnigh sped, He gasped and struggled and tried to speak, Then fell in a moment -- dead. And then I watch with a sickly grin While the patient 'passes his counters in'. Macbreath is struck on the back of the headby some blue metal from Pennant Hills Quarry. When the field is fairly going, then ye'll see ye've all been fooled, And the chestnut horse will battle with the best. Clancy Of The Overflow by Banjo Paterson - Greatest Poems As participation in freediving reaches new levels, we look at whats driving the sports growing popularity. Lord! And then we swooped down on Menindie To run for the President's Cup; Oh! That was the name of the grandest horse In all the district from east to west; In every show ring, on every course, They always counted The Swagman best. And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold: "Come in and rest in peace, No safer place does the country hold -- With the night pursuit must cease, And we'll drink success to the roving boys, And to hell with the black police." His ballads of the bush had enormous popularity. A Bush Lawyer. The daylight is dying Away in the west, The wild birds are flying In silence to rest; In leafage and frondage Where shadows are deep, They pass to its bondage The kingdom of sleep.