Down in the world where men toil and spin Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her; Only the dead men her smiles can win In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water. Ah, yes! (Banjo) Paterson. )What if it should be! Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins! Such wasThe Swagman; and Ryan knew Nothing about could pace the crack; Little he'd care for the man in blue If once he got on The Swagman's back. What meant he by his prateOf Fav'rite and outsider and the like?Forsooth he told us nothing. The stunted children come and go In squalid lanes and alleys black: We follow but the beaten track Of other nations, and we grow In wealth for some -- for many, woe. Mulga Bill's Bicycle was written by Banjo Paterson in 1896. The native grasses, tall as grain, Bowed, waved and rippled in the breeze; From boughs of blossom-laden trees The parrots answered back again. In the meantime much of his verse was published in book form. had I the flight of the bronzewing,Far o'er the plains would I fly,Straight to the land of my childhood,And there would I lay down and die. "There's tea in the battered old billy;Place the pannikins out in a row,And we'll drink to the next merry meeting,In the place where all good fellows go. Can tell you how Gilbert died. Poems of Banjo Paterson. but they're racing in earnest -- and down goes Recruit on his head, Rolling clean over his boy -- it's a miracle if he ain't dead. Fearful that the contribution might be identified as the work of the pamphleteer, he signed it the Banjo. It was published, and a note came asking him to call. This complete collection of verse shows the bush balladeer at his very best with favorites such as "A Bush Christening," "The Man from Ironbark," "Clancy of the Overflow," and the immortal "The Man . And more than 100 years after the words were penned we find they still ring out across the nation. The Bushfire - An Allegory 161. For the lawyer laughs in his cruel sport While his clients march to the Bankrupt Court." What scoundrel ever would dare to hint That anything crooked appears in print! 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. We still had a chance for the money, Two heats remained to be run: If both fell to us -- why, my sonny, The clever division were done. A favourite for the comparison of the rough and ready Geebung Polo Club members and their wealthy city competitors The Cuff and Collar Team. As a Funeral Celebrant, I have created this HUGE collection of poems and readings - see FUNERAL POEMS & READINGS - INDEX. The sermon was marked by a deal of humility And pointed the fact, with no end of ability. It was published in 1896 in the Australasian Pastoralists Review (1913-1977) and also in Patersons book Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other Verses. * Oh, the steeple was a caution! He would travel gaily from daylight's flush Till after the stars hung out their lamps; There was never his like in the open bush, And never his match on the cattle-camps. He had sold them both to the black police For the sake of the big reward. we're going on a long job now. "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. (Banjo) Paterson. 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. )MACPUFF: Now, yield thee, tyrant!By that fourth party which I once did form,I'll take thee to a picnic, there to liveOn windfall oranges!MACBREATH: . Some say it was a political comment on the violent shearers strikes happening at the time, while a new book Waltzing Matilda: the true story argues it may have been about a love triangle happening in Patersons life when he wrote it. With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb They lead the old billy-goat off to his doom: On every hand a reverend band, Prophets and preachers and elders stand And the oldest rabbi, with a tear in his eye, Delivers a sermon to all standing by. His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, But the goat stayed behind him -- and "scoffed up" the paste. `As silently as flies a bird, They rode on either hand; At every fence I plainly heard The phantom leader give the word, "Make room for Rio Grande!" Then a cheer of exultation burst aloud from Johnsons throat; Luck at last, said he, Ive struck it! You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead. Both wrote in other strains, of course, and of other than swagmen and cockies, stock-men and bullock drivers, but bush was always at their heartstrings, and it was of the bush, as they saw it from roadside and saddle that they wrote best. And that was the end of this small romance, The end of the story of Conroy's Gap. He was in his 77th year. Out on those deserts lone and drear The fierce Australian black Will say -- "You show it pint o' beer, It show you Leichhardt track!" Catch him now if you can, sir! The poem is typical of Paterson, offering a romantic view of rural life, and is one of his best-known works. For he left the others standing, in the straight; And the rider -- well they reckoned it was Andy Regan's ghost, And it beat 'em how a ghost would draw the weight! For the strength of man is an insect's strength In the face of that mighty plain and river, And the life of a man is a moment's length To the life of the stream that will run for ever. Young Andrew spent his formative years living at a station called "Buckenbah' in the western districts of New South Wales. Little Recruit in the lead there will make it a stoutly-run race. Banjo Paterson was an Australian bush author who is remembered for his ballads about life in Australia. Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor, Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure. (They fight. When a young man submitted a set of verses to the BULLEtIN in 1889 under the pseudonym 'the Banjo', it was the beginning of an enduring tradition. This never will do. Jack Thompson: The Sentimental Bloke, The Poems of C . Oh, joyous day,To-morrow's poll will make me M.L.A.ACT IITIME: Election day.SCENE: Macbreath's committee rooms.MACBREATH: Bring me no more reports: let them all fly;Till Labour's platform to Kyabram comeI cannot taint with fear. So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights, In the graveyard at the back of Kiley's Hill; There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights Till the very boldest fighters had their fill. `And one man on a big grey steed Rode up and waved his hand; Said he, "We help a friend in need, And we have come to give a lead To you and Rio Grande. So the Dutch let him go; but they watched him, as off from the Islands he ran, Doubting him much -- but what would you? (Banjo) Paterson, Kanzo Makame, the diver, sturdy and small Japanee, Seeker of pearls and of pearl-shell down in the depths of the sea, Trudged o'er the bed of the ocean, searching industriously. Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny, The horses in those days were stout, They had to run well to win money; I don't see such horses about. . Within our streets men cry for bread In cities built but yesterday. But the loss means ruin too you, maybe, But nevertheless I must have my fee! It was fifty miles to their father's hut, And the dawn was bright when they rode away; At the fall of night, when the shed was shut And the men had rest from the toilsome day, To the shed once more through the darkening pines On their weary steeds came the two Devines. Mulga Bill was based on a man of the name of William Henry Lewis, who knew Paterson around Bourke, NSW, and who had bought a bicycle because it was an easier form of transport than his horse in a time of drought. Andrew Barton Paterson was born on the 17th February 1864 in the township of Narambla, New South Wales. `"But when you reach the big stone wall, Put down your bridle hand And let him sail - he cannot fall - But don't you interfere at all; You trust old Rio Grande." 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." They started, and the big black steed Came flashing past the stand; All single-handed in the lead He strode along at racing speed, The mighty Rio Grande. Paterson was in South Africa as correspondent of The Sydney Morning Herald during the Boer War, and in China during the Boxer Rebellion. A Disqualified Jockey's Story. So I'll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again, Tis yourself that knows a good 'un; and, of course, You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy's plain If you're ever asked the breeding of the horse! I have it coldStraight from the owner, that Golumpus goesEyes out to win today.FIRST HEAD: Prate not to me of owners. "Dress no have got and no helmet -- diver go shore on the spree; Plenty wind come and break rudder -- lugger get blown out to sea: Take me to Japanee Consul, he help a poor Japanee!" 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. It appeared in Patersons collection Rio Grandes Last Race and Other Verses after his return home. He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill And over the Old Man Plain, But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill, And they made for the range again; Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt They rode with a loosened rein. * * Well, sir, you rode him just perfect -- I knew from the fust you could ride. 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. His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. Evens the field!" But when he has gone with his fleeting breath I certify that the cause of death Was something Latin, and something long, And who is to say that the doctor's wrong! Discover the many layers to this legendary Australian character yourself at the exhibition which is open seven days a week from 9am to 3pm thanks . And surely the thoroughbred horses Will rise up again and begin Fresh faces on far-away courses, And p'raps they might let me slip in. "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. (Sings)They pulled him barefaced in the mile,Hey, Nonny, Nonny.The Stipes were watching them all the while;And the losers swear, but the winners smile,Hey, Nonny, Nonny.Exit Shortinbras.SECOND RUNTER: A scurvy knave! And the lashin's of the liquor! It contains not only widely published and quoted poems such as "On Kiley's Run . Banjo Paterson Poems 151. [1] Kind deeds of sterling worth. He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark, And his horse's warning neigh, And he says to his mate, "There are hawks abroad, And it's time that we went away." He would camp for days in the river-bed, And loiter and "fish for whales". And lo, a miracle! And straightway from the barren coast There came a westward-marching host, That aye and ever onward prest With eager faces to the West, Along the pathway of the sun. They gained ten good lengths on him quickly He dropped right away from the pack; I tell you it made me feel sickly To see the blue jacket fall back. . "I dreamt that the night was quickly advancing,I saw the dead and dying on the green crimson plain.Comrades I once knew well in death's sleep reposing,Friends that I once loved but shall ne'er see again.The green flag was waving high,Under the bright blue sky,And each man was singing most gloriously. `Dead men on horses long since dead, They clustered on the track; The champions of the days long fled, They moved around with noiseless tread - Bay, chestnut, brown, and black. 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. And many voices such as these Are joyful sounds for those to tell, Who know the Bush and love it well, With all its hidden mysteries. AUSTRALIANS LOVE THAT Andrew Barton Banjo Paterson (1864-1941) found romance in the tough and wiry characters of bush. Fall! It was not much, you say, that these Should win their way where none withstood; In sooth there was not much of blood -- No war was fought between the seas. But he found the rails on that summer night For a better place -- or worse, As we watched by turns in the flickering light With an old black gin for nurse. I'll bet half-a-crown on you." Where are the children that strove and grew In the old homestead in days gone by? I would fain go back to the old grey river, To the old bush days when our hearts were light; But, alas! It's food for conjecture, to judge from the picture By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. Then lead him away to the wilderness black To die with the weight of your sins on his back: Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!" 'Banjo' Paterson When a young man submitted a set of verses to the BULLEtIN in 1889 under the pseudonym 'the Banjo', it was the beginning of an enduring tradition. Filter poems by topics. "Run, Abraham, run! Behind the great impersonal 'We' I hold the power of the Mystic Three. After all our confessions, so openly granted, He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. 'Twas done without reason, for leaving the seasonNo squatter could stand such a rub;For it's useless to squat when the rents are so hotThat one can't save the price of one's grub;And there's not much to choose 'twixt the banks and the JewsOnce a fellow gets put up a tree;No odds what I feel, there's no court of appeal For a broken-down squatter like me. 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. But they went to death when they entered there In the hut at the Stockman's Ford, For their grandsire's words were as false as fair -- They were doomed to the hangman's cord. Roll up to the Hall!! Third Man "I am a banker, wealthy and bold -- A solid man, and I keep my hold Over a pile of the public's gold. ere theyd watched a half-hours spell Stumpy was as dead as mutton, tother dog was live and well. Had anyone heard of him?" . Says Jimmy, "The children of Judah Are out on the warpath today." The Ballad Of The Carpet Bag 152. Rataplan's certain to beat you, unless you can give him the slip, Sit down and rub in the whalebone -- now give him the spurs and the whip! She loved this Ryan, or so they say, And passing by, while her eyes were dim With tears, she said in a careless way, "The Swagman's round in the stable, Jim." We got to the course with our troubles, A crestfallen couple were we; And we heard the " books" calling the doubles -- A roar like the surf of the sea. The trooper stood at the stable door While Ryan went in quite cool and slow, And then (the trick had been played before) The girl outside gave the wall a blow. Now this was what Macpherson told While waiting in the stand; A reckless rider, over-bold, The only man with hands to hold The rushing Rio Grande. 'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog By the troopers of the upper Murray side, They had searched in every gully -- they had looked in every log, But never sight or track of him they spied, Till the priest at Kiley's Crossing heard a knocking very late And a whisper "Father Riley -- come across!" And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win, And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!" At length the hardy pioneers By rock and crag found out the way, And woke with voices of today A silence kept for years and tears. Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson, CBE (17 February 1864- 5 February 1941) was an Australian bush poet, journalist and author. Published in 1889 in the Australian news magazine, The Bulletin, Clancy of The Overflow is a story about a city-dweller who meets a drover and proceeds to romanticise his outback life. 'Banjo' Paterson 1987: Gumnut design on jacket by Paul Jones and Ashcraft Fabrics. The way is won! "On came the Saxons thenFighting our Fenian men,Soon they'll reel back from our piked volunteers.Loud was the fight and shrill,Wexford and Vinegar Hill,Three cheers for Father Murphy and the bold cavaliers.I dreamt that I saw our gallant commanderSeated on his charger in gorgeous array.He wore green trimmed with gold and a bright shining sabreOn which sunbeams of Liberty shone brightly that day. Here is a list of the top 10 most iconic Banjo Paterson ballads. Then for every sweep of your pinions beating Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band, To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting, Yet whose life somehow has a strong inviting, When once to the work they have put their hand. "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! Old Australian Ways 157. . William Shakespeare (403 poem) 26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616. Banjo Paterson. Down in the ooze and the coral, down where earth's wonders are spread, Helmeted, ghastly, and swollen, Kanzo Makame lies dead. Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp; Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes, Mixes up among the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes: Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants, And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants: Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat, There it was that William Johnson sought his snake-bite antidote. Of Scottish descent on his father's side,. He wrote many ballads and poems about Australian life, focusing particularly on the rural and outback areas, including the district around Binalong, New South Wales, where he spent much of his childhood. Read all poems by Banjo Paterson written. It will bring me fame and fortune! -- Still, there may be a chance for one; I'll stop and I'll fight with the pistol here, You take to your heels and run." Unnumbered I hold them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright? But it chanced next day, when the stunted pines Were swayed and stirred by the dawn-wind's breath, That a message came for the two Devines That their father lay at the point of death. . Kanzo Makame, the diver -- knowing full well what it meant -- Fatalist, gambler, and stoic, smiled a broad smile of content, Flattened in mainsail and foresail, and off to the Islands they went. Mr. Andrew Barton Paterson, better known throughout Australia as Banjo Paterson, died at a private hospital, in Sydney, yesterday afternoon, after about a fortnights illness. `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. 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. And then we swooped down on Menindie To run for the President's Cup; Oh! Some have even made it into outer space. The poem highlighted his good points and eccentricities. They went tearin' round and round, And the fences rang and rattled where they struck. how we rattled it down! The race is run and Shortinbras enters,leading in the winner.FIRST PUNTER: And thou hast trained the winner, thou thyself,Thou complicated liar. So fierce his attack and so very severe, it Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, Was rammed on the -- no, not the back -- but just near it. The drought came down on the field and flock, And never a raindrop fell, Though the tortured moans of the starving stock Might soften a fiend from hell. How go the votes?Enter first voterFIRST VOTER: May it please my Lord,The cherry-pickers' vote is two to oneTowards Macpuff: and all our voters sayThe ghost of Thompson sits in every booth,And talks of pledges.MACBREATH: What a polished liar!And yet the dead can vote! 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! But I vary the practice to some extent By investing money at twelve per cent, And after I've preached for a decent while I clear for 'home' with a lordly pile. Make miniature mechanised minions with teeny tiny tools! B. A Bunch of Roses. Sure the plan ought to suit yer. For Bob was known on the Overland, A regular old bush wag, Tramping along in the dust and sand, Humping his well-worn swag. A.B. [1] The subject of the poem was James Tyson, who had died early that month. It was Hogan, the dog poisoner -- aged man and very wise, Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag, And who ventured the opinion, to the township's great surprise, That the race would go to Father Riley's nag. you all Must each bring a stone -- Great sport will be shown; Enormous Attractions! He munched it all night, and we found him Next morning as full as a hog -- The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him; He looked like an overfed frog. Wives, children and all, For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!!" and he had fled! Now for the treble, my hearty -- By Jove, he can ride, after all; Whoop, that's your sort -- let him fly them! Then right through the ruck he was sailing -- I knew that the battle was won -- The son of Haphazard was failing, The Yattendon filly was done; He cut down The Don and The Dancer, He raced clean away from the mare -- He's in front! Fell at that wall once, he did, and it gave him a regular spread, Ever since that time he flies it -- he'll stop if you pull at his head, Just let him race -- you can trust him -- he'll take first-class care he don't fall, And I think that's the lot -- but remember, he must have his head at the wall. The refereecounts, 'One, two, three, eight, nine, ten, out! Meanwhile, the urge to write had triumphed over the tedium of waiting for clients, the immediate fruit being a pamphlet entitled, Australia for the Australians. It was rather terrible. That I did for himI paid my shilling and I cast my vote.MACBREATH: Thou art the best of all the shilling voters.Prithee, be near me on election dayTo see me smite Macpuff, and now we shan'tBe long,(Ghost of Thompson appears. And then I woke, and for a space All nerveless did I seem; For I have ridden many a race But never one at such a pace As in that fearful dream. 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. Clancy of the Overflow is a poem by Banjo Paterson, first published in The Bulletin, an Australian news magazine, on 21 December 1889. AUSTRALIANS LOVE THAT Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson (1864-1941) found romance in the tough and wiry characters of bush. But the lumbering Dutch in their gunboats they hunted the divers away. A new look at the oldest-known evidence of life, which is said to be in Western Australia, suggests the evidence might not be what its thought to have been. Mr. Paterson was a prolific writer of light topical verse. He rode all noght, and he steered his course By the shining stars with a bushman's skill, And every time that he pressed his horse The Swagman answered him gamely still. An uplifting poem about being grateful for a loved one's life. "I care for nothing, good nor bad, My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled, I am but sifting sand," he said: What wonder Gordon's songs were sad!