Young Andrew spent his formative years living at a station called "Buckenbah' in the western districts of New South Wales. And when they prove it beyond mistake That the world took millions of years to make, And never was built by the seventh day I say in a pained and insulted way that 'Thomas also presumed to doubt', And thus do I rub my opponents out. Moral The moral is patent to all the beholders -- Don't shift your own sins on to other folks' shoulders; Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them: Take their lives if needs must -- when it comes to the worst, But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol! "Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say, For it's close upon my death I am tonight. Ure Smith. (We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of Pharisee.) Without these, indeed, you Would find it ere long, As though I should read you The words of a song That lamely would linger When lacking the rune, The voice of the singer, The lilt of the tune. He then settled at Coodravale, a pastoral property in the Wee Jasper district, near Yass, and remained there until the Great War, in which he served with a remount unit in Egypt returning with the rank of major. " is a poem by Banjo Paterson, first published in The Australasian Pastoralists' Review on 15 December 1898. 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. Weight! Did thou catch the last?SECOND HEAD: Aye, marry did I, and the one before,But this has got me beat. Read all poems by Banjo Paterson written. The infant moved towards the light, The angel spread his wings in flight. To the front -- and then stay there - was ever The root of the Mameluke creed. 'Ten to One, Golumpus. 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. To the hut at the Stockman's Ford; Nay, rather death!Death before picnic! AUSTRALIANS LOVE THAT Andrew Barton Banjo Paterson (1864-1941) found romance in the tough and wiry characters of bush. 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. From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes, Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze, Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes Make music sweet in the jungle maze, They will hold their course to the westward ever, Till they reach the banks of the old grey river, Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver In the burning heat of the summer days. Can tell you how Gilbert died. (The ghost of Thompson disappears, and Macbreath revives himselfwith a great effort. From the Archives, 1941: Banjo Paterson dead. He left the camp by the sundown light, And the settlers out on the Marthaguy Awoke and heard, in the dead of night, A single horseman hurrying by. The verse which made Patersons name a household word in Australia stirred deeply the imagination of the native born in days gone by, for it was he who for the first time gave the Australian ballad characteristically Australian expression. Out on those deserts lone and drear The fierce Australian black Will say -- "You show it pint o' beer, It show you Leichhardt track!" By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate; Just here let us note -- Did they choose their best goat? Listen awhile till I show you round. A thirty-foot leap, I declare -- Never a shift in his seat, and he's racing for home like a hare. The race is run and Shortinbras enters,leading in the winner.FIRST PUNTER: And thou hast trained the winner, thou thyself,Thou complicated liar. You never heard tell of the story? All you can do is to hold him and just let him jump as he likes, Give him his head at the fences, and hang on like death if he strikes; Don't let him run himself out -- you can lie third or fourth in the race -- Until you clear the stone wall, and from that you can put on the pace. "At a pound a hundred it's dashed hard lines To shear such sheep," said the two Devines. On this day: Banjo Paterson was born 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. 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." About their path a fearful fate Will hover always near. `He never flinched, he faced it game, He struck it with his chest, And every stone burst out in flame, And Rio Grande and I became As phantoms with the rest. 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. We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, If he takes home our sins, it'll burst up the Synagogue!" When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, Was dying, he murmured, "A rorty old hoss you are: I give you command of the whole of the band" -- And handed the Government over to Joshua. 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. There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken-- We should grieve for them with a bitter pain; If the past could live and the dead could quicken, We then might turn to that life again. Old Australian Ways 157. One, in the town where all cares are rife, Weary with troubles that cramp and kill, Fain would be done with the restless strife, Fain would go back to the old bush life, Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill. Their horses were good uns and fit uns, There was plenty of cash in the town; They backed their own horses like Britons, And, Lord! 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! `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. J. Dennis. hes down! And horse and man Lay quiet side by side! Banjo Paterson. The trooper knew that his man would slide Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance; And with half a start on the mountain side Ryan would lead him a merry dance. B. With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst -- "Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, The sins of the people are whiter than snow!" O my friend stout-hearted, What does it matter for rain or shine, For the hopes deferred and the grain departed? So I go my way with a stately tread While my patients sleep with the dreamless dead." And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win, And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!" Then he turned to metrical expression, and produced a flamboyant poem about the expedition against the Mahdi, and sent it to The Bulletin, then struggling through its hectic days of youth. I have alphabetically categorised & indexed over 700 poems & readings, in over 130 categories spreading over about 500 pages, but more are added regularly. Within our streets men cry for bread In cities built but yesterday. Roll up to the Hall!! . Not on the jaundiced choiceOf folks who daily run their half a mileJust after breakfast, when the steamer hootsHer warning to the laggard, not on theseRelied Macbreath, for if these rustics' choiceHad fall'n on Thompson, I should still have claimedA conference. 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. A Bush Lawyer. 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. From the southern slopes to the western pines They were noted men, were the two Devines. And Pardon was better, we reckoned, His sickness was passing away, So we went to the post for the second And principal heat of the day. 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. Can't somebody stop him? (Strikes him. It was splendid; He gained on them yards every bound, Stretching out like a greyhound extended, His girth laid right down on the ground. But Gilbert walked from the open door In a confident style and rash; He heard at his side the rifles roar, And he heard the bullets crash. Well, now, I can hardly believe! "But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say goodbye, For the stars above the east are growing pale. Down in the ooze and the coral, down where earth's wonders are spread, Helmeted, ghastly, and swollen, Kanzo Makame lies dead. `And I am sure as man can be That out upon the track, Those phantoms that men cannot see Are waiting now to ride with me, And I shall not come back. As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee -- Oh! Where are the children that strove and grew In the old homestead in days gone by? When night doth her glories Of starshine unfold, Tis then that the stories Of bush-land are told. 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. He was a wonder, a raking bay -- One of the grand old Snowdon strain -- One of the sort that could race and stay With his mighty limbs and his length of rein. 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. -- now, goodbye!" When night doth her glories Of starshine unfold, 'Tis then that the stories Of bush-land are told. If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation And win the next heat -- if he can -- He'll earn a disqualification; Just think over that now, my man!" But the shearers knew that they's make a cheque When they came to deal with the station ewes; They were bare of belly and bare of neck With a fleece as light as a kangaroo's. 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. by Banjo Paterson, From book: Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other . Remember, no matter how far you may roam That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens, Their talent stupendous for "getting back home". The doctor met him outside the town "Carew! He hasn't much fear of a fall. Australian Geographic acknowledges the First Nations people of Australia as traditional custodians, and pay our respects to Elders past and present, and their stories and journeys that have lead us to where we are today. 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. 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. Little Recruit in the lead there will make it a stoutly-run race. I slate his show from the floats to flies, Because the beggar won't advertise. Yet it sometimes happens by some strange crook That a ledger-keeper will 'take his hook' With a couple of hundred thousand 'quid', And no one can tell how the thing was did!" For many years after that The Banjo twanged every week in the Bulletin. With rifle flashes the darkness flamed -- He staggered and spun around, And they riddled his body with rifle balls As it lay on the blood-soaked ground. No need the pallid face to scan, We knew with Rio Grande he ran The race the dead men ride. 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. How far did you come last night?" * Oh, the steeple was a caution! [Editor: This poem by "Banjo" Paterson was published in The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses, 1895; previously published in The Bulletin, 17 December 1892.It is a story about a barber who plays a practical joke upon an unsuspecting man from the bush. And lo, a miracle! Paterson and his old friend, Lawson, imparted to the literature of their country a note which marked the beginning of a new period. ''Three to One, Bar One!' today Banjo Paterson is still one of. . * * * * We have our tales of other days, Good tales the northern wanderers tell When bushmen meet and camp-fires blaze, And round the ring of dancing light The great, dark bush with arms of night Folds every hearer in its spell. Banjo Paterson is one of Australia's best-loved poets and his verse is among Australia's enduring traditions. The remains will be cremated to-day at the Northern Suburbs Crematorium.
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