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For us the bush is never sad: Its myriad voices whisper low, In tones the bushmen only know, Its sympathy and welcome glad. (Ghost disappears. Hast thou seenThe good red gold Go in. 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. Didst not sayTo back Golumpus or the Favourite!SHORTINBRAS: Get work! )Leaguers all,Mine own especial comrades of Reform,All amateurs and no professionals,So many worthy candidates I see,Alas that there are only ninety seats.Still, let us take them all, and Joe Carruthers,Ashton, and Jimmy Hogue, and all the rest,Will have to look for work! For he rode at dusk with his comrade Dunn To the hut at the Stockman's Ford; In the waning light of the sinking sun They peered with a fierce accord. In the happy days to be, Men of every clime and nation will be round to gaze on me Scientific men in thousands, men of mark and men of note, Rushing down the Mooki River, after Johnsons antidote. the whole clan, they raced and they ran, And Abraham proved him an "even time" man, But the goat -- now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on -- Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon. He came for the third heat light-hearted, A-jumping and dancing about; The others were done ere they started Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out. 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. Grey are the plains where the emus pass Silent and slow, with their dead demeanour; Over the dead man's graves the grass Maybe is waving a trifle greener. William Shakespeare (403 poem) 26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616. )GHOST: The Pledge! `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. When this girl's father, old Jim Carew, Was droving out on the Castlereagh With Conroy's cattle, a wire came through To say that his wife couldn't live the day. We strolled down the township and found 'em At drinking and gaming and play; If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em, And betting was soon under way. And up went my hat in the air! Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it, But, die in the wilderness! He was in his 77th year. he's holding his lead of 'em well; Hark to him clouting the timber! T.Y.S.O.N. `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. 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. "The goat -- was he back there? 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! Will you fetch your dog and try it? Johnson rather thought he would. 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". 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. Weight! So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat. Then a cheer of exultation burst aloud from Johnsons throat; Luck at last, said he, Ive struck it! I have alphabetically categorised & indexed over 700 poems & readings, in over 130 categories spreading over about 500 pages, but more are added regularly. For I must ride the dead mens race, And follow their command; Twere worse than death, the foul disgrace If I should fear to take my place Today on Rio Grande. He mounted, and a jest he threw, With never sign of gloom; But all who heard the story knew That Jack Macpherson, brave and true, Was going to his doom. Those British pioneers Had best at home abide, For things have changed in fifty years Since Ludwig Leichhardt died. I take your brief and I look to see That the same is marked with a thumping fee; But just as your case is drawing near I bob serenely and disappear. that's a sweet township -- a shindy To them is board, lodging, and sup. Inicio; Servicios. . Where are the children that strove and grew In the old homestead in days gone by? So away at speed through the whispering pines Down the bridle-track rode the two Devines. He spoke in a cultured voice and low -- "I fancy they've 'sent the route'; I once was an army man, you know, Though now I'm a drunken brute; But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave, And, if ever you're fairly stuck, Just take and shovel me out of the grave And, maybe, I'll bring you luck. And more than 100 years after the words were penned we find they still ring out across the nation. . Perhaps an actor is all the rage, He struts his hour on the mimic stage, With skill he interprets all the scenes -- And yet next morning I give him beans. `"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. . And aren't they just going a pace? The first heat was soon set a-going; The Dancer went off to the front; The Don on his quarters was showing, With Pardon right out of the hunt. Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins! His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. 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! May the days to come be as rich in blessing As the days we spent in the auld lang syne. . I'll bet half-a-crown on you." Go back it, back it! Joe Nagasaki, his "tender", is owner and diver instead. Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough? An uplifting poem about being grateful for a loved one's life. (Strikes him. And then, to crown this tale of guilt, They'll find some scurvy knave, Regardless of their quest, has built A pub on Leichhardt's grave! "Well, you're back right sudden,"the super said; "Is the old man dead and the funeral done?" Mr. Paterson was a prolific writer of light topical verse. The breeze came in with the scent of pine, The river sounded clear, When a change came on, and we saw the sign That told us the end was near. How Gilbert Died. 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. The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids will frown on you, From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you -- Run, Abraham, run! Clancy would feature briefly in Patersons poem, The man from Snowy River, which was published by The Bulletin the next year. The old un May reckon with some of 'em yet." 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. There was a girl in that shanty bar Went by the name of Kate Carew, Quiet and shy as the bush girls are, But ready-witted and plucky, too. As I lie at rest on a patch of clover In the Western Park when the day is done. 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. 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. See also: Poems by all poets about death and All poems by Banjo Paterson The Angel's Kiss Analysis of this poem An angel stood beside the bed Where lay the living and the dead. But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol! This poem tells of a man who reacts badly to a practical joke sprung on him by a Sydney barber. 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. Prithee, let us go!Thanks to you all who shared this glorious day,Whom I invite to dance at Chowder Bay! But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. 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 watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, O wonderful night. The trooper heard the hoof-beats ring In the stable yard, and he jammed the gate, But The Swagman rose with a mighty spring At the fence, and the trooper fired too late As they raced away, and his shots flew wide, And Ryan no longer need care a rap, For never a horse that was lapped in hide Could catch The Swagman in Conroy's Gap. on Mar 14 2005 06:57 PM PST x edit . A favourite for the comparison of the rough and ready Geebung Polo Club members and their wealthy city competitors The Cuff and Collar Team. Clancy Of The Overflow Banjo Paterson. Banjo published this mischievous tale of a young lad who doesnt want to be christened and ends up being named after a whisky in The Bulletin in 1893. But the whips were flying freely when the field came into view, For the finish down the long green stretch of course, And in front of all the flyers -- jumpin' like a kangaroo, Came the rank outsider -- Father Riley's horse! "A hundred miles since the sun went down." . 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. 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. Mr. Andrew Barton Paterson, better known throughout Australia as "Banjo" Paterson, died at a private hospital, in Sydney, yesterday afternoon, after about a fortnight's illness. )What if it should be! For folks may widen their mental range, But priest and parson, thay never change." The poem is typical of Paterson, offering a romantic view of rural life, and is one of his best-known works. 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. the land But yesterday was all unknown, The wild man's boomerang was thrown Where now great busy cities stand. Follow fast.Exeunt PuntersSCENE IIThe same. His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, But the goat stayed behind him -- and "scoffed up" the paste. The Last Straw "A preacher I, and I take my stand In pulpit decked with gown and band To point the way to a better land. Behind the great impersonal 'We' I hold the power of the Mystic Three. 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. 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. Don't you believe it. It was published in 1896 in the Australasian Pastoralists Review (1913-1977) and also in Patersons book Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other Verses. Cycles were ridden everywhere, including in the outback by shearers and other workers who needed to travel cheaply. 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. 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 old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves Her dole of death and her share of slaughter; Many indeed are the nameless graves Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water. 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. 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. * * Well, he's down safe as far as the start, and he seems to sit on pretty neat, Only his baggified breeches would ruinate anyone's seat -- They're away -- here they come -- the first fence, and he's head over heels for a crown! Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. 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. Thinkest thou that both are dead?Re-enter PuntersPUNTER: Good morrow, Gentlemen. Young Andrew spent his formative years living at a station called "Buckenbah' in the western districts of New South Wales. At the Turon the Yattendon filly Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half, And we all began to look silly, While her crowd were starting to laugh; But the old horse came faster and faster, His pluck told its tale, and his strength, He gained on her, caught her, and passed her, And won it, hands down, by a length. He said, `This day I bid good-bye To bit and bridle rein, To ditches deep and fences high, For I have dreamed a dream, and I Shall never ride again. Within our streets men cry for bread In cities built but yesterday. He neared his home as the east was bright. The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, And Abraham's tiring -- I'll lay six to four! His ballads of the bush had enormous popularity. 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. Out on those deserts lone and drear The fierce Australian black Will say -- "You show it pint o' beer, It show you Leichhardt track!" 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. Mark, he said, in twenty minutes Stumpll be a-rushing round, While the other wretched creature lies a corpse upon the ground. But, alas for William Johnson! A thirty-foot leap, I declare -- Never a shift in his seat, and he's racing for home like a hare. Next, Please "I am a barrister, wigged and gowned; Of stately presence and look profound. * Oh, the steeple was a caution! Macbreath is struck on the back of the headby some blue metal from Pennant Hills Quarry. Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, And paling and wall he plasters them all, "I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat," he says, The pulls out his bills, "Use Solomon's Pills" "Great Stoning of Christians! J. Dennis. 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. 'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. Drunk as he was when the trooper came, to him that did not matter a rap -- Drunk or sober, he was the same, The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap. He falls. the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again, For we're going on a long job now. To all devout Jews! One is away on the far Barcoo Watching his cattle the long year through, Watching them starve in the droughts and die. 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. Make miniature mechanised minions with teeny tiny tools! With dragging footsteps and downcast head The hypnotiser went home to bed, And since that very successful test He has given the magic art a rest; Had he tried the ladies, and worked it right, What curious tales might have come to light! And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die! Is Thompson out?VOTER: My lord, his name is mud. 'Twas a wether flock that had come to hand, Great struggling brutes, that shearers shirk, For the fleece was filled with the grass and sand, And seventy sheep was a big day's work. "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. In 1983 the late country-and-western singer Slim Dustys rendition became the first song to be broadcast to Earth by astronauts. Nay, rather death!Death before picnic! Ure Smith. Enter a Messenger. Jack Thompson: The Sentimental Bloke, The Poems of C . Robert Frost (191 poem) March 26, 1874 - January 29, 1963. "Go forth into the world," he said, "With blessings on your heart and head, "For God, who ruleth righteously, Hath ordered that to such as be "From birth deprived of mother's love, I bring His blessing from above; "But if the mother's life he spare Then she is made God's messenger "To kiss and pray that heart and brain May go through life without a stain." And up in the heavens the brown lark sings The songs the strange wild land has taught her; Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings -- And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water. It was splendid; He gained on them yards every bound, Stretching out like a greyhound extended, His girth laid right down on the ground. The race is run and Shortinbras enters,leading in the winner.FIRST PUNTER: And thou hast trained the winner, thou thyself,Thou complicated liar. This never will do. Banjo Paterson Complete Poems. I have it coldStraight from the owner, that Golumpus goesEyes out to win today.FIRST HEAD: Prate not to me of owners. He gave the infant kisses twain, One on the breast, one on the brain. Find many great new & used options and get the best deals for Complete Poems (A&R Classics), Paterson, Banjo at the best online prices at eBay! I'm all of a stew. Mr. Paterson was a prolific writer of light topical verse. Langston Hughes (100 poem) 1 February 1902 - 22 May 1967. Get incredible stories of extraordinary wildlife, enlightening discoveries and stunning destinations, delivered to your inbox. 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!" Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day, With sun above and silent veldt below; And our hearts keep turning homeward to the youngsters far away, And the homestead where the climbing roses grow. The refereecounts, 'One, two, three, eight, nine, ten, out! You never heard tell of the story? Can tell you how Gilbert died. Beyond all denials The stars in their glories, The breeze in the myalls, Are part of these stories. Some have even made it into outer space. `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. 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. It contains not only widely published and quoted poems such as "On Kiley's Run . )What's this? There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died, And they wondered who on earth he could have been. A Bushman's Song I'm travelling down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station-hand, I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand, Jack Thompson: The Campfire Yarns of Henry Lawson. * They are shearing ewes at the Myall Lake, And the shed is merry the livelong day With the clashing sound that the shear-blades make When the fastest shearers are making play; And a couple of "hundred and ninety-nines" Are the tallies made by the two Devines. . Captain Andrew Barton Banjo Paterson (Right) of 2nd Remounts, Australian Imperial Force in Egypt. . . Banjo was a well-known poet and storyteller, but he was also a solicitor, war correspondent, newspaper editor, soldier, journalist, sports commentator, jockey, farmer and adventurer. Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath, And he turned to his comrade Dunn: "We are sold," he said, "we are dead men both! 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! And more than 100 years after the words were penned we find they still ring out across the nation. 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. 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. 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. [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. Ah, yes! Sit down and ride for your life now! You want to know If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew; Of course he should have, as stories go, But the worst of it is this story's true: And in real life it's a certain rule, Whatever poets and authors say Of high-toned robbers and all their school, These horsethief fellows aren't built that way. In very short order they got plenty word of him. In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, "The trail of the serpent was over them all." It was first published in The Bulletin, an Australian news magazine, on 26 April 1890, and was published by Angus & Robertson in October 1895, with other poems by Paterson, in The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses.The poem tells the story of a horseback pursuit to recapture the colt of a prizewinning racehorse . 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. Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor, Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure. Evens the field!" and this poem is great!!!! The Bushfire - An Allegory 161. "And there's nothing in the district that can race him for a step, He could canter while they're going at their top: He's the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep, A five-foot fence -- he'd clear it in a hop! From the Archives, 1941: Banjo Paterson dead. why, he'd fall off a cart, let alone off a steeplechase horse. In the early 80s I went from New Zealand to Darwin to work. 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. Paterson wrote this sad ballad about war-weary horses after working as a correspondent during the Boer War in South Africa. 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. For things have changed on Cooper's Creek Since Ludwig Leichhardt died. there's the wail of a dingo,Watchful and weirdI must go,For it tolls the death-knell of the stockmanFrom the gloom of the scrub down below. For tales were told of inland seas Like sullen oceans, salt and dead, And sandy deserts, white and wan, Where never trod the foot of man, Nor bird went winging overhead, Nor ever stirred a gracious breeze To wake the silence with its breath -- A land of loneliness and death. Banjo Paterson. "I want you, Ryan," the trooper said, "And listen to me, if you dare resist, So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!" 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. AUSTRALIANS LOVE THAT Andrew Barton Banjo Paterson (1864-1941) found romance in the tough and wiry characters of bush. To the front -- and then stay there - was ever The root of the Mameluke creed. 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. For Bob was known on the Overland, A regular old bush wag, Tramping along in the dust and sand, Humping his well-worn swag. The Last Parade 153. don't he just look it -- it's twenty to one on a fall. Another search for Leichhardt's tomb, Though fifty years have fled Since Leichhardt vanished in the gloom, Our one Illustrious Dead! "Well, no sir, he ain't not exactly dead, But as good as dead," said the eldest son -- "And we couldn't bear such a chance to lose, So we came straight back to tackle the ewes." His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. Were sorry, this feature is currently unavailable. 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. We ran him at many a meeting At crossing and gully and town, And nothing could give him a beating -- At least when our money was down.