'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. 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. by Banjo Paterson, From book: Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other . 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." The Jockey's PunterHas he put up the stuff, or does he waitTo get a better price. "We will show the boss how a shear-blade shines When we reach those ewes," said the two Devines. 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. Rio Grandes Last Race sold over 100,000 copies, and The Man from Snowy River and Clancy of the Overflow, were equally successful. `For I must ride the dead men's race, And follow their command; 'Twere worse than death, the foul disgrace If I should fear to take my place To-day on Rio Grande.' Prithee, let us go!Thanks to you all who shared this glorious day,Whom I invite to dance at Chowder Bay! 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. Banjo Paterson is one of Australia's best-loved poets and his verse is among Australia's enduring traditions. 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. . I've prayed him over every fence -- I've prayed him out and back! Read all poems by Banjo Paterson written. He seemed to inherit their wiry Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive -- As hard as a flint and as fiery Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. The refereecounts, 'One, two, three, eight, nine, ten, out! Wearer of pearls in your necklace, comfort yourself if you can. . O ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder For a while to join in your westward flight, With the stars above and the dim earth under, Trough the cooling air of the glorious night. To the front -- and then stay there - was ever The root of the Mameluke creed. "Run, Abraham, run! He "tranced" them all, and without a joke 'Twas much as follows the subjects spoke: First Man "I am a doctor, London-made, Listen to me and you'll hear displayed A few of the tricks of the doctor's trade. Mulga Bill's Bicycle was written by Banjo Paterson in 1896. Had anyone heard of him?" Upon the Western slope they stood And saw -- a wide expanse of plain As far as eye could stretch or see Go rolling westward endlessly. 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! He was in his 77th year. Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins! So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat. Clancy of the Overflow was inspired by an experience Banjo Paterson had while he was working as a lawyer. The Stockman 163. "I want you, Ryan," the trooper said, "And listen to me, if you dare resist, So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!" Don't tell me he can ride. He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to stay! Wives, children and all, For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!!" I slate his show from the floats to flies, Because the beggar won't advertise. These volumes met with great success. Didst not sayTo back Golumpus or the Favourite!SHORTINBRAS: Get work! One is away on the far Barcoo Watching his cattle the long year through, Watching them starve in the droughts and die. Lay on Macpuff,And damned be he who first cries Hold, enough! But each man carries to his grave The kisses that in hopes to save The angel or his mother gave. So I go my way with a stately tread While my patients sleep with the dreamless dead." Joe Nagasaki, his "tender", is owner and diver instead. Between the mountains and the sea Like Israelites with staff in hand, The people waited restlessly: They looked towards the mountains old And saw the sunsets come and go With gorgeous golden afterglow, That made the West a fairyland, And marvelled what that West might be Of which such wondrous tales were told. * Oh, the steeple was a caution! 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. )Thou com'st to use thy tongue. He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo, And many a mile of the silent plain That lonely rider behind him threw Before they settled to sleep again. 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 Phantoms among the rest. Boss must be gone off his head to be sending out steeplechase crack Out over fences like these with an object like that on his back. Banjo Paterson Complete Poems. First published in The Sydney Morning Herald on February 6, 1941. O ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting To the folk that live in that western land? We dug where the cross and the grave posts were, We shovelled away the mould, When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare All gleaming with yellow gold. . )PUNTER: Nay, good Shortinbras, what thinkest thou of Golumpus?Was it not dead last week?SHORTINBRAS: Marry, sir, I think well of Golumpus. "Who'll bet on the field? Because all your sins are 'his troubles' in future. 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 poem is typical of Paterson, offering a romantic view of rural life, and is one of his best-known works. B. J. Dennis. 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. As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee -- Oh! Ride! Plenty of swagmen far and near -- And yet to Ryan it meant a lot. We have all of us read how the Israelites fled From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put "in the soup" When the waters rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. 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! 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 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. today Banjo Paterson is still one of. '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. 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! He's hurrying, too! In 2004 a representative of The Wilderness Society arrived at NSWs Parliament House dressed as The Ghost of the Man from Ironbark, to campaign for the protection of the remaining Ironbark woodlands in New South Wales and Queensland. 'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk That ran from the range's crest, And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk Is known as "The Swagman's Rest". 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. You see we were green; and we never Had even a thought of foul play, Though we well might have known that the clever Division would "put us away". 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 times are changed, and changes rung From old to new -- the olden days, The old bush life and all its ways, Are passing from us all unsung. As a Funeral Celebrant, I have created this HUGE collection of poems and readings - see FUNERAL POEMS & READINGS - INDEX. And the priest would join the laughter: "Oh," said he, "I put him in, For there's five-and-twenty sovereigns to be won. This is the place where they all were bred; Some of the rafters are standing still; Now they are scattered and lost and dead, Every one from the old nest fled, Out of the shadow of Kiley's Hill. Video PDF To Those Whom I love & Those Who Love Me Beautiful remembrance poem, ideal for a funeral reading or eulogy. His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. 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. And then we swooped down on Menindie To run for the President's Cup; Oh! B. 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. 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. on Mar 14 2005 06:57 PM PST x edit . No use; all the money was gone. The poem highlighted his good points and eccentricities. those days they have fled for ever, They are like the swans that have swept from sight. 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. And yet, not always sad and hard; In cheerful mood and light of heart He told the tale of Britomarte, And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Garde. There was some that cleared the water -- there was more fell in and drowned, Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck! 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. I Bought a Record and Tape called "Pioneers" by "Wallis and Matilda" a tribute to A.B. "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! 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! I spurred him on to get the lead, n 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. Some have even made it into outer space. Paterson wrote this sad ballad about war-weary horses after working as a correspondent during the Boer War in South Africa. . The wild thrush lifts a note of mirth; The bronzewing pigeons call and coo Beside their nests the long day through; The magpie warbles clear and strong A joyous, glad, thanksgiving song, For all God's mercies upon earth. AUSTRALIANS LOVE THAT Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson (1864-1941) found romance in the tough and wiry characters of bush. The field was at sixes and sevens -- The pace at the first had been fast -- And hope seemed to drop from the heavens, For Pardon was coming at last. Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor, Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure. He would camp for days in the river-bed, And loiter and "fish for whales". He gave the mother -- her who died -- A kiss that Christ the Crucified Had sent to greet the weary soul When, worn and faint, it reached its goal. To many, this is the unofficial Aussie anthem, but the intended meaning of this ballad that describes the suicide of an itinerant sheep-stealing swagman to avoid capture, is debated to this day. 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. 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. 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!"

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