"Run, Abraham, run! Plenty of swagmen far and near -- And yet to Ryan it meant a lot. Then the races came to Kiley's -- with a steeplechase and all, For the folk were mostly Irish round about, And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall, They were training morning in and morning out. They went tearin' round and round, And the fences rang and rattled where they struck. But maybe you're only a Johnnie And don't know a horse from a hoe? `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. 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. 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. 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." Till King Billy, of the Mooki, chieftain of the flour-bag head, Told him, Sposn snake bite pfeller, pfeller mostly drop down dead; Sposn snake bite old goanna, then you watch a while you see, Old goanna cure himself with eating little pfeller tree. Thats the cure, said William Johnson, point me out this plant sublime, But King Billy, feeling lazy, said hed go another time. 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! Fall! 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. There he divided the junior Knox Prize with another student. Another search for Leichhardt's tomb, Though fifty years have fled Since Leichhardt vanished in the gloom, Our one Illustrious Dead! (To Punter): Aye marry Sir, I think well of the Favourite.PUNTER: And yet I have a billiard marker's wordThat in this race to-day they back Golumpus,And when they bet, they tell me, they will knockThe Favourite for a string of German Sausage.SHORTINBRAS: Aye, marry, they would tell thee, I've no doubt,It is the way of owners that they tellTo billiard markers and the men on tramsJust when they mean to bet. 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. In 1903 Mr. Paterson married Miss Alice Walker, a daughter of the late Mr. W. H. Walker, formerly of Tenterfield, a relative of Mr. Thomas Walker of Yaralla. It was not much! 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. With sanctimonious and reverent look I read it out of the sacred book That he who would open the golden door Must give his all to the starving poor. (We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of Pharisee.) "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. In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, "The trail of the serpent was over them all." And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. we're going on a long job now. " T.Y.S.O.N. 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. 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. -- 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." Banjo Paterson Poems 151. Don't tell me he can ride. "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! But each man carries to his grave The kisses that in hopes to save The angel or his mother gave. "But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say goodbye, For the stars above the east are growing pale. 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. Paterson was in South Africa as correspondent of The Sydney Morning Herald during the Boer War, and in China during the Boxer Rebellion. 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, were grand. 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. Good for the new chum! ''Three to One, Bar One!' Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon; He swept like the wind down the dip, And over the rise by the garden The jockey was done with the whip. (They fight. And there the phantoms on each side Drew in and blocked his leap; Make room! 'Banjo' Paterson 1987: Gumnut design on jacket by Paul Jones and Ashcraft Fabrics. And the poor of Kiley's Crossing drank the health at Christmastide Of the chestnut and his rider dressed in green. "I want you, Ryan," the trooper said, "And listen to me, if you dare resist, So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!" Later, young Paterson was sent to Sydney Grammar School. 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. But they never started training till the sun was on the course For a superstitious story kept 'em back, That the ghost of Andy Regan on a slashing chestnut horse, Had been training by the starlight on the track. But the lumbering Dutch in their gunboats they hunted the divers away. And that was the end of this small romance, The end of the story of Conroy's Gap. The Ballad Of The Carpet Bag 152. Clancy of the Overflow is a poem by Banjo Paterson, first published in The Bulletin, an Australian news magazine, on 21 December 1889. "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! Conroy's Gap 154. 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. * * Yessir! The race is run and Shortinbras enters,leading in the winner.FIRST PUNTER: And thou hast trained the winner, thou thyself,Thou complicated liar. And the lavin's of the grub! Mr. Paterson was a prolific writer of light topical verse. Banjo Paterson's Poems of the Bush A.B. And if they have racing hereafter, (And who is to say they will not?) Old Australian Ways 157. And more than 100 years after the words were penned we find they still ring out across the nation. To the hut at the Stockman's Ford; Our money all gone and our credit, Our horse couldn't gallop a yard; And then people thought that we did it It really was terribly hard. To the front -- and then stay there - was ever The root of the Mameluke creed. (Banjo) Paterson. Joe Nagasaki, his "tender", is owner and diver instead. 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!" 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. Then loud fron the lawn and the garden Rose offers of "Ten to one on!" 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. A Disqualified Jockey's Story. Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side Was the scapegoat: And eating his latest advertisement! Sit down and ride for your life now! He turned to an Acolyte who was making his bacca light, A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true That close at hand he kept; He pointed straight at the voice, and drew, But never a flash outleapt, For the water ran from the rifle breech -- It was drenched while the outlaws slept. Catch him now if you can, sir! "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. (Strikes him. I've prayed him over every fence -- I've prayed him out and back! LEGAL INNOVATION | Tu Agente Digitalizador; LEGAL3 | Gestin Definitiva de Despachos; LEGAL GOV | Gestin Avanzada Sector Pblico * * * * So may it be! The Old Bark Hut 159. Rio Grandes Last Race sold over 100,000 copies, and The Man from Snowy River and Clancy of the Overflow, were equally successful. But, as one half-hearing 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. on Mar 14 2005 06:57 PM PST x edit . But Moses told 'em before he died, "Wherever you are, whatever betide, Every year as the time draws near By lot or by rote choose you a goat, And let the high priest confess on the beast The sins of the people the worst and the least, Lay your sins on the goat! 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! 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. '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. 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. 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. Andrew Barton Paterson was born on the 17th February 1864 in the township of Narambla, New South Wales. 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." Banjo Paterson. We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, If he takes home our sins, it'll burst up the Synagogue!" 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. 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! 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. Maya Angelou (52 poem) 4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014. "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. About their path a fearful fate Will hover always near. * 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. Now for the treble, my hearty -- By Jove, he can ride, after all; Whoop, that's your sort -- let him fly them! )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! As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee -- Oh! 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. I have it coldStraight from the owner, that Golumpus goesEyes out to win today.FIRST HEAD: Prate not to me of owners. Listen awhile till I show you round. An early poem by Banjo Paterson's grandmother (In Memoriam) does not augur well: Grief laid her hand upon a stately head / And streams of silver were around it shed . 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 Last Parade 153. Credit:Australian War Memorial. He hasn't much fear of a fall. It will bring me fame and fortune! And aren't they just going a pace? Macbreath is struck on the back of the headby some blue metal from Pennant Hills Quarry. To all devout Jews! A Dog's Mistake. Were working to restore it. 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. For Bob was known on the Overland, A regular old bush wag, Tramping along in the dust and sand, Humping his well-worn swag. He won it, and ran it much faster Than even the first, I believe; Oh, he was the daddy, the master, Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. Hunt him over the plain, And drive back the brute to the desert again. 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. 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. Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. Mr. Paterson was a prolific writer of light topical verse. Review of The Bush Poems of A. Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson, CBE (17 February 1864- 5 February 1941) was an Australian bush poet, journalist and author. It was written at a time when cycling was a relatively new and popular social activity. The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast So gallantly making his way to the east, Says he, "From the tents may I never more roam again If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. 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. '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. For the lawyer laughs in his cruel sport While his clients march to the Bankrupt Court." A shimmer of silk in the cedars As into the running they wheeled, And out flashed the whips on the leaders, For Pardon had collared the field. Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet -- and it's Battleaxe wins for a crown; Look at him rushing the fences, he wants to bring t'other chap down. . Oh, he can jump 'em all right, sir, you make no mistake, 'e's a toff -- Clouts 'em in earnest, too, sometimes; you mind that he don't clout you off -- Don't seem to mind how he hits 'em, his shins is as hard as a nail, Sometimes you'll see the fence shake and the splinters fly up from the rail. It was splendid; He gained on them yards every bound, Stretching out like a greyhound extended, His girth laid right down on the ground. `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.' 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. 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. 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! Clancy would feature briefly in Patersons poem, The man from Snowy River, which was published by The Bulletin the next year. There are quite a few . The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, And Abraham's tiring -- I'll lay six to four! * * * * 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. why, he'd fall off a cart, let alone off a steeplechase horse. 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! Thus ended a wasted life and hard, Of energies misapplied -- Old Bob was out of the "swagman's yard" And over the Great Divide. The landscapes and wildlife of the Brindabellas, west of our national capital, provided inspiration for renowned Australian writer Miles Franklin. Best Poets. James Tyson (8 April 1819 - 4 December 1898 . (Banjo) Paterson A. `"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." So off they went, And as soon as ever they turned their backs The girl slipped down, on some errand bent Behind the stable and seized an axe. 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. Lift ye your faces to the sky Ye barrier mountains in the west Who lie so peacefully at rest Enshrouded in a haze of blue; 'Tis hard to feel that years went by Before the pioneers broke through Your rocky heights and walls of stone, And made your secrets all their own. Of Scottish descent on his father's side,. And loud from every squatter's door Each pioneering swell Will hear the wild pianos roar The strains of "Daisy Bell". isn't Abraham forcing the pace -- And don't the goat spiel? 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. Mulga Bill's Bicycle was written by Banjo Paterson in 1896. Spoken too low for the trooper's ear, Why should she care if he heard or not? The remains will be cremated to-day at the Northern Suburbs Crematorium. Joe Nagasaki, the "tender", finding the profits grow small, Said, "Let us go to the Islands, try for a number one haul! For us the roving breezes bring From many a blossum-tufted tree -- Where wild bees murmur dreamily -- The honey-laden breath of Spring. This poem tells of a man who reacts badly to a practical joke sprung on him by a Sydney barber. A Change of Menu. he's over, and two of the others are down! And more than 100 years after the words were penned we find they still ring out across the nation. I'm all of a stew. 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! B. On Banjo Patersons 150th birthday anniversary, here are his best ballads. Parts have been sung at six Olympic Games ceremonies dating back to 1956. Top 10 iconic Banjo Paterson bush ballads, The Brindabellas: Miles Franklins mountain country, Questions raised about Western Australia as site of oldest signs of life, Australian Geographic Society Expeditions, Entries now open for the Australian Geographic Nature Photographer of the Year competition, Environmentalists, Conservationists and Scientists. Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known, Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone. He would camp for days in the river-bed, And loiter and "fish for whales". 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. . They're off and away with a rattle, Like dogs from the leashes let slip, And right at the back of the battle He followed them under the whip. Video PDF To Those Whom I love & Those Who Love Me Beautiful remembrance poem, ideal for a funeral reading or eulogy. . 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. 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! During an inland flash flood, he saves his masters son. What meant he by his prateOf Fav'rite and outsider and the like?Forsooth he told us nothing. And prices as usual! Thy story quickly!MESSENGER: Gracious, my Lord,I should report that which I know I saw,But know not how to do it.MACBREATH: Well! But his owner's views of training were immense, For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day, And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence. Weight! 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. "And I never shall find the rails." 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. Did he sign a pledge agreeing to retire?VOTER: Aye, that he did.MACBREATH: Not so did I!Not on the doubtful hazard of a voteBy Ryde electors, cherry-pickers, oafs,That drive their market carts at dread of nightAnd sleep all day. 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. 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. 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. With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the day In the gullies keeping close and out of sight. Paterson wrote this sad ballad about war-weary horses after working as a correspondent during the Boer War in South Africa. Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough? "The goat -- was he back there? Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor, Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure. Patersons The Man from Snowy River, Pardon, the Son of Reprieve, Rio Grandes Last Race, Saltbush Bill, and Clancy of the Overflow were read with delight by every campfire and billabong, and in every Australian house - recited from a thousand platforms. The day it has come, with trumpet and drum. 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. Some have even made it into outer space. (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!" By subscribing you become an AG Society member, helping us to raise funds for conservation and adventure projects. 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. Facing it yet! )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: . Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford -- A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell -- Chanced to find him drunk as a lord Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel. 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.

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