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. 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! B. From the Archives, 1941: Banjo Paterson dead. For he rode at dusk with his comrade Dunn. His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. . Please try again later. But when they reached the big stone wall, Down went the bridle-hand, And loud we heard Macpherson call Make room, or half the field will fall! That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, And, according to Samuel, would certainly d--n you well. 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! 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. I slate his show from the floats to flies, Because the beggar won't advertise. 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. He turned to an Acolyte who was making his bacca light, A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. Him goin' to ride for us! Then a cheer of exultation burst aloud from Johnsons throat; Luck at last, said he, Ive struck it! 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 they settled it among 'em, for the story got about, 'Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course, That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out For the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse! `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. 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!" When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat, It will cure him just to think of Johnsons Snakebite Antidote. Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can; I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure, Just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure. (Strikes him. This was the way of it, don't you know -- Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep, And never a trooper, high or low, Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep! Amateur! He was in his 77th year. . Favourite Poems of Banjo Paterson (1994) In the Droving Days compiled by Margaret Olds (1994) Under Sunny Skies (1994) Banjo's Animal Tales (1994) The Works of 'Banjo' Paterson (1996) The Best of Banjo Paterson compiled by Bruce Elder (1996) 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. But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol! Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side Was the scapegoat: And eating his latest advertisement! To all devout Jews! When he was six, the family moved to Illalong, a days ride from Lambing Flat diggings, where Young now stands. 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. 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. 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. Unnumbered I hold them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright? the land But yesterday was all unknown, The wild man's boomerang was thrown Where now great busy cities stand. A Bunch of Roses. "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. 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. Go to!Strikes him.Alarms and excursions. I don't want no harping nor singing -- Such things with my style don't agree; Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing There's music sufficient for me. Him -- with the pants and the eyeglass and all. And King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat, Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote. 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. . An uplifting poem about being grateful for a loved one's life. Never shakeThy gory locks at me. 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. 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. One shriek from him burst -- "You creature accurst!" Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known, Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone. Geebung is the indigenous name for a tough fruiting shrub (Persoonia sp.). For things have changed on Cooper's Creek Since Ludwig Leichhardt died. A Dog's Mistake. It don't seem to trouble the swell. 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. Then loud fron the lawn and the garden Rose offers of "Ten to one on!" )PUNTER: Nay, good Shortinbras, what thinkest thou of Golumpus?Was it not dead last week?SHORTINBRAS: Marry, sir, I think well of Golumpus. . Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago, He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him, Just 'on spec', addressed as follows, 'Clancy, of The Overflow'. Paterson wrote this sad ballad about war-weary horses after working as a correspondent during the Boer War in South Africa. 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. His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the day In the gullies keeping close and out of sight. The Man from Snowy River A poem by Australian bush poet Banjo Paterson So away at speed through the whispering pines Down the bridle-track rode the two Devines. Complete Poems (A&R Classics), Paterson, Banjo - eBay The Two Devines 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 And loud from every squatter's door Each pioneering swell Will hear the wild pianos roar The strains of "Daisy Bell". 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. . 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. He was educated at Sydney Grammar School. And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die! 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. 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. Unnoticed and undenied; But the smallest child on the Watershed. 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. The meaning of various words within the poem are given in the "Editor's notes" section at the end.] 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. 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. The bill-sticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, But his latest achievement most anger arouses, For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flow'r-bed, Discovered him eating the Rabbi's geraniums. How Gilbert Died Poem by Banjo Paterson The Bush Poems of A. B. (Banjo) Paterson - AustLit 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! Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny, But, really, a young un should know. For us the bush is never sad: Its myriad voices whisper low, In tones the bushmen only know, Its sympathy and welcome glad. The Man from Snowy River by A B Banjo Paterson - All Poetry Bookmakers call: 'Seven to Four on the Field! If we get caught, go to prison -- let them take lugger and all!" And aren't they just going a pace? 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. that's a sweet township -- a shindy To them is board, lodging, and sup. 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. 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. As a Funeral Celebrant, I have created this HUGE collection of poems and readings - see FUNERAL POEMS & READINGS - INDEX. I've prayed him over every fence -- I've prayed him out and back! One is away on the roving quest, Seeking his share of the golden spoil; Out in the wastes of the trackless west, Wandering ever he gives the best Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil. Lord! 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. Best Poets. 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!" 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 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. 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. we're going on a long job now. But troubles came thicker upon us, For while we were rubbing him dry The stewards came over to warn us: "We hear you are running a bye! Poems of Banjo Paterson by Banjo Paterson - Michael Byrne . With gladness we thought of the morrow, We counted our wages with glee, A simile homely to borrow -- "There was plenty of milk in our tea." As participation in freediving reaches new levels, we look at whats driving the sports growing popularity. 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. This tale tells of a rickety old horse that learned how to swim. Review of The Bush Poems of A. 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. Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins! But daring men from Britain's shore, The fearless bulldog breed, Renew the fearful task once more, Determined to succeed. When the dash and the excitement and the novelty are dead, And you've seen a load of wounded once or twice, Or you've watched your old mate dying, with the vultures overhead -- Well, you wonder if the war is worth the price.
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