In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, "The trail of the serpent was over them all." Even though an adder bit me, back to life again Id float; Snakes are out of date, I tell you, since Ive found the antidote. Said the scientific person, If you really want to die, Go aheadbut, if youre doubtful, let your sheep-dog have a try. I loudly cried, But right in front they seemed to ride - I cursed them in my sleep. 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. 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. Mulga Bill was based on a man of the name of William Henry Lewis, who knew Paterson around Bourke, NSW, and who had bought a bicycle because it was an easier form of transport than his horse in a time of drought. [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. Some of the chaps said you couldn't, an' I says just like this a' one side: Mark me, I says, that's a tradesman -- the saddle is where he was bred. 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. Gone is the garden they kept with care; Left to decay at its own sweet will, Fruit trees and flower-beds eaten bare, Cattle and sheep where the roses were, Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill. 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. The mountains saw them marching by: They faced the all-consuming drought, They would not rest in settled land: But, taking each his life in hand, Their faces ever westward bent Beyond the farthest settlement, Responding to the challenge cry of "better country farther out". They were outlaws both -- and on each man's head Was a thousand pounds reward. His ballads of the bush had enormous popularity. ere theyd watched a half-hours spell Stumpy was as dead as mutton, tother dog was live and well. Dustjacket synopsis: "The poetry selected for this collection reveals Paterson's love and appreciation for the Australina bush and its people. . Fearless he was beyond credence, looking at death eye to eye: This was his formula always, "All man go dead by and by -- S'posing time come no can help it -- s'pose time no come, then no die." Clancy of the Overflow was inspired by an experience Banjo Paterson had while he was working as a lawyer. They went tearin' round and round, And the fences rang and rattled where they struck. So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees In the dim, half-dawning light, And he made his way to a patch of trees, And was lost in the black of night; And the trackers hunted his tracks all day, But they never could trace his flight. 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. How Gilbert Died. Well, now, I can hardly believe! 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. Paterson worked as a lawyer but When he was six, the family moved to Illalong, a days ride from Lambing Flat diggings, where Young now stands. 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. And lo, a miracle! Don't tell me he can ride. 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. Mr. Paterson was a prolific writer of light topical verse. It follows a mountainous horseback pursuit to recapture the colt of a prize-winning racehorse living with brumbies. A Bunch of Roses. 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. 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! say, on!MESSENGER: As I did stand my watch in ParliamentI saw the Labour platform come acrossAnd join Kyabram, Loans were overthrown,The numbers were reduced, extravaganceIs put an end to by McGowan's vote.MACBREATH: The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon!Where got'st thou this fish yarn?MESSENGER: There's nearly forty,MACBREATH: Thieves, fool?MESSENGER: No, members, will be frozen out of work!MACBREATH: Aye, runs the story so! )What if it should be! Pablo Neruda (143 poem) 12 July 1904 - 23 September 1973. The sermon was marked by a deal of humility And pointed the fact, with no end of ability. You have to be sure of your man Ere you wake up that nest-ful of hornets -- the little brown men of Japan. 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. He had called him Faugh-a-ballagh, which is French for 'Clear the course', And his colours were a vivid shade of green: All the Dooleys and O'Donnells were on Father Riley's horse, While the Orangemen were backing Mandarin! 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. He looked to left and looked to right, As though men rode beside; And Rio Grande, with foam-flecks white, Raced at his jumps in headlong flight And cleared them in his stride. Bookmakers call: 'Seven to Four on the Field! A B Banjo Paterson Follow. 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. ')MACPUFF: Kind voters all, and worthy gentlemen,Who rallied to my flag today, and made meMember for Thompson, from my soul I thank you.There needs no trumpet blast, for I can blowLike any trombone. 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! The Stockman 163. 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? Were sorry, this feature is currently unavailable. He was educated at Sydney Grammar School. When night doth her glories Of starshine unfold, Tis then that the stories Of bush-land are told. For faster horses might well be found On racing tracks, or a plain's extent, But few, if any, on broken ground Could see the way that The Swagman went. Read all poems by Banjo Paterson written. For all I ever had of theeMy children were unfed, my wife unclothed,And I myself condemned to menial toil.PUNTER: The man who keeps a winner to himselfDeserves but death. Mr. Paterson was a prolific writer of light topical verse. . "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! You never heard tell of the story? but we who know The strange capricious land they trod -- At times a stricken, parching sod, At times with raging floods beset -- Through which they found their lonely way Are quite content that you should say It was not much, while we can feel That nothing in the ages old, In song or story written yet On Grecian urn or Roman arch, Though it should ring with clash of steel, Could braver histories unfold Than this bush story, yet untold -- The story of their westward march. And I'll bet my cash on Father Riley's horse!" A.B. 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. D'you know the place? '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. 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. Filter poems by topics. 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. 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. Cycles were ridden everywhere, including in the outback by shearers and other workers who needed to travel cheaply. Some have even made it into outer space. 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 thirty-foot leap, I declare -- Never a shift in his seat, and he's racing for home like a hare. Now this was what Macpherson told While waiting in the stand; A reckless rider, over-bold, The only man with hands to hold The rushing Rio Grande. Run for some other seat,Let the woods hide thee. `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. Paterson and his old friend, Lawson, imparted to the literature of their country a note which marked the beginning of a new period. 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. On Banjo Patersons 150th birthday anniversary, here are his best ballads. 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. he's over, and two of the others are down! In fact I should think he was one of their weediest: 'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, That a "stag" makes quite good enough mutton for shearers. And soon it rose on every tongue That Jack Macpherson rode among The creatures of his dream. 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! 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. `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. "There's tea in the battered old billy;Place the pannikins out in a row,And we'll drink to the next merry meeting,In the place where all good fellows go. Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known, Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone. 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. Mr. Andrew Barton Paterson, better known throughout Australia as Banjo Paterson, died at a private hospital, in Sydney, yesterday afternoon, after about a fortnights illness. 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. Come back! Rio Grandes Last Race sold over 100,000 copies, and The Man from Snowy River and Clancy of the Overflow, were equally successful. 'Twill sometimes chance when a patient's ill That a doae, or draught, or a lightning pill, A little too strong or a little too hot, Will work its way to a vital spot. 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. 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. 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. you're all right, sir, and thank you; and them was the words that I said. by Banjo Paterson, From book: Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other . 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. "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." 'Tis safer to speak well of the dead: betimes they rise again. "Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say, For it's close upon my death I am tonight. A vision!Thou canst not say I did it! And the priest would join the laughter: "Oh," said he, "I put him in, For there's five-and-twenty sovereigns to be won. They had taken toll of the country round, And the troopers came behind With a black who tracked like a human hound In the scrub and the ranges blind: He could run the trail where a white man's eye No sign of track could find. `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. No need the pallid face to scan, We knew with Rio Grande he ran The race the dead men ride. Both wrote in other strains, of course, and of other than swagmen and cockies, stock-men and bullock drivers, but bush was always at their heartstrings, and it was of the bush, as they saw it from roadside and saddle that they wrote best. 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. Paul Kelly - The 23rd Psalm 2. . It would look rather well the race-card on 'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things, "Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon, Blue halo, white body and wings." 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". )There's blood upon thy face.VOTER: 'Tis Thompsons's, then.MACBREATH: Is he thrown out? A Disqualified Jockey's Story. There was some that cleared the water -- there was more fell in and drowned, Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck! It will cure delirium tremens, when the patients eyeballs stare At imaginary spiders, snakes which really are not there. The way is won! " T.Y.S.O.N. But it chanced next day, when the stunted pines Were swayed and stirred by the dawn-wind's breath, That a message came for the two Devines That their father lay at the point of death. A Bush Lawyer. 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. 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. 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. )Thou com'st to use thy tongue. (Banjo) Paterson A. 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. 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. It contains not only widely published and quoted poems such as "On Kiley's Run . Plenty of swagmen far and near -- And yet to Ryan it meant a lot. 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. The poet is survived by Mrs. Paterson and the two children by the marriage, Mrs. K. Harvey, whose husband is a naval officer, and Mr. Hugh Paterson of Queensland, who is at present a member of the Australian Imperial Force on active service abroad. 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!" No need the pallid face to scan, We knew with Rio Grande he ran The race the dead men ride. 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. 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'. As we swept along on our pinions winging, We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing, Or the distant note of a torrent singing, Or the far-off flash of a station light.