And there the phantoms on each side Drew in and blocked his leap; Make room! And aren't they just going a pace? And up went my hat in the air! 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. Along where Leichhardt journeyed slow And toiled and starved in vain; These rash excursionists must go Per Queensland railway train. He hasn't much fear of a fall. 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. "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. With his pants just as loose as balloons, How can he sit on a horse? And how he did come! * * * * So may it be! It was splendid; He gained on them yards every bound, Stretching out like a greyhound extended, His girth laid right down on the ground. 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! This sentimental work about a drover selling his faithful horse and reminiscing about their days on the land still speaks to people as mechanised transport and the cost of maintaining stock routes sees the very last of the drovers disappearing. Didst not sayTo back Golumpus or the Favourite!SHORTINBRAS: Get work! About their path a fearful fate Will hover always near. And loud from every squatter's door Each pioneering swell Will hear the wild pianos roar The strains of "Daisy Bell". For years the fertile Western plains Were hid behind your sullen walls, Your cliffs and crags and waterfalls All weatherworn with tropic rains. A B Banjo Paterson Follow. Video PDF When I'm Gone And that was the end of this small romance, The end of the story of Conroy's Gap. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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 . 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. he's over, and two of the others are down! 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. They were outlaws both -- and on each man's head Was a thousand pounds reward. Alas! Banjo Paterson, original name Andrew Barton Paterson, (born February 17, 1864, Narrambla, New South Wales, Australiadied February 5, 1941, Sydney), Australian poet and journalist noted for his composition of the internationally famous song " Waltzing Matilda ." 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. So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate And admitted Andy Regan -- and a horse! 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! `He's down! Banjo Paterson. 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. . . First published in The Sydney Morning Herald on February 6, 1941. * Oh, the steeple was a caution! 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. Jack Thompson: The Campfire Yarns of Henry Lawson. 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." Reviewed by Michael Byrne Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson was born on the 17th February, 1864 at Narambla, near Orange in New South Wales. Lawson almost always wrote as one who travelled afoot - Paterson as one who saw plain and bush from the back of a galloping horse. you're all right, sir, and thank you; and them was the words that I said. and his spurs like a pair of harpoons; Ought to be under the Dog Act, he ought, and be kept off the course. Some say it was a political comment on the violent shearers strikes happening at the time, while a new book Waltzing Matilda: the true story argues it may have been about a love triangle happening in Patersons life when he wrote it. Banjo Paterson was an Australian bush author who is remembered for his ballads about life in Australia. by Banjo Paterson, From book: Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other . Well, well, 'tis sudden!These are the uses of the politician,A few brief sittings and another contest;He hardly gets to know th' billiard tablesBefore he's out . Our chiefest singer yet has sung In wild, sweet notes a passing strain, All carelessly and sadly flung To that dull world he thought so vain. Lay on Macpuff,And damned be he who first cries Hold, enough! * 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. Billy Barlow In Australia One is away on the far Barcoo Watching his cattle the long year through, Watching them starve in the droughts and die. 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. But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol! They are flying west, by their instinct guided, And for man likewise is his rate decided, And griefs apportioned and joys divided By a mightly power with a purpose dread. 'Tis strange that in a land so strong So strong and bold in mighty youth, We have no poet's voice of truth To sing for us a wondrous song. With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the day In the gullies keeping close and out of sight. Ah, yes! This tale tells of a rickety old horse that learned how to swim. An uplifting poem about being grateful for a loved one's life. Next, Please "I am a barrister, wigged and gowned; Of stately presence and look profound. The poem highlighted his good points and eccentricities. "Who'll bet on the field? One shriek from him burst -- "You creature accurst!" 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. 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'. An angel stood beside the bed Where lay the living and the dead. 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. 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! 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. Young Andrew spent his formative years living at a station called "Buckenbah' in the western districts of New South Wales. So away at speed through the whispering pines Down the bridle-track rode the two Devines. You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead. 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. A Tragedy as Played at Ryde**Macbreath Mr HenleyMacpuff Mr TerryThe GhostACT ITIME: The day before the electionSCENE: A Drummoyne tram running past a lunatic asylum.All present are Reform Leaguers and supporters of Macbreath.They seat themselves in the compartment.MACBREATH: Here, I'll sit in the midst.Be large in mirth. I have it coldStraight from the owner, that Golumpus goesEyes out to win today.FIRST HEAD: Prate not to me of owners. 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. 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 The freedom, and the hopeful sense Of toil that brought due recompense, Of room for all, has passed away, And lies forgotten with the dead. It follows a mountainous horseback pursuit to recapture the colt of a prize-winning racehorse living with brumbies. May the days to come be as rich in blessing As the days we spent in the auld lang syne. 'Enter Two Heads.FIRST HEAD: How goes the battle? 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, Captain Andrew Barton Banjo Paterson (Right) of 2nd Remounts, Australian Imperial Force in Egypt. So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat. `I dreamt last night I rode this race That I to-day must ride, And cant'ring down to take my place I saw full many an old friend's face Come stealing to my side. And Kate Carew, when her father died, She kept the horse and she kept him well; The pride of the district far and wide, He lived in style at the bush hotel. His ballads of the bush had enormous popularity. Fall! 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. Home Topics History & Culture Top 10 iconic Banjo Paterson bush ballads. When courts are sitting and work is flush I hurry about in a frantic rush. "We will show the boss how a shear-blade shines When we reach those ewes," said the two Devines. A favourite for the comparison of the rough and ready Geebung Polo Club members and their wealthy city competitors The Cuff and Collar Team. 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. "Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say, For it's close upon my death I am tonight. . 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. A beautiful new edition of the complete poems of A. Don't hope it -- the slinking hound, He sloped across to the Queensland side, And sold The Swagman for fifty pound, And stole the money, and more beside. )There's blood upon thy face.VOTER: 'Tis Thompsons's, then.MACBREATH: Is he thrown out? There he divided the junior Knox Prize with another student. 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. 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! But maybe you're only a Johnnie And don't know a horse from a hoe? They went tearin' round and round, And the fences rang and rattled where they struck. 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. The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, A light-hearted antelope "out on the ramp", Then stopped, looked around, got the "lay of the ground", And made a beeline back again to the camp. "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. Old Australian Ways 157. Down along the Mooki River, on the overlanders camp, Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp, Wanders, daily, William Johnson, down among those poisonous hordes, Shooting every stray goanna, calls them black and yaller frauds. Andrew Barton "Banjo" His parents were immigrants to New South Wales, Australia, in 1850. Hast thou seenThe good red gold Go in. 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. `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. 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. As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee -- Oh! But each man carries to his grave The kisses that in hopes to save The angel or his mother gave. But he weighed in, nine stone seven, then he laughed and disappeared, Like a banshee (which is Spanish for an elf), And old Hogan muttered sagely, "If it wasn't for the beard They'd be thinking it was Andy Regan's self!" 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. Banjo Paterson. He was educated at Sydney Grammar School. 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! There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub, And their riders flogged each other all the while. 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. But he found the rails on that summer night For a better place -- or worse, As we watched by turns in the flickering light With an old black gin for nurse. The trooper knew that his man would slide Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance; And with half a start on the mountain side Ryan would lead him a merry dance. This poem tells of a man who reacts badly to a practical joke sprung on him by a Sydney barber. 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. The Ballad Of The Carpet Bag 152. But the loss means ruin too you, maybe, But nevertheless I must have my fee! To all devout Jews! What scoundrel ever would dare to hint That anything crooked appears in print! 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. And then I watch with a sickly grin While the patient 'passes his counters in'. Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. During an inland flash flood, he saves his masters son. Such wasThe Swagman; and Ryan knew Nothing about could pace the crack; Little he'd care for the man in blue If once he got on The Swagman's back. From the Archives, 1941: Banjo Paterson dead. James Tyson (8 April 1819 - 4 December 1898 . And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave When he went to the Great Unseen -- We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave To see what his hint might mean. In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, "The trail of the serpent was over them all." Shall we see the flats grow golden with the ripening of the grain? Cycles were ridden everywhere, including in the outback by shearers and other workers who needed to travel cheaply. The doctor met him outside the town "Carew! And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die! Had anyone heard of him?" Make room for Rio Grande! Hes down! Weight! O ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting To the folk that live in that western land? 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. "And I never shall find the rails." And the lavin's of the grub! (Kills him)Enter defeated Owner and Jockey.OWNER: Thou whoreson Knave: thou went into a tranceSoon as the barrier lifted and knew naughtOf what occurred until they neared the post. Born and bred on the mountain side, He could race through scrub like a kangaroo; The girl herself on his back might ride, And The Swagman would carry her safely through. Jack Thompson: The Sentimental Bloke, The Poems of C . With rifle flashes the darkness flamed -- He staggered and spun around, And they riddled his body with rifle balls As it lay on the blood-soaked ground. -- 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." '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. Of Scottish descent on his father's side,. ')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. Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins! The Bush Poems of A . Oh, good, that's the style -- come away! Follow him close.Give him good watch, I pray you, till we seeJust what he does his dough on. Banjo Paterson Poems 151. His ballads of the bush had enormous popularity. . Poems of Banjo Paterson. (Sings)They pulled him barefaced in the mile,Hey, Nonny, Nonny.The Stipes were watching them all the while;And the losers swear, but the winners smile,Hey, Nonny, Nonny.Exit Shortinbras.SECOND RUNTER: A scurvy knave! those days they have fled for ever, They are like the swans that have swept from sight. Wearer of pearls in your necklace, comfort yourself if you can. 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. Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide, Drifting along with a languid motion, Lapping the reed-beds on either side, Wending their way to the North Ocean. I am as skilled as skilled can be In every matter of s. d. I count the money, and night by night I balance it up to a farthing right: In sooth, 'twould a stranger's soul perplex My double entry and double checks. So the Dutch let him go; but they watched him, as off from the Islands he ran, Doubting him much -- but what would you? . I frighten my congregation well With fear of torment and threats of hell, Although I know that the scientists Can't find that any such place exists. 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. (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. )What's this? "Well, you're back right sudden,"the super said; "Is the old man dead and the funeral done?" 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. We cannot love the restless sea, That rolls and tosses to and fro Like some fierce creature in its glee; For human weal or human woe It has no touch of sympathy. A dreadful scourge that lies in wait -- The Longreach Horehound Beer! 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. Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can;All our mates in the paddock are dead.Let us wave our farewells to Glen Eva's sweet dellsAnd the hills where your lordship was bred;Together to roam from our drought-stricken homeIt seems hard that such things have to be,And its hard on a "hogs" when he's nought for a bossBut a broken-down squatter like me!For the banks are all broken, they say,And the merchants are all up a tree.When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court,What chance for a squatter like me.No more shall we muster the river for fats,Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain,Or rip through the scrub by the light of the moon,Or see the old stockyard again.Leave the slip-panels down, it won't matter much now,There are none but the crows left to see,Perching gaunt in yon pine, as though longing to dineOn a broken-down squatter like me.When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst,And the cattle were dying in scores,Though down on my luck, I kept up my pluck,Thinking justice might temper the laws.But the farce has been played, and the Government aidAin't extended to squatters, old son;When my dollars were spent they doubled the rent,And resumed the best half of the run. Rio Grandes Last Race sold over 100,000 copies, and The Man from Snowy River and Clancy of the Overflow, were equally successful. Credit:Australian War Memorial. Run for some other seat,Let the woods hide thee. 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. )GHOST: The Pledge! Don't tell me he can ride. 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. How neatly we beguiledThe guileless Thompson. 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. The day it has come, with trumpet and drum. 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. So Abraham ran, like a man did he go for him, But the goat made it clear each time he drew near That he had what the racing men call "too much toe" for him. Prithee, let us go!Thanks to you all who shared this glorious day,Whom I invite to dance at Chowder Bay! Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed At his voice and the pistol sound. Clancy would feature briefly in Patersons poem, The man from Snowy River, which was published by The Bulletin the next year. But the reason we print those statements fine Is -- the editor's uncle owns the mine." A Bush Lawyer. I loudly cried, But right in front they seemed to ride - I cursed them in my sleep. (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!" He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to stay! Go back it, back it! `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. Make miniature mechanised minions with teeny tiny tools! So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights, In the graveyard at the back of Kiley's Hill; There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights Till the very boldest fighters had their fill. isn't Abraham forcing the pace -- And don't the goat spiel? But they went to death when they entered there In the hut at the Stockman's Ford, For their grandsire's words were as false as fair -- They were doomed to the hangman's cord. 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! Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough? I Bought a Record and Tape called "Pioneers" by "Wallis and Matilda" a tribute to A.B. SCENE ISCENE: The saddling paddock at a racecourse.Citizens, Battlers, Toffs, Trainers, Flappers, Satyrs, Bookmakers and Turf Experts.Enter Shortinbras, a Trainer, and two Punters.FIRST PUNTER: Good Shortinbras, what thinkest thou of the Fav'rite?SHORTINBRAS (aside): This poltroon would not venture a ducaton David to beat a dead donkey; a dull and muddy-mettled rascal. The old un May reckon with some of 'em yet." 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. And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win, And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!" Catch him now if you can, sir! Whichever the case, according to the National Film and Sound Archive it has been recorded over 600 times in just about every possible musical style. He turned to an Acolyte who was making his bacca light, A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. [Editor: This poem by "Banjo" Patersonwas published in The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses, 1895; previously published in The Bulletin, 15 December 1894.] The crowd with great eagerness studied the race -- "Great Scott! A vision!Thou canst not say I did it! When the field is fairly going, then ye'll see ye've all been fooled, And the chestnut horse will battle with the best. you all Must each bring a stone -- Great sport will be shown; Enormous Attractions! 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. It's food for conjecture, to judge from the picture By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose Was a long way from being their choicest Angora.
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