Are these the beasts we brought away That move so lively now? The plains are all awave with grass, The skies are deepest blue; And leisurely the cattle pass And feed the long day through; But when we sight the station gate, We make the stockwhips crack, A welcome sound to those who wait To greet the cattle back: And through the twilight falling We hear their voices calling, As the cattle splash across the ford and churn it into foam; And the children run to meet us, And our wives and sweethearts greet us, Their heroes from the Overland who brought the cattle home.
Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp; Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes, Mixes up among the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes: Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants, And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants: Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat, There it was that William Johnson sought his snake-bite antidote.
Thus it came to pass that Johnson, having got the tale by rote, Followed every stray goanna, seeking for the antidote. 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.
Breathless, Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank, Saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes, green and rank; Saw him, happy and contented, lick his lips, as off he crept, While the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept. Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor, Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure. It will bring me fame and fortune! Get a pair of dogs and try it, let the snake give both a nip; Give your dog the snakebite mixture, let the other fellow rip; If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good.
Will you fetch your dog and try it? So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat. And King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat, Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote. Who goes there? The challenge echoed over all— Halt! A quaint old figure clothed in white, He bore a staff of pine, An ivy-wreath was on his head. It was not till the morning light The soldiers knew that in the night Old Santa Claus had come to camp Without the countersign.
Let us cease our idle chatter, Let the tears bedew our cheek, For a man from Tallangatta Has been missing for a week. Where the roaring flooded Murray Covered all the lower land, There he started in a hurry, With a bottle in his hand. And they scarcely seem to wonder That the river, wide and deep, Never woke him with its thunder, Never stirred him in his sleep.
So the river rose and found him Sleeping softly by the stream, And the cruel waters drowned him Ere he wakened from his dream. The N. Bookstall Co. Song of the Federation. And she came—she was beautiful as morning, With the bloom of the roses in her mouth, Like a young queen lavishly adorning Her charms with the splendours of the South. Song of the Australians in Action. For the honour of Australia, our mother, Side by side with our kin from over sea, We have fought and we have tested one another, And enrolled among the brotherhood are we.
There was never post of danger but we sought it In the fighting, through the fire, and through the flood. There was never prize so costly but we bought it, Though we paid for its purchase with our blood. Was there any road too rough for us to travel? Was there any path too far for us to tread? You can track us by the blood drops on the gravel On the roads that we milestoned with our dead! They never need work, nor want, nor weep; No troubles can come their hearts to estrange.
Some summer night I shall fall asleep, And wake in the country over the range. Child, you are wise in your simple trust, For the wisest man knows no more than you Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust: Our views by a range are bounded too; But we know that God hath this gift in store, That when we come to the final change, We shall meet with our loved ones gone before To the beautiful country over the range. Far from the trouble and toil of town, Where the reed beds sweep and shiver, Look at a fragment of velvet brown— Old Man Platypus drifting down, Drifting along the river.
And he plays and dives in the river bends In a style that is most elusive; With few relations and fewer friends, For Old Man Platypus descends From a family most exclusive.
He shares his burrow beneath the bank With his wife and his son and daughter At the roots of the reeds and the grasses rank; And the bubbles show where our hero sank To its entrance under water. Safe in their burrow below the falls They live in a world of wonder, Where no one visits and no one calls, They sleep like little brown billiard balls With their beaks tucked neatly under.
Australia takes her pen in hand To write a line to you, To let you fellows understand How proud we are of you. The fisher-boys dropped sail and oar To grimly stand the test, Along that storm-swept Turkish shore, With miners from the west. Our six-starred flag that used to fly Half-shyly to the breeze, Unknown where older nations ply Their trade on foreign seas,. The mettle that a race can show Is proved with shot and steel, And now we know what nations know And feel what nations feel.
The honoured graves beneath the crest Of Gaba Tepe hill May hold our bravest and our best, But we have brave men still. With all our petty quarrels done, Dissensions overthrown, We have, through what you boys have done, A history of our own. Fight on, fight on, unflinchingly, Till right and justice reign.
Fight on, fight on, till Victory Shall send you home again. Grey dawn on the sand-hills—the night wind has drifted All night from the rollers a scent of the sea; With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted, At the call of the morning they scatter and flee. Like mariners calling the roll of their number The sea-fowl put out to the infinite deep.
And far over-head—sinking softly to slumber— Worn out by their watching, the stars fall asleep. And lo, there is light! The horse is luckily uninjured. Block him there! Sound as a bell! Only a jockey-boy, foul-mouthed and bad you see, Ignorant, heathenish, gone to his rest. Parson or Presbyter, Pharisee, Sadducee, What did you do for him?
Him ye held less than the outer barbarian, Left him to die in his ignorant sin; Have you no principles, humanitarian? In his brutal profanity, That name was an oath—out of many but one— What did he get from our famed Christianity? Where has his soul—if he had any—gone? Fourteen years old, and what was he taught of it? Brumby is the Aboriginal word for a wild horse. At a recent trial a N. On odds and ends of mountain land, On tracks of range and rock Where no one else can make a stand, Old Brumby rears his stock.
A wild, unhandled lot they are Of every shape and breed. But when the dawn makes pink the sky And steals along the plain, The Brumby horses turn and fly Towards the hills again. The traveller by the mountain-track May hear their hoof-beats pass, And catch a glimpse of brown and black Dim shadows on the grass.
The eager stockhorse pricks his ears And lifts his head on high In wild excitement when he hears The Brumby mob go by. So, off to scour the mountain-side With eager eyes aglow, To strongholds where the wild mobs hide The gully-rakers go. A rush of horses through the trees, A red shirt making play; A sound of stockwhips on the breeze, They vanish far away!
Ah, me! Black Swans. As I lie at rest on a patch of clover In the Western Park when the day is done, 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. 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.
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.
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 strange inviting, When once to the work they have put their hand.
Facing it yet! Oh, my friend stout-hearted, What does it matter for rain or shine, For the hopes deferred and the gain departed? Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. And thy health and strength are beyond confessing As the only joys that are worth possessing. May the days to come be as rich in blessing As the days we spent in the auld lang syne. I would fain go back to the old grey river, To the old bush days when our hearts were light, But, alas!
There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken— We would 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. But on lonely nights we would 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 is 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.
They are flying west, by their instinct guided, And for man likewise is his fate decided, And griefs apportioned and joys divided By a mighty power with a purpose dread.
The Road to Gundagai. He only went to the Two-mile—he ought to be back by this. Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark, The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark; For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb, And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim. Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell; For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the blue bells blow close by, And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply. But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest, And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest. Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away, But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.
Clancy of the Overflow. I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall, And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste, With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste. The Man from Snowy River.
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around That the colt from old Regret had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses—he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight. There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up— He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand, He learnt to ride while droving on the plains. And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, He was something like a racehorse undersized, With a touch of Timor pony—three parts thoroughbred at least— And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, Where the river runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once they gain the shelter of those hills. So Clancy rode to wheel them—he was racing on the wing Where the best and boldest riders take their place, And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew. Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, While the others stood and watched in very fear. He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat— It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, At the bottom of that terrible descent. He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill, And the watchers on the mountain standing mute, Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still, As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, With the man from Snowy River at their heels. And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. He followed like a bloodhound on their track, Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, And alone and unassisted brought them back. But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day, And the stockmen tell the story of his ride. Waltzing Matilda Carrying a Swag. Down came the Squatter a-riding his thorough-bred; Down came Policemen—one, two, and three.
National Library of Australia: Waltzing Matilda—the original manuscript. That John Williamson rendition Matilda is a heck of a lot of fun.
Peter would love that trombone line and the change in tempo really makes it. Lots of stuff to enjoy from Banjo Patterson here. Comment by Micky — September 4, pm. Comment by michi — September 4, pm. Comment by Anonymous — February 15, am. Thanks for popping in. I am glad you enjoyed this. For me, part of the fun is the language down under, and the creatures like that goanna.
Thanks for your note. Small world, and small wide web—or is it that our minds travel in the same direction? Comment by Bud Bloom — September 6, am. Comment by lucy — July 29, pm. Comment by Anonymous — September 8, am.
Comment by luka — September 4, am. Comment by Cat — April 30, am. Thanks for stopping by, and for leaving a note. Comment by Clattery MacHinery — May 1, pm.
Comment by lbnjlj — May 10, am. This sight rox!!!!! I need it for an assignment. Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew. Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, Where Mountain Ash and Kurrajong grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day, No man can hold them down the other side. But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, While the others stood and watched in very fear. He sent the flint-stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, He cleared the fallen timbers in his stride, And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat — It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, At the bottom of that terrible descent. He was right among the horses as they climbed the farther hill And the watchers on the mountain standing mute, Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely; he was right among them still, As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges - but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, With the man from Snowy River at their heels. And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. He followed like a bloodhound on their track, Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, For never yet was mountain horse a cur. And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, And where around the Overflow the reed -beds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, The man from Snowy River is a household word today, And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
The poem tells the story of a valuable horse which escapes and the princely sum offered by its owner for its safe return. All the riders in the area gather to pursue the wild bush horses and cut the valuable horse from the mob. But the country defeats them all - except for 'The Man from Snowy River'. His personal courage and skill has turned him into a legend. It is thought that Paterson based the character of The Man from Snowy River on Jack Riley from Corryong, although this is often disputed with the argument put that Paterson created a composite character from a number of people he met.
It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down. He loitered here he loitered there, till he was like to drop, Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop. Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark. Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all; To them the barber passed the wink his dexter eyelid shut, "I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut.
He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat, Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat; Upon the newly-shaven skin it made a livid mark No doubt, it fairly took him in — the man from Ironbark. He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear, And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear, He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe: "You've done for me!
Almost immediately promoted captain, he served in the Middle East. Wounded in April , he rejoined his unit in July. He was ideally suited to his duties and, promoted major, commanded the Australian Remount Squadron from October until he returned to Australia in mid Jose to whom Robertson confided: 'It is amazing that a prince of raconteurs like Banjo should be such a messer with the pen'.
After the war Paterson resumed journalism; he contributed to the Sydney Mail and Smith's Weekly and in became editor of a racing journal, the Sydney Sportsman —an appointment he found highly congenial. In most of his poems were assembled in Collected Verse , which has been reprinted many times. He retired from active journalism in to devote his leisure to creative writing.
He was by now a celebrated and respected citizen of Sydney, most often seen at the Australian Club where he had long been a member and where his portrait now hangs. In following years he became a successful broadcaster with the Australian Broadcasting Commission on his travels and experiences.
He also wrote his delightfully whimsical book of children's poems, The Animals Noah Forgot That year he was appointed C.
He died, after a short illness, on 5 February and was cremated with Presbyterian forms. His wife and children survived him. By the verdict of the Australian people, and by his own conduct and precept, Paterson was, in every sense, a great Australian.
Ballad-writer, horseman, bushman, overlander, squatter—he helped to make the Australian legend. Yet, in his lifetime, he was a living part of that legend in that, with the rare touch of the genuine folk-poet, and in words that seemed as natural as breathing, he made a balladry of the scattered lives of back-country Australians and immortalized them.
He left a legacy for future generations in his objective, if sometimes sardonic, appreciation of the outback: that great hinterland stretching down from the Queensland border through the western plains of New South Wales to the Snowy Mountains—so vast a country that the lonely rider was seen as 'a speck upon a waste of plain'.
This was Paterson's land of contrasts: 'the plains are all awave with grass, the skies are deepest blue', but also the 'fiery dust-storm drifting and the mocking mirage shifting'; 'waving grass and forest trees on sunlit plains as wide as seas', but the 'drought fiend' too, and the cattle left lying 'with the crows to watch them dying'.
Although coming from a family of pioneer landholders who, by their industry had achieved some substance, Paterson wrote for all who were battling in the face of flood, drought and disaster. He saw life through the eyes of old Kiley who had to watch the country he had pioneered turned over to the mortgagees, of Saltbush Bill fighting a well-paid overseer for grass for his starving sheep, of Clancy of the Overflow riding contentedly through the smiling western plains:.
On the night of Paterson's death, Vance Palmer broadcasted a tribute: 'He laid hold both of our affections and imaginations; he made himself a vital part of the country we all know and love, and it would not only have been a poorer country but one far less united in bonds of intimate feeling, if he had never lived and written'.
In his granddaughters published a two-volume complete edition of Paterson's works, including hitherto unpublished material. View the front pages for Volume Select Bibliography S.
0コメント