The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was "had" That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. Their rifles stood at the stretcher head, Their bridles lay to hand; They wakened the old man out of his bed, When they heard the sharp command: "In the name of the Queen lay down your arms, Now, Dun and Gilbert, stand!" 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. And then I watch with a sickly grin While the patient 'passes his counters in'. The sermon was marked by a deal of humility And pointed the fact, with no end of ability. 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. 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. Between the mountains and the sea Like Israelites with staff in hand, The people waited restlessly: They looked towards the mountains old And saw the sunsets come and go With gorgeous golden afterglow, That made the West a fairyland, And marvelled what that West might be Of which such wondrous tales were told. You have to be sure of your man Ere you wake up that nest-ful of hornets -- the little brown men of Japan. Paterson and his old friend, Lawson, imparted to the literature of their country a note which marked the beginning of a new period. 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 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. Ure Smith. He rode all noght, and he steered his course By the shining stars with a bushman's skill, And every time that he pressed his horse The Swagman answered him gamely still. did you see how he struck, and the swell never moved in his seat? 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. The daylight is dying Away in the west, The wild birds are flying in silence to rest; In leafage and frondage Where shadows are deep, They pass to its bondage-- The kingdom of sleep And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, O wonderful night. 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!" And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die! . Here is a list of the top 10 most iconic Banjo Paterson ballads. Captain Andrew Barton Banjo Paterson (Right) of 2nd Remounts, Australian Imperial Force in Egypt. 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. The doctor met him outside the town "Carew! They bred him out back on the "Never", His mother was Mameluke breed. Clancy Of The Overflow Banjo Paterson. And over the tumult and louder Rang "Any price Pardon, I lay!" It is hard to keep sight on him, The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. The poem highlighted his good points and eccentricities. It was first published in The Bulletin, an Australian news magazine, on 26 April 1890, and was published by Angus & Robertson in October 1895, with other poems by Paterson, in The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses.The poem tells the story of a horseback pursuit to recapture the colt of a prizewinning racehorse . (Ghost of Thompson appears to him suddenly. And took to drink, and by some good chance Was killed -- thrown out of a stolen trap. 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 ." After all our confessions, so openly granted, He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. What scoundrel ever would dare to hint That anything crooked appears in print! Their horses were good uns and fit uns, There was plenty of cash in the town; They backed their own horses like Britons, And, Lord! 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. "The Man from Snowy River" is a poem by Australian bush poet Banjo Paterson. Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post! `And there the phantoms on each side Drew in and blocked his leap; "Make room! It follows a mountainous horseback pursuit to recapture the colt of a prize-winning racehorse living with brumbies. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. Yet it sometimes happens by some strange crook That a ledger-keeper will 'take his hook' With a couple of hundred thousand 'quid', And no one can tell how the thing was did!" He would camp for days in the river-bed, And loiter and "fish for whales". Credit:Australian War Memorial. The tongue-in-cheek story of Mulga Bill, a man who claimed he was an excellent cyclist only to crash, was published by The Sydney Mail. 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. Weight! Ride! I have alphabetically categorised & indexed over 700 poems & readings, in over 130 categories spreading over about 500 pages, but more are added regularly. By subscribing you become an AG Society member, helping us to raise funds for conservation and adventure projects. 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. How go the votes?Enter first voterFIRST VOTER: May it please my Lord,The cherry-pickers' vote is two to oneTowards Macpuff: and all our voters sayThe ghost of Thompson sits in every booth,And talks of pledges.MACBREATH: What a polished liar!And yet the dead can vote! "Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say, For it's close upon my death I am tonight. make room!" 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. From 1903 to 1906 he was editor of the Evening News, in Sydney, and subsequently editor of the Town and Country Journal for a couple of years. don't he just look it -- it's twenty to one on a fall. The day it has come, with trumpet and drum. Andrew Barton Paterson was born on the 17th February 1864 in the township of Narambla, New South Wales. ''Three to One, Bar One!' Who in the world would have thought 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." . Behind the great impersonal 'We' I hold the power of the Mystic Three. On this day: Banjo Paterson was born ere theyd watched a half-hours spell Stumpy was as dead as mutton, tother dog was live and well. "On," was the battle cry,"Conquer this day or die,Sons of Hibernia, fight for Liberty!Show neither fear nor dread,Strike at the foeman's head,Cut down horse, foot, and artillery! and he had fled! . Another search for Leichhardt's tomb, Though fifty years have fled Since Leichhardt vanished in the gloom, Our one Illustrious Dead! 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. But hold! 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." Banjo Paterson is one of Australia's best-loved poets and his verse is among Australia's enduring traditions. A new look at the oldest-known evidence of life, which is said to be in Western Australia, suggests the evidence might not be what its thought to have been. The Man From Snowy River There was mo Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny, But, really, a young un should know. 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. 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! "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! No use; all the money was gone. 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. 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. 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. A Ballad of Ducks. `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. Enter a Messenger. 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". had I the flight of the bronzewing,Far o'er the plains would I fly,Straight to the land of my childhood,And there would I lay down and die. It contains not only widely published and quoted poems such as "On Kiley's Run . "Well, you're back right sudden,"the super said; "Is the old man dead and the funeral done?" Captain Andrew Barton Banjo Paterson (Right) of 2nd Remounts, Australian Imperial Force in Egypt. . Great Stuff. The animal, freed from all restraint Lowered his head, made a kind of feint, And charged straight at that elderly saint. Some of his best-known poems are 'Clancy of the Overflow' and 'Waltzing Matilda.'. 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. Out on those deserts lone and drear The fierce Australian black Will say -- "You show it pint o' beer, It show you Leichhardt track!" Clancy would feature briefly in Patersons poem, The man from Snowy River, which was published by The Bulletin the next year. Home Topics History & Culture Top 10 iconic Banjo Paterson bush ballads. 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. 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. . First published in The Sydney Morning Herald on February 6, 1941. Lord! Your six-furlong vermin that scamper Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up, They wouldn't earn much of their damper In a race like the President's Cup. D'you know the place? From the Archives, 1941: Banjo Paterson dead. About their path a fearful fate Will hover always near. O ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting To the folk that live in that western land? Didst not sayTo back Golumpus or the Favourite!SHORTINBRAS: Get work! Macbreath is struck on the back of the headby some blue metal from Pennant Hills Quarry. `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.' In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep, With the endless line of waggons stretching back, While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep, Plodding silent on the never-ending track, While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see Makes you wonder will your turn come -- when and how? 'Ten to One, Golumpus. What meant he by his prateOf Fav'rite and outsider and the like?Forsooth he told us nothing. Andrew Barton "Banjo" His parents were immigrants to New South Wales, Australia, in 1850. So I'll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again, Tis yourself that knows a good 'un; and, of course, You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy's plain If you're ever asked the breeding of the horse! He seemed to inherit their wiry Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive -- As hard as a flint and as fiery Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. 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. Without these, indeed, you Would find it ere long, As though I should read you The words of a song That lamely would linger When lacking the rune, The voice of the singer, The lilt of the tune. 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. 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. An Emu Hunt 160. When he was six, the family moved to Illalong, a days ride from Lambing Flat diggings, where Young now stands. Fourth Man "I am an editor, bold and free. Sure he'll jump them fences easy -- you must never raise the whip Or he'll rush 'em! We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, If he takes home our sins, it'll burst up the Synagogue!" (We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of Pharisee.) Don't tell me he can ride. The Seekers recorded it three times, and Slim played it at the closing ceremony of the Sydney 2000 Olympics. He rolled and he weltered and wallowed -- You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet; They finished all bunched, and he followed All lathered and dripping with sweat. But when you reach the big stone wall Put down your bridle-hand And let him sail-he cannot fall, But dont you interfere at all; You trust old Rio Grande. 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. And Pardon was better, we reckoned, His sickness was passing away, So we went to the post for the second And principal heat of the day. Well, now, I can hardly believe! Video PDF When I'm Gone He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill And over the Old Man Plain, But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill, And they made for the range again; Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt They rode with a loosened rein. * * * * We have our tales of other days, Good tales the northern wanderers tell When bushmen meet and camp-fires blaze, And round the ring of dancing light The great, dark bush with arms of night Folds every hearer in its spell. In the meantime much of his verse was published in book form. 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! Down in the world where men toil and spin Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her; Only the dead men her smiles can win In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water. 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. Follow fast.Exeunt PuntersSCENE IIThe same. 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. Shall we see the flats grow golden with the ripening of the grain? The stunted children come and go In squalid lanes and alleys black: We follow but the beaten track Of other nations, and we grow In wealth for some -- for many, woe. (Banjo) Paterson. Boss must be gone off his head to be sending out steeplechase crack Out over fences like these with an object like that on his back. Evens the field!" Thinkest thou that both are dead?Re-enter PuntersPUNTER: Good morrow, Gentlemen. An angel stood beside the bed Where lay the living and the dead. For I must ride the dead mens race, And follow their command; Twere worse than death, the foul disgrace If I should fear to take my place Today on Rio Grande. 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. And aren't they just going a pace? (Banjo) Paterson. 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! 'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk That ran from the range's crest, And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk Is known as "The Swagman's Rest". Beyond all denials The stars in their glories, The breeze in the myalls, Are part of these stories. It was not much! * * * * 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. A beautiful new edition of the complete poems of A. 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. Oh, good, that's the style -- come away! Be that as it may, as each year passed away, a scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) And left there -- to die as his fancy dictated. Good for the new chum! 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! But each man carries to his grave The kisses that in hopes to save The angel or his mother gave. With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst -- "Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, The sins of the people are whiter than snow!" Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson, CBE (17 February 1864- 5 February 1941) was an Australian bush poet, journalist and author. how we rattled it down! 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. AUSTRALIANS LOVE THAT Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson (1864-1941) found romance in the tough and wiry characters of bush. Thus it came to pass that Johnson, having got the tale by rote, Followed every stray goanna, seeking for the antidote. Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed At his voice and the pistol sound. (Strikes him. Fall! That unkempt mound Shows where they slumber united still; Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound Out on the range as in holy ground, Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill. 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. Most popular poems of Banjo Paterson, famous Banjo Paterson and all 284 poems in this page. 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. 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. It was published in 1896 in the Australasian Pastoralists Review (1913-1977) and also in Patersons book Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other Verses. There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died, And they wondered who on earth he could have been. 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. Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. 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. 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) 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! 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. He's hurrying, too! And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, Oh, wonderful night. See also: Poems by all poets about death and All poems by Banjo Paterson The Angel's Kiss Analysis of this poem An angel stood beside the bed Where lay the living and the dead. Anon we'll all be fittedWith Parliamentary seats. Jack Thompson: The Campfire Yarns of Henry Lawson. This poem tells of a man who reacts badly to a practical joke sprung on him by a Sydney barber. There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub, And their riders flogged each other all the while. Review of The Bush Poems of A. . With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, The people came back from the desert in dread. the last fence, and he's over it! We have our songs -- not songs of strife And hot blood spilt on sea and land; But lilts that link achievement grand To honest toil and valiant life. And soon it rose on every tongue That Jack Macpherson rode among The creatures of his dream. When the field is fairly going, then ye'll see ye've all been fooled, And the chestnut horse will battle with the best. 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. I back Pardon!" [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.] Written from the point of view of the person being laid to rest. Those British pioneers Had best at home abide, For things have changed in fifty years Since Ludwig Leichhardt died. We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave At the foot of the Eaglehawk; We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave For fear that his ghost might walk; We carved his name on a bloodwood tree With the date of his sad decease And in place of "Died from effects of spree" We wrote "May he rest in peace". * * Well, sir, you rode him just perfect -- I knew from the fust you could ride. The breeze came in with the scent of pine, The river sounded clear, When a change came on, and we saw the sign That told us the end was near. Plenty of swagmen far and near -- And yet to Ryan it meant a lot. 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. Kanzo was king of his lugger, master and diver in one, Diving wherever it pleased him, taking instructions from none; Hither and thither he wandered, steering by stars and by sun. Never heard of the honour and glory Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve? Rataplan never will catch him if only he keeps on his pins; Now! Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor, Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure. `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 As phantoms with the rest. 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. And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold: "Come in and rest in peace, No safer place does the country hold -- With the night pursuit must cease, And we'll drink success to the roving boys, And to hell with the black police." 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! 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." 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. Now for the treble, my hearty -- By Jove, he can ride, after all; Whoop, that's your sort -- let him fly them! Read all poems by Banjo Paterson written. B. But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand, And he fired at the rifle-flash. Rio Grandes Last Race sold over 100,000 copies, and The Man from Snowy River and Clancy of the Overflow, were equally successful. Fell at that wall once, he did, and it gave him a regular spread, Ever since that time he flies it -- he'll stop if you pull at his head, Just let him race -- you can trust him -- he'll take first-class care he don't fall, And I think that's the lot -- but remember, he must have his head at the wall. 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. isn't Abraham forcing the pace -- And don't the goat spiel? Some have even made it into outer space. 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. Follow him close.Give him good watch, I pray you, till we seeJust what he does his dough on.