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We got to the course with our troubles, A crestfallen couple were we; And we heard the " books" calling the doubles -- A roar like the surf of the sea. These volumes met with great success. 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. On Banjo Patersons 150th birthday anniversary, here are his best ballads. `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.' Andrew Barton "Banjo" His parents were immigrants to New South Wales, Australia, in 1850. Sure he'll jump them fences easy -- you must never raise the whip Or he'll rush 'em! * * Well, he's down safe as far as the start, and he seems to sit on pretty neat, Only his baggified breeches would ruinate anyone's seat -- They're away -- here they come -- the first fence, and he's head over heels for a crown! One is away on the far Barcoo Watching his cattle the long year through, Watching them starve in the droughts and die. The Two Devines It was shearing time at the Myall Lake, And then rose the sound through the livelong day Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make And 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. . I have it coldStraight from the owner, that Golumpus goesEyes out to win today.FIRST HEAD: Prate not to me of owners. 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! Maya Angelou (52 poem) 4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014. For Bob was known on the Overland, A regular old bush wag, Tramping along in the dust and sand, Humping his well-worn swag. Find many great new & used options and get the best deals for Complete Poems (A&R Classics), Paterson, Banjo at the best online prices at eBay! 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. Dived in the depths of the Darnleys, down twenty fathom and five; Down where by law, and by reason, men are forbidden to dive; Down in a pressure so awful that only the strongest survive: Sweated four men at the air pumps, fast as the handles could go, Forcing the air down that reached him heated and tainted, and slow -- Kanzo Makame the diver stayed seven minutes below; Came up on deck like a dead man, paralysed body and brain; Suffered, while blood was returning, infinite tortures of pain: Sailed once again to the Darnleys -- laughed and descended again! * * * * So may it be! O ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting To the folk that live in that western land? No need the pallid face to scan, We knew with Rio Grande he ran The race the dead men ride. That was the name of the grandest horse In all the district from east to west; In every show ring, on every course, They always counted The Swagman best. We dug where the cross and the grave posts were, We shovelled away the mould, When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare All gleaming with yellow gold. (Voter approaches the door. By subscribing you become an AG Society member, helping us to raise funds for conservation and adventure projects. And when they prove it beyond mistake That the world took millions of years to make, And never was built by the seventh day I say in a pained and insulted way that 'Thomas also presumed to doubt', And thus do I rub my opponents out. Hunt him over the plain, And drive back the brute to the desert again. . Fall! It will cure delirium tremens, when the patients eyeballs stare At imaginary spiders, snakes which really are not there. 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! He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!" Owner say'st thou?The owner does the paying, and the talk;Hears the tale afterwards when it gets beatAnd sucks it in as hungry babes suck milk.Look you how ride the books in motor carsWhile owners go on foot, or ride in trams,Crushed with the vulgar herd and doomed to hearFrom mouths of striplings that their horse was stiff,When they themselves are broke from backing it.SCENE IIIEnter an Owner and a JockeyOWNER: 'Tis a good horse. A vision!Thou canst not say I did it! 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. It was published in 1896 in the Australasian Pastoralists Review (1913-1977) and also in Patersons book Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other Verses. As participation in freediving reaches new levels, we look at whats driving the sports growing popularity. The Stockman 163. 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. For folks may widen their mental range, But priest and parson, thay never change." Inicio; Servicios. Oh, poor Andy went to rest in proper style. 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!" The Seekers recorded it three times, and Slim played it at the closing ceremony of the Sydney 2000 Olympics. So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate And admitted Andy Regan -- and a horse! 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. Rash men, that know not what they seek, Will find their courage tried. But daring men from Britain's shore, The fearless bulldog breed, Renew the fearful task once more, Determined to succeed. Robert Frost (191 poem) March 26, 1874 - January 29, 1963. But Moses told 'em before he died, "Wherever you are, whatever betide, Every year as the time draws near By lot or by rote choose you a goat, And let the high priest confess on the beast The sins of the people the worst and the least, Lay your sins on the goat! and he who sings In accents hopeful, clear, and strong, The glories which that future brings Shall sing, indeed, a wondrous song. and his spurs like a pair of harpoons; Ought to be under the Dog Act, he ought, and be kept off the course. William Shakespeare (403 poem) 26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616. Young Andrew spent his formative years living at a station called "Buckenbah' in the western districts of New South Wales. And up in the heavens the brown lark sings The songs the strange wild land has taught her; Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings -- And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water. 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. (Ghost disappears. . The native grasses, tall as grain, Bowed, waved and rippled in the breeze; From boughs of blossom-laden trees The parrots answered back again. Make room for Rio Grande! Hes down! With his pants just as loose as balloons, How can he sit on a horse? 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. Hast thou seenThe good red gold Go in. 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. His chances seemed slight to embolden Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set, We thought, "Now or never! But the lumbering Dutch in their gunboats they hunted the divers away. Now for the wall -- let him rush it. 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." 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. 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 . . . the last fence, and he's over it! It's a wayside inn, A low grog-shanty -- a bushman trap, Hiding away in its shame and sin Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap -- Under the shade of that frowning range The roughest crowd that ever drew breath -- Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange, Were mustered round at the "Shadow of Death". (They fight. And sometimes columns of print appear About a mine, and it makes it clear That the same is all that one's heart could wish -- A dozen ounces to every dish. He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo, And many a mile of the silent plain That lonely rider behind him threw Before they settled to sleep again. When he was six, the family moved to Illalong, a days ride from Lambing Flat diggings, where Young now stands. As silently as flies a bird, They rode on either hand; At every fence I plainly heard The phantom leader give the word, Make room for Rio Grande! I spurred him on to get the lead, n I chanced full many a fall; But swifter still each phantom steed Kept with me, and at racing speed We reached the big stone wall. And thy health and strength are beyond confessing As the only joys that are worth possessing. But on his ribs the whalebone stung, A madness it did seem! The refereecounts, 'One, two, three, eight, nine, ten, out! 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. 'Twas done without reason, for leaving the seasonNo squatter could stand such a rub;For it's useless to squat when the rents are so hotThat one can't save the price of one's grub;And there's not much to choose 'twixt the banks and the JewsOnce a fellow gets put up a tree;No odds what I feel, there's no court of appeal For a broken-down squatter like me. I'll bet half-a-crown on you." "And I never shall find the rails." Unnoticed and undenied; But the smallest child on the Watershed. Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet! Most popular poems of Banjo Paterson, famous Banjo Paterson and all 284 poems in this page. 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. "Well, you're back right sudden,"the super said; "Is the old man dead and the funeral done?" Banjo Paterson's Poems of the Bush A.B. You want to know If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew; Of course he should have, as stories go, But the worst of it is this story's true: And in real life it's a certain rule, Whatever poets and authors say Of high-toned robbers and all their school, These horsethief fellows aren't built that way. 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!" Roll up to the Hall!! 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. But as one halk-bearing 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. 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'. It was Hogan, the dog poisoner -- aged man and very wise, Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag, And who ventured the opinion, to the township's great surprise, That the race would go to Father Riley's nag. 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. 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. He neared his home as the east was bright. (Banjo) Paterson. There was a girl in that shanty bar Went by the name of Kate Carew, Quiet and shy as the bush girls are, But ready-witted and plucky, too. 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. 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. For you must give the field the slip; So never draw the rein, But keep him moving with the whip, And, if he falter, set your lip And rouse him up again. 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. Video PDF To Those Whom I love & Those Who Love Me Beautiful remembrance poem, ideal for a funeral reading or eulogy. "The Man from Snowy River" is a poem by Australian bush poet Banjo Paterson. "At a pound a hundred it's dashed hard lines To shear such sheep," said the two Devines. Meanwhile, the urge to write had triumphed over the tedium of waiting for clients, the immediate fruit being a pamphlet entitled, Australia for the Australians. It was rather terrible. At sixteen he matriculated and was articled to a Sydney law firm. And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win, And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!" "You can talk about your riders -- and the horse has not been schooled, And the fences is terrific, and the rest! (Tries to shuffle off, but Punter detains him. A thirty-foot leap, I declare -- Never a shift in his seat, and he's racing for home like a hare. The sermon was marked by a deal of humility And pointed the fact, with no end of ability. "On came the Saxons thenFighting our Fenian men,Soon they'll reel back from our piked volunteers.Loud was the fight and shrill,Wexford and Vinegar Hill,Three cheers for Father Murphy and the bold cavaliers.I dreamt that I saw our gallant commanderSeated on his charger in gorgeous array.He wore green trimmed with gold and a bright shining sabreOn which sunbeams of Liberty shone brightly that day. )Leaguers all,Mine own especial comrades of Reform,All amateurs and no professionals,So many worthy candidates I see,Alas that there are only ninety seats.Still, let us take them all, and Joe Carruthers,Ashton, and Jimmy Hogue, and all the rest,Will have to look for work! 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. 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. Captain Andrew Barton Banjo Paterson (Right) of 2nd Remounts, Australian Imperial Force in Egypt. This tale tells of a rickety old horse that learned how to swim. 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. From the southern slopes to the western pines They were noted men, were the two Devines. 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. His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. About us stretches wealth of land, A boundless wealth of virgin soil As yet unfruitful and untilled! "Come from your prison, Bourke,We Irishmen have done our work,God has been with us, and old Ireland is free. 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. They started, and the big black steed Came flashing past the stand; All single-handed in the lead He strode along at racing speed, The mighty Rio Grande. Shel Silverstein (223 poem . [1] Kind deeds of sterling worth. I'm all of a stew. 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.