banjo paterson funeral poem
Will you fetch your dog and try it? Johnson rather thought he would. 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." To all devout Jews! 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. 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. the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again, For we're going on a long job now. And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win, And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!" "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! 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. And so it comes that they take no part In small world worries; each hardy rover Rides like a paladin, light of heart, With the plains around and the blue sky over. 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 a singer, The lilt of the tune. There was some that cleared the water -- there was more fell in and drowned, Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck! The old un May reckon with some of 'em yet." You have to be sure of your man Ere you wake up that nest-ful of hornets -- the little brown men of Japan. Beyond all denials The stars in their glories, The breeze in the myalls, Are part of these stories. In the meantime much of his verse was published in book form. "We will show the boss how a shear-blade shines When we reach those ewes," said the two Devines. 'Ten to One, Golumpus. The Old Bark Hut 159. When the field is fairly going, then ye'll see ye've all been fooled, And the chestnut horse will battle with the best. He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist, And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click, Recovered his wits as they turned to go, For fright will sober a man as quick As all the drugs that the doctors know. Weight! . This tale tells of a rickety old horse that learned how to swim. )There's blood upon thy face.VOTER: 'Tis Thompsons's, then.MACBREATH: Is he thrown out? 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. The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, And Abraham's tiring -- I'll lay six to four! Reviewed by Michael Byrne Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson was born on the 17th February, 1864 at Narambla, near Orange in New South Wales. There he divided the junior Knox Prize with another student. Paul Kelly - The 23rd Psalm 2. . A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a "butter". So I go my way with a stately tread While my patients sleep with the dreamless dead." 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. I've prayed him over every fence -- I've prayed him out and back! hes down! And horse and man Lay quiet side by side! "The goat -- was he back there? 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. 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. 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. 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. Free shipping for many products! Spoken too low for the trooper's ear, Why should she care if he heard or not? (Kills him)Curtain falls on ensemble of punters, bookmakers,heads and surviving jockeys and trainers. Home Topics History & Culture Top 10 iconic Banjo Paterson bush ballads. There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died, And they wondered who on earth he could have been. 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. "Yes, I'm making home to mother's, and I'll die o' Tuesday next An' be buried on the Thursday -- and, of course, I'm prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I'm perplexed And it's -- Father, it's this jewel of a horse! 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. 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. Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath, And he turned to his comrade Dunn: "We are sold," he said, "we are dead men both! 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. "Well, you're back right sudden,"the super said; "Is the old man dead and the funeral done?" 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. Wearer of pearls in your necklace, comfort yourself if you can. We strolled down the township and found 'em At drinking and gaming and play; If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em, And betting was soon under way. 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. 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! Joe Nagasaki, his "tender", is owner and diver instead. At the Turon the Yattendon filly Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half, And we all began to look silly, While her crowd were starting to laugh; But the old horse came faster and faster, His pluck told its tale, and his strength, He gained on her, caught her, and passed her, And won it, hands down, by a length. 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. 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 When the fastest shearers are making play; But there wasn't a man in the shearers' lines That could shear a sheep with the two Devines. The way is won! 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. When a young man submitted a set of verses to the BULLEtIN in 1889 under the pseudonym 'the Banjo', it was the beginning of an enduring tradition. 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! His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, But the goat stayed behind him -- and "scoffed up" the paste. Good for the new chum! James Tyson (8 April 1819 - 4 December 1898 . )What's this? 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. 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. . 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." And up went my hat in the air! -- now, goodbye!" When night doth her glories Of starshine unfold, Tis then that the stories Of bush-land are told. For us the roving breezes bring From many a blossum-tufted tree -- Where wild bees murmur dreamily -- The honey-laden breath of Spring. To many, this is the unofficial Aussie anthem, but the intended meaning of this ballad that describes the suicide of an itinerant sheep-stealing swagman to avoid capture, is debated to this day. 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. Clancy of the Overflow was inspired by an experience Banjo Paterson had while he was working as a lawyer. For Bob was known on the Overland, A regular old bush wag, Tramping along in the dust and sand, Humping his well-worn swag. A passing good horse.JOCKEY: I rose him yesternoon: it seemed to meThat in good truth a fairly speedy cowMight well outrun him.OWNER: Thou froward varlet; must I say again,That on the Woop Woop course he ran a mileIn less than forty with his irons on!JOCKEY: Then thou should'st bring the Woop Woop course down here.OWNER: Thou pestilential scurvy Knave. But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark -- A restless sleeper aye. The crowd with great eagerness studied the race -- "Great Scott! Where are the children that strove and grew In the old homestead in days gone by? Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post! Oh, he can jump 'em all right, sir, you make no mistake, 'e's a toff -- Clouts 'em in earnest, too, sometimes; you mind that he don't clout you off -- Don't seem to mind how he hits 'em, his shins is as hard as a nail, Sometimes you'll see the fence shake and the splinters fly up from the rail. 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. Santa Claus In The Bush 156. Clancy would feature briefly in Patersons poem, The man from Snowy River, which was published by The Bulletin the next year. "I'm into the swagman's yard," he said. But on his ribs the whalebone stung, A madness it did seem! 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. [Editor: This poem by "Banjo" Paterson was published in The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses, 1895; previously published in The Bulletin, 17 December 1892.It is a story about a barber who plays a practical joke upon an unsuspecting man from the bush. It is hard to keep sight on him, The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. * * * * 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. A favourite for the comparison of the rough and ready Geebung Polo Club members and their wealthy city competitors The Cuff and Collar Team. Later, young Paterson was sent to Sydney Grammar School. Unnumbered I told them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright? 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. B. The poem highlighted his good points and eccentricities. We saw we were done like a dinner -- The odds were a thousand to one Against Pardon turning up winner, 'Twas cruel to ask him to run. [1] The subject of the poem was James Tyson, who had died early that month. It was fifty miles to their father's hut, And the dawn was bright when they rode away; At the fall of night, when the shed was shut And the men had rest from the toilsome day, To the shed once more through the darkening pines On their weary steeds came the two Devines. * Oh, the steeple was a caution! The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was "had" That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. Behind the great impersonal 'We' I hold the power of the Mystic Three. And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, Oh, wonderful night. Rio Grandes Last Race sold over 100,000 copies, and The Man from Snowy River and Clancy of the Overflow, were equally successful. And loud from every squatter's door Each pioneering swell Will hear the wild pianos roar The strains of "Daisy Bell". The watchers in those forests vast Will see, at fall of night, Commercial travellers bounding past And darting out of sight. 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!" Run for some other seat,Let the woods hide thee. . )Thou com'st to use thy tongue. How neatly we beguiledThe guileless Thompson. Some of his best-known poems are 'Clancy of the Overflow' and 'Waltzing Matilda.'. Written from the point of view of the person being laid to rest. 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. The remains will be cremated to-day at the Northern Suburbs Crematorium. And there the phantoms on each side Drew in and blocked his leap; Make room! Banjo published this mischievous tale of a young lad who doesnt want to be christened and ends up being named after a whisky in The Bulletin in 1893. Popular funeral poem based on a short verse by David Harkins. Some have even made it into outer space. It will bring me fame and fortune! "For there's some has got condition, and they think the race is sure, And the chestnut horse will fall beneath the weight, But the hopes of all the helpless, and the prayers of all the poor, Will be running by his side to keep him straight. (Banjo) Paterson. But each man carries to his grave The kisses that in hopes to save The angel or his mother gave. Sit down and ride for your life now! For things have changed on Cooper's Creek Since Ludwig Leichhardt died. Jan 2011. 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". Ah! Banjo Paterson Complete Poems. Come back! But the loss means ruin too you, maybe, But nevertheless I must have my fee! Roll up to the Hall!! One shriek from him burst -- "You creature accurst!" But how to do it? No need the pallid face to scan, We knew with Rio Grande he ran The race the dead men ride. 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. First published in The Sydney Morning Herald on February 6, 1941. Moral The moral is patent to all the beholders -- Don't shift your own sins on to other folks' shoulders; Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them: Take their lives if needs must -- when it comes to the worst, But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. I would fain go back to the old grey river, To the old bush days when our hearts were light; But, alas! He's hurrying, too! Can't somebody stop him? 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! * * 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! The Ballad Of The Carpet Bag 152. And it may be that we who live In this new land apart, beyond The hard old world grown fierce and fond And bound by precedent and bond, May read the riddle right, and give New hope to those who dimly see That all things yet shall be for good, And teach the world at length to be One vast united brotherhood. ('Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), "It's a hard race," said he, "and I think it would be A good thing for someone to take up the running." Then he turned to metrical expression, and produced a flamboyant poem about the expedition against the Mahdi, and sent it to The Bulletin, then struggling through its hectic days of youth. Jan 2011. 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. 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". Dustjacket synopsis: "The poetry selected for this collection reveals Paterson's love and appreciation for the Australina bush and its people. What meant he by his prateOf Fav'rite and outsider and the like?Forsooth he told us nothing. 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. Banjo Paterson. 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 . The first heat was soon set a-going; The Dancer went off to the front; The Don on his quarters was showing, With Pardon right out of the hunt. Jack Thompson: The Campfire Yarns of Henry Lawson. -- 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." They were outlaws both -- and on each man's head Was a thousand pounds reward. He would travel gaily from daylight's flush Till after the stars hung out their lamps; There was never his like in the open bush, And never his match on the cattle-camps. Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny, But, really, a young un should know. B. The Australian writer and solicitor Andrew Barton Paterson (1864-1941), often known simply as Banjo Paterson, is sometimes described as a bush poet. He showed 'em the method of travel -- The boy sat still as a stone -- They never could see him for gravel; He came in hard-held, and alone. 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. Along where Leichhardt journeyed slow And toiled and starved in vain; These rash excursionists must go Per Queensland railway train. `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. Now this was what Macpherson told While waiting in the stand; A reckless rider, over-bold, The only man with hands to hold The rushing Rio Grande. (The ghost of Thompson disappears, and Macbreath revives himselfwith a great effort. and this poem is great!!!! Andrew Barton "Banjo" His parents were immigrants to New South Wales, Australia, in 1850. 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." 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. Lonely and sadly one night in NovemberI laid down my weary head in search of reposeOn my wallet of straw, which I long shall remember,Tired and weary I fell into a doze.Tired from working hardDown in the labour yard,Night brought relief to my sad, aching brain.Locked in my prison cell,Surely an earthly hell,I fell asleep and began for to dream.I dreamt that I stood on the green fields of Erin,In joyous meditation that victory was won.Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing. Oh, joyous day,To-morrow's poll will make me M.L.A.ACT IITIME: Election day.SCENE: Macbreath's committee rooms.MACBREATH: Bring me no more reports: let them all fly;Till Labour's platform to Kyabram comeI cannot taint with fear. It was not much, you say, that these Should win their way where none withstood; In sooth there was not much of blood -- No war was fought between the seas. 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. the 'orse is all ready -- I wish you'd have rode him before; Nothing like knowing your 'orse, sir, and this chap's a terror to bore; Battleaxe always could pull, and he rushes his fences like fun -- Stands off his jump twenty feet, and then springs like a shot from a gun. Clancy of the Overflow is a poem by Banjo Paterson, first published in The Bulletin, an Australian news magazine, on 21 December 1889. Those British pioneers Had best at home abide, For things have changed in fifty years Since Ludwig Leichhardt died. And straightway from the barren coast There came a westward-marching host, That aye and ever onward prest With eager faces to the West, Along the pathway of the sun. Missing a bursary tenable at the University, he entered a solicitors office, eventually qualified, and practised until 1900 in partnership with Mr. William Street, a brother of the former Chief Justice. Joe Nagasaki, the "tender", finding the profits grow small, Said, "Let us go to the Islands, try for a number one haul! Then if the diver was sighted, pearl-shell and lugger must go -- Joe Nagasaki decided (quick was the word and the blow), Cut both the pipe and the life-line, leaving the diver below! And that's the story. 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. Make miniature mechanised minions with teeny tiny tools! But the lumbering Dutch in their gunboats they hunted the divers away. O ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting To the folk that live in that western land? And then we swooped down on Menindie To run for the President's Cup; Oh! He left the camp by the sundown light, And the settlers out on the Marthaguy Awoke and heard, in the dead of night, A single horseman hurrying by. He caught her meaning, and quickly turned To the trooper: "Reckon you'll gain a stripe By arresting me, and it's easily earned; Let's go to the stable and get my pipe, The Swagman has it." The drought came down on the field and flock, And never a raindrop fell, Though the tortured moans of the starving stock Might soften a fiend from hell. These are the risks of the pearling -- these are the ways of Japan; "Plenty more Japanee diver plenty more little brown man!". '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. 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. He was in his 77th year. O ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder For a while to join in your westward flight, With the stars above and the dim earth under, Trough the cooling air of the glorious night. Some have even made it into outer space. Within our streets men cry for bread In cities built but yesterday. 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 . Remember, no matter how far you may roam That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens, Their talent stupendous for "getting back home". Johnson was a free-selector, and his brain went rather queer, For the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear; So he tramped his free-selection, morning, afternoon, and night, Seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpents bite. (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. `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. 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! And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. Conroy's Gap 154. Perhaps an actor is all the rage, He struts his hour on the mimic stage, With skill he interprets all the scenes -- And yet next morning I give him beans. A Bunch of Roses. Langston Hughes (100 poem) 1 February 1902 - 22 May 1967. And King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat, Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote. 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. D'you know the place? '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". . "Then cut down a couple of saplings,Place one at my head and my toe,Carve on them cross, stockwhip, and saddle,To show there's a stockman below."Hark! those days they have fled for ever, They are like the swans that have swept from sight. 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. But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. For the lawyer laughs in his cruel sport While his clients march to the Bankrupt Court." Most popular poems of Banjo Paterson, famous Banjo Paterson and all 284 poems in this page. Poets. A strapping young stockman lay dying,His saddle supporting his head;His two mates around him were crying, As he rose on his pillow and said:"Wrap me up with my stockwhip and blanket,And bury me deep down below,Where the dingoes and crows can't molest me,In the shade where the coolibahs grow."Oh! 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'. A beautiful new edition of the complete poems of A. * * Well, sir, you rode him just perfect -- I knew from the fust you could ride. 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. "But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say goodbye, For the stars above the east are growing pale. This never will do. 'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog By the troopers of the upper Murray side, They had searched in every gully -- they had looked in every log, But never sight or track of him they spied, Till the priest at Kiley's Crossing heard a knocking very late And a whisper "Father Riley -- come across!" AUSTRALIANS LOVE THAT Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson (1864-1941) found romance in the tough and wiry characters of bush. "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. Banjo was a well-known poet and storyteller, but he was also a solicitor, war correspondent, newspaper editor, soldier, journalist, sports commentator, jockey, farmer and adventurer.
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