were grand. But hold! 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. The native grasses, tall as grain, Bowed, waved and rippled in the breeze; From boughs of blossom-laden trees The parrots answered back again. Banjo Paterson is one of Australia's best-loved poets and his verse is among Australia's enduring traditions. As participation in freediving reaches new levels, we look at whats driving the sports growing popularity. I frighten my congregation well With fear of torment and threats of hell, Although I know that the scientists Can't find that any such place exists. What scoundrel ever would dare to hint That anything crooked appears in print! And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, Oh, wonderful night. But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark -- A restless sleeper aye. Banjo Paterson's Poems of the Bush A.B. He was never bought nor paid for, and there's not a man can swear To his owner or his breeder, but I know, That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare And his dam was close related to The Roe. `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. And there the phantoms on each side Drew in and blocked his leap; Make room! For he rode at dusk with his comrade Dunn. And away in another court I lurk While a junior barrister does your work; And I ask my fee with a courtly grace, Although I never came near the case. Enter a Messenger. I dreamt last night I rode this race That I today must ride, And cantering down to take my place I saw full many an old friends face Come stealing to my side. Then lead him away to the wilderness black To die with the weight of your sins on his back: Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!" 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. Sure the plan ought to suit yer. The Winds Message 162. 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! 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. Pablo Neruda (143 poem) 12 July 1904 - 23 September 1973. 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. Whichever the case, according to the National Film and Sound Archive it has been recorded over 600 times in just about every possible musical style. "And oft in the shades of the twilight,When the soft winds are whispering low,And the dark'ning shadows are falling,Sometimes think of the stockman below.". A.B. 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. And some have said that Nature's face To us is always sad; but these Have never felt the smiling grace Of waving grass and forest trees On sunlit plains as wide as seas. Anon we'll all be fittedWith Parliamentary seats. 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. Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed At his voice and the pistol sound. 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. Ah, yes! During an inland flash flood, he saves his masters son. 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. Paterson was in South Africa as correspondent of The Sydney Morning Herald during the Boer War, and in China during the Boxer Rebellion. He neared his home as the east was bright. 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. 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 he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat. We ran him at many a meeting At crossing and gully and town, And nothing could give him a beating -- At least when our money was down. Dustjacket synopsis: "The poetry selected for this collection reveals Paterson's love and appreciation for the Australina bush and its people. With dragging footsteps and downcast head The hypnotiser went home to bed, And since that very successful test He has given the magic art a rest; Had he tried the ladies, and worked it right, What curious tales might have come to light! A Disqualified Jockey's Story. 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. 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. And that was the end of this small romance, The end of the story of Conroy's Gap. 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. Mr. Paterson was a prolific writer of light topical verse. Three slabs fell out of the stable wall -- 'Twas done 'fore ever the trooper knew -- And Ryan, as soon as he saw them fall, Mounted The Swagman and rushed him through. More than a Poet. Rataplan never will catch him if only he keeps on his pins; Now! Jan 2011. "Who'll bet on the field? And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave When he went to the Great Unseen -- We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave To see what his hint might mean. When he was six, the family moved to Illalong, a days ride from Lambing Flat diggings, where Young now stands. A B Banjo Paterson Follow. Macbreath is struck on the back of the headby some blue metal from Pennant Hills Quarry. So fierce his attack and so very severe, it Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, Was rammed on the -- no, not the back -- but just near it. William Shakespeare (403 poem) 26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616. 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. 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. They had rung the sheds of the east and west, Had beaten the cracks of the Walgett side, And the Cooma shearers had given them best -- When they saw them shear, they were satisfied. I loudly cried, But right in front they seemed to ride - I cursed them in my sleep. "Well, you're back right sudden,"the super said; "Is the old man dead and the funeral done?" But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves Her dole of death and her share of slaughter; Many indeed are the nameless graves Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water. * * * * So may it be! It appeared in Patersons collection Rio Grandes Last Race and Other Verses after his return home. 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. One is away on the far Barcoo Watching his cattle the long year through, Watching them starve in the droughts and die. `And there the phantoms on each side Drew in and blocked his leap; "Make room! And more than 100 years after the words were penned we find they still ring out across the nation. More recently, in 2008 world-famous Dutch violinist Andre Rieu played the tune to a singing Melbourne audience of more than 38,000 people. The poem is typical of Paterson, offering a romantic view of rural life, and is one of his best-known works. did you see how he struck, and the swell never moved in his seat? 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. But the whips were flying freely when the field came into view, For the finish down the long green stretch of course, And in front of all the flyers -- jumpin' like a kangaroo, Came the rank outsider -- Father Riley's horse! He was in his 77th year. 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) For tales were told of inland seas Like sullen oceans, salt and dead, And sandy deserts, white and wan, Where never trod the foot of man, Nor bird went winging overhead, Nor ever stirred a gracious breeze To wake the silence with its breath -- A land of loneliness and death. [Editor: This poem by "Banjo" Patersonwas published in The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses, 1895; previously published in The Bulletin, 24 December 1892.] 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." For us the bush is never sad: Its myriad voices whisper low, In tones the bushmen only know, Its sympathy and welcome glad. 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. Well, now, I can hardly believe! 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! '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". * They are shearing ewes at the Myall Lake, And the shed is merry the livelong day With the clashing sound that the shear-blades make When the fastest shearers are making play; And a couple of "hundred and ninety-nines" Are the tallies made by the two Devines. With his pants just as loose as balloons, How can he sit on a horse? But his owner's views of training were immense, For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day, And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence. But they're watching all the ranges till there's not a bird could fly, And I'm fairly worn to pieces with the strife, So I'm taking no more trouble, but I'm going home to die, 'Tis the only way I see to save my life. 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. This tale tells of a rickety old horse that learned how to swim. (We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of Pharisee.) Captain Andrew Barton Banjo Paterson (Right) of 2nd Remounts, Australian Imperial Force in Egypt. Some say it was a political comment on the violent shearers strikes happening at the time, while a new book Waltzing Matilda: the true story argues it may have been about a love triangle happening in Patersons life when he wrote it. `I spurred him on to get the lead, 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. " T.Y.S.O.N. About their path a fearful fate Will hover always near. Scarce grew the shell in the shallows, rarely a patch could they touch; Always the take was so little, always the labour so much; Always they thought of the Islands held by the lumbering Dutch -- Islands where shell was in plenty lying in passage and bay, Islands where divers could gather hundreds of shell in a day. From the Archives, 1941: Banjo Paterson dead. But the shearers knew that they's make a cheque When they came to deal with the station ewes; They were bare of belly and bare of neck With a fleece as light as a kangaroo's. The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was "had" That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. Little Recruit in the lead there will make it a stoutly-run race. And over the tumult and louder Rang "Any price Pardon, I lay!" A thirty-foot leap, I declare -- Never a shift in his seat, and he's racing for home like a hare. His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. 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. But, as one half-hearing An old-time refrain, With memory clearing, Recalls it again, These tales, roughly wrought of The bush and its ways, May call back a thought of The wandering days, And, blending with each In the memories that throng, There haply shall reach You some echo of song. [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.] 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. Did he sign a pledge agreeing to retire?VOTER: Aye, that he did.MACBREATH: Not so did I!Not on the doubtful hazard of a voteBy Ryde electors, cherry-pickers, oafs,That drive their market carts at dread of nightAnd sleep all day. Mr. Andrew Barton Paterson, better known throughout Australia as Banjo Paterson, died at a private hospital, in Sydney, yesterday afternoon, after about a fortnights illness. "There's tea in the battered old billy;Place the pannikins out in a row,And we'll drink to the next merry meeting,In the place where all good fellows go. A B Banjo Paterson 1864-1941 Ranked #79 in the top 500 poets Andrew Barton Paterson was born on the 17th February 1864 in the township of Narambla, New South Wales. But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand, And he fired at the rifle-flash. how we rattled it down! Please try again later. 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. `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!" Banjo Paterson. Inicio; Servicios. "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! 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. 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. . Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins! LEGAL INNOVATION | Tu Agente Digitalizador; LEGAL3 | Gestin Definitiva de Despachos; LEGAL GOV | Gestin Avanzada Sector Pblico Hunt him over the plain, And drive back the brute to the desert again. They saw the land that it was good, A land of fatness all untrod, And gave their silent thanks to God. It is hard to keep sight on him, The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. "You can talk about your riders -- and the horse has not been schooled, And the fences is terrific, and the rest! Joe Nagasaki, the "tender", finding the profits grow small, Said, "Let us go to the Islands, try for a number one haul! )GHOST: The Pledge! Their version of "The man from Snowy River" is the best I have ever heard (about 15mins long) A very stirring poem set to music. 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. And the lashin's of the liquor! Some have even made it into outer space. The day it has come, with trumpet and drum. 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'. 158. and he had fled! Geebung is the indigenous name for a tough fruiting shrub (Persoonia sp.). And then I watch with a sickly grin While the patient 'passes his counters in'. The Rule Of The A.j.c. 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. 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. 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! But I vary the practice to some extent By investing money at twelve per cent, And after I've preached for a decent while I clear for 'home' with a lordly pile. Thinkest thou that both are dead?Re-enter PuntersPUNTER: Good morrow, Gentlemen. . Poems of Banjo Paterson. by Banjo Paterson, From book: Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other . 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 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. . 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. . This poem tells of a man who reacts badly to a practical joke sprung on him by a Sydney barber. Prithee, let us go!Thanks to you all who shared this glorious day,Whom I invite to dance at Chowder Bay! So the Dutch let him go; but they watched him, as off from the Islands he ran, Doubting him much -- but what would you? 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. Credit:Australian War Memorial. Banjo Paterson. 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! James Tyson (8 April 1819 - 4 December 1898 . 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. 'Enter Two Heads.FIRST HEAD: How goes the battle? " is a poem by Banjo Paterson, first published in The Australasian Pastoralists' Review on 15 December 1898. I don't want no harping nor singing -- Such things with my style don't agree; Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing There's music sufficient for me. As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee -- Oh! After all our confessions, so openly granted, He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. Where are the children that strove and grew In the old homestead in days gone by? * * * * * * * But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow Like me, with my thatch of the snow; When he dies, then I hope I may follow, And go where the racehorses go. '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.