Andrew Barton Paterson

Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, Out on the track where the night shades still lurk, Ere the first gleam of the sungod’s returning light Round come the racehorses early

The sheep were shorn and the wool went down At the time of our local racing; And I’d earned a spell I was burnt and brown So I rolled my swag for a trip

In distant New Zealand, whose tresses of gold The billows are ceaselessly combing, Away in a village all tranquil and old I came on a market where porkers were sold A market for pigs

The actor struts his little hour, Between the limelight and the band; The public feel the actor’s power, Yet nothing do they understand Of all the touches here and there That make or mar

Oh, it’s dreadful to think in a country like this With its chances for work – and enjoyment That a man like McGuinness was certain to miss Whenever he tried for employment. He wrote

I ain’t a timid man at all, I’m just as brave as most, I’ll take my chance in open fight and die beside my post; But riding round the ‘ole day long as target

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

The railway rattled and roared and swung With jolting and bumping trucks. The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue Of the wild-eyed man in the

Our fathers, brave men were and strong, And whisky was their daily liquor; They used to move the world along In better style than now and quicker. Elections then were sport, you bet! A

Beside the bare and beaten track of travelling flocks and herds The woodpecker went tapping on, the postman of the birds, “I’ve got a letter here,” he said, “that no one’s understood, Addressed as

Morgan the drover explained, As he drank from his battered quart-pot, Many a slut I have trained; This is the best of the lot. Crossing these stringybark hills, Hungry and rocky and steep This

ALL of us play our very best game – Any other time. Golf or billiards, it’s all the same – Any other time. Lose a match and you always say, “Just my luck! I

‘Twas Saltbush Bill, with his travelling sheep, was making his way to town; He crossed them over the Hard Times Run, and he came to the Take ‘Em Down; He counted through at the

Oh, there’s some that breeds the Devon that’s as solid as a stone, And there’s some that breeds the brindle which they call the “Goulburn Roan”; But amongst the breeds of cattle there are

I dreamt a dream at the midnight deep, When fancies come and go To vex a man in his soothing sleep With thoughts of awful woe I dreamed that I was the corner man

The track that led to Carmody’s is choked and overgrown, The suckers of the stringybark have made the place their own; The mountain rains have cut the track that once we used to know

It came from the prison this morning, Close-twisted, neat-lettered, and flat; It lies the hall doorway adorning, A very good style of a mat. Prison-made! how the spirit is moven As we think of

“I’ll introduce a friend!” he said, “And if you’ve got a vacant pen You’d better take him in the shed And start him shearing straight ahead; He’s one of these here quiet men. “He

I thought, in the days of the droving, Of steps I might hope to retrace, To be done with the bush and the roving And settle once more in my place. With a heart

With never a sound of trumpet, With never a flag displayed, The last of the old campaigners Lined up for the last parade. Weary they were and battered, Shoeless, and knocked about; From under

Chris Watson, of the Parliament, By his Caucus Gods he swore That the great Labor Party Should suffer wrong no more. By his Caucus Gods he swore it, And named a trysting day, And

It was while we held our races Hurdles, sprints and steplechases Up in Dandaloo, That a crowd of Sydney stealers, Jockeys, pugilists and spielers Brought some horses, real heelers, Came and put us through.

It’s grand to be a squatter And sit upon a post, And watch your little ewes and lambs A-giving up the ghost. It’s grand to be a “cockie” With wife and kids to keep,

Now look, you see, it’s this way like, You cross the broken bridge And run the crick down till you strike The second right-hand ridge. The track is hard to see in parts, But

Now the new chum loaded his three-nought-three, It’s a small-bore gun, but his hopes were big. “I am fed to the teeth with old ewe,” said he, “And I might be able to shoot

There’s some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; While others sit a long way back, to get a longer ride. There’s some that ride as sailors do, with legs, and

There’s a sunny Southern land, And it’s there that I would be Where the big hills stand, In the South Countrie! When the wattles bloom again, Then it’s time for us to go To

I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, I made her heartstrings quiver on the flat When the pony missed his take-off, and we crached into the wall; Well, she

Another search for Leichhardt’s tomb, Though fifty years have fled Since Leichhardt vanished in the gloom, Our one Illustrious Dead! But daring men from Britain’s shore, The fearless bulldog breed, Renew the fearful task

Oh the airman’s game is a showman’s game, for we all of us watch him go With his roaring soaring aeroplane and his bombs for the blokes below, Over the railways and over the

It was the lunatic poet escaped from the local asylum, Loudly he twanged on his banjo and sang with his voice like a saw-mill, While as with fervour he sang there was borne o’er

Out where the grey streams glide, Sullen and deep and slow, And the alligators slide From the mud to the depths below Or drift on the stream like a floating death, Where the fever

Of all the sickly forms of verse, Commend me to the triolet. It makes bad writers somewhat worse: Of all the sickly forms of verse, That fall beneath a reader’s curse, It is the

The new chum’s polo pony was the smartest pony yet The owner backed it for the Cup for all that he could get. The books were laying fives to one, in tenners; and you

There’s a dashin’ sort of boy Which they call his Party’s Joy, And his smile-that-won’t-come-off would quite disarm ye; And he played the leadin’ hand In the Helter-Skelter Band, Known as Jimmy Dooley’s Circulating

‘Tis strange that in a land so strong So strong and bold in mighty youth, We have no poet’s voice of truth To sing for us a wondrous song. Our chiefest singer yet has

‘Twas the dingo pup to his dam that said, “It’s time I worked for my daily bread. Out in the world I intend to go, And you’d be surprised at the things I know.

They held a polo meeting at a little country town, And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown. There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid They both

Oh! the circus swooped down On the Narrabri town, For the Narrabri populace moneyed are; And the showman he smiled At the folk he beguiled To come all the distance from Gunnedah. But a

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. He said, ‘This day I bid good-bye To

My Uncle Bill! My Uncle Bill! How doth my heart with anguish thrill! For he, our chief, our Robin Hood, Has gone to jail for stealing wood! With tears and sobs my voice I

Why, oh why was Kater lifted From the darkness, where he drifted All unknown, and raised to honour, Side by side with Dick O’connor, In the Council, free from row? Who is Kater, anyhow?

I ain’t the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; I drives me bottle cart around the town; A bloke what keeps ‘is eyes about can always make a bob I couldn’t

The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large, That twenty thousand travelling sheep, with Saltbush Bill in charge, Were drifting down from a dried-out run to ravage the

The Editor wrote his political screed In ink that was fainter and fainter; He rose to the call of his country’s need, And in spiderish characters wrote with speed, A column on “Cutting the

There came a stranger to Walgett town, To Walgett town when the sun was low, And he carried a thirst that was worth a crown, Yet how to quench it he did not know;

Into her presence he gaily pranced, A very fat spark, and a bit advanced. With a Samson tread on the earth he trod, He was stayed and gaitered, and fifty odd. And she was

To the voters of Glen Innes ’twas O’Sullivan that went, To secure the country vote for Mister Hay. So he told ’em what he’d borrowed, and he told ’em what he’d spent, Though extravagance

You see, the thing was this way there was me, That rode Panopply, the Splendor mare, And Ikey Chambers on the Iron Dook, And Smith, the half-caste rider on Regret, And that long bloke

‘TWAS to a small, up-country town, When we were boys at school, There came a circus with a clown, Likewise a bucking mule. The clown announced a scheme they had Spectators for to bring

In the good old days when the Army’s ways were simple and unrefined, With a stock to keep their chins in front, and a pigtail down behind, When the only light in the barracks

The chorus frogs in the big lagoon Would sing their songs to the silvery moon. Tenor singers were out of place, For every frog was a double bass. But never a human chorus yet

There’s nothing here sublime, But just a roving rhyme, Run off to pass the time, With nought titanic in. The theme that it supports, And, though it treats of quarts, It’s bare of golden

Now the autumn maize is growing, Now the corn-cob fills, Where the Little River flowing Winds among the hills. Over mountain peaks outlying Clear against the blue Comes a scout in silence flying, One

Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp; Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes, Mixes up among

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago, He was shearing when I knew him, so I

Ho! Darkies, don’t you hear dose voters cryin’ Pack dat carpet bag! You must get to de Poll, you must get there flyin’; Pack dat carpet bag! You must travel by de road, you

By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep, Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun Lived my hero,

He came from “further out”, That land of fear and drought And dust and gravel. He got a touch of sun, And rested at the run Until his cure was done, And he could

There was movement at the station, for the word has passed around That the colt from old Regret had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses-he was worth a thousand pound, So

The sun strikes down with a blinding glare; The skies are blue and the plains are wide, The saltbush plains that are burnt and bare By Walgett out on the Barwon side The Barwon

There is waving of grass in the breeze And a song in the air, And a murmur of myriad bees That toil everywhere. There is scent in the blossom and bough, And the breath

Now ye gallant Sydney boys, who have left your household joys To march across the sea in search of glory, I am very much afraid that you do not love parade, But the rum

Born of a thoroughbred English race, Well proportioned and closely knit, Neat, slim figure and handsome face, Always ready and always fit, Hardy and wiry of limb and thew, That was the ne’er-do-well Jim

And I worked my way to the end, and I Was the head of the “Flying Gang”. ‘Twas a chosen band that was kept at hand In case of an urgent need; Was it

The Mountains A land of sombre, silent hills, where mountain cattle go By twisted tracks, on sidelings deep, where giant gum trees grow And the wind replies, in the river oaks, to the song

Here lies a bloke who’s just gone West, A Number One Australian; He took his gun and did his best To mitigate the alien. So long as he could get to work He needed

“You led the trump,” the old man said With fury in his eye, “And yet you hope my girl to wed! Young man! your hopes of love are fled, ‘Twere better she should die!

Him goin’ to ride for us! Him with the pants and the eyeglass and all. Amateur! don’t he just look it it’s twenty to one on a fall. Boss must be gone off his

The roving breezes come and go, the reed-beds sweep and sway, The sleepy river murmers low, and loiters on its way, It is the land of lots o’time along the Castlereagh. . . ..

“Only a pound,” said the auctioneer, “Only a pound; and I’m standing here Selling this animal, gain or loss Only a pound for the drover’s horse? One of the sort that was ne’er afraid,

Scene: Federal Political Arena A darkened cave. In the middle, a cauldron, boiling. Enter the three witches. 1ST WITCH: Thrice hath the Federal Jackass brayed. 2ND WITCH: Once the Bruce-Smith War-horse neighed. 3RD WITCH:

A land, as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow Or the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go Like shifting symbols of hope deferred

The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one! Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good

Across the Queensland border line The mobs of cattle go; They travel down in sun and shine On dusty stage, and slow. The drovers, riding slowly on To let the cattle spread, Will say:

Under the spreading deficit, The Fitzroy Smithy stands; The smith, a spendthrift man is he, With too much on his hands; But the muscles of his brawny jaw Are strong as iron bands. Pay

You never heard tell of the story? Well, now, I can hardly believe! Never heard of the honour and glory Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve? But maybe you’re only a Johnnie And don’t

We’re away! and the wind whistles shrewd In our whiskers and teeth; And the granite-like grey of the road Seems to slide underneath. As an eagle might sweep through the sky, So we sweep

The London lights are far abeam Behind a bank of cloud, Along the shore the gaslights gleam, The gale is piping loud; And down the Channel, groping blind, We drive her through the haze

On Western plains, where shade is not, ‘Neath summer skies of cloudless blue, Where all is dry and all is hot, There stands the town of Dandaloo A township where life’s total sum Is

So you’re back from up the country, Mister Lawson, where you went, And you’re cursing all the business in a bitter discontent; Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to

I say ‘e isn’t Remorse! ‘Ow do I know? Saw ‘im on Riccarton course Two year ago! Think I’d forget any ‘orse? Course ‘e’s The Crow! Bumper Maginnis and I After a “go”, Walkin’

There’s a soldier that’s been doing of his share In the fighting up and down and round about. He’s continually marching here and there, And he’s fighting, morning in and morning out. The Boer,

Bring me a quart of colonial beer And some doughy damper to make good cheer, I must make a heavy dinner; Heavily dine and heavily sup, Of indigestible things fill up, Next month they

When Ironbark the turtle came to Anthony’s lagoon The hills were hid behind a mist of equinoctal rain, The ripple of the rivulets was like a cheerful tune And wild companions waltzed among the

No soft-skinned Durham steers are they, No Devons plump and red, But brindled, black and iron-grey That mark the mountain-bred; For mountain-bred and mountain-broke, With sullen eyes agleam, No stranger’s hand could put a

Oh, some folk think vice-royalty is festive and hilarious, The duties of an A. D. C. are manifold and various, So listen, whilst I tell in song The duties of an aide-de-cong. Whatsoever betide

So, the bank has bust it’s boiler! And in six or seven year It will pay me all my money back of course! But the horse will perish waiting while the grass is germinating,

West of Dubbo the west begins The land of leisure and hope and trust, Where the black man stalks with his dogs and gins And Nature visits the settlers’ sins With the Bogan shower,

It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down. He loitered here he loitered there, till he was like to drop,

This is the place where they all were bred; Some of the rafters are standing still; Now they are scattered and lost and dead, Every one from the old nest fled, Out of the

Now is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day; But this is the law which the drovers make,

There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, Above the tossing of the pines, above the river’s flow; It stirred the boughs of giant gums and stalwart iron-bark; It drifted

We read in the press that Lord Northcote is here To take up Lord Tennyson’s mission. ‘Tis pleasant to find they have sent us a Peer, And a man of exalted position. It’s his

Trumpets of the Lancer Corps Sound a loud reveille; Sound it over Sydney shore, Send the message far and wide Down the Richmond River side. Boot and Saddle, mount and ride, Sound a loud

It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub, That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club. They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side,

Come all ye bold trainers attend to my song, It’s a rule of the A. J. C. You mustn’t train ponies, for that’s very wrong By the rules of the A. J. C. You

And wherefore have they come, this warlike band, That o’er the ocean many a weary day Have tossed; and now beside Suakim’s Bay, With faces stern and resolute, do stand, Waking the desert’s echoes

We have all of us read how the Israelites fled From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of ’em, And Pharaoh’s fierce troop were all put “in the soup” When the waters rolled softly

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

We’ve travelled per Joe Gardiner, a humping of our swag In the country of the Gidgee and Belar. We’ve swum the Di’mantina with our raiment in a bag, And we’ve travelled per superior motor

The run of Billabong-go-dry Is just beyond Lime Burner’s Gap; Its waterhole and tank supply Is excellent upon the map. But lacking nature’s liquid drench, The station staff are wont to try With “Bob-in

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

‘Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight; He thought of the Transvaal all the day, he thought of it all the night “Well, if the battery’s left behind, I’ll

Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong, Under the shade of a Coolabah tree; And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling, “Who’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.”