Andrew Barton Paterson
Do They Know?
Do they know? At the turn to the straight Where the favourites fail, And every last atom of weight Is telling its tale; As some grim old stayer hard-pressed Runs true to his breed,
Only a Jockey
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 Ballad of the Calliope
By the far Samoan shore, Where the league-long rollers pour All the wash of the Pacific on the coral-guarded bay, Riding lightly at their ease, In the calm of tropic seas, The three great
The Old Timer's Steeplechase
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
A Song of the Pen
Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, Not for the people’s praise; Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, Claiming us all our days, Claiming our
The Maori Pig Market
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 Scorcher and the Howling Swell
The Scorcher and the Howling Swell were riding through the land; They wept like anything to see the hills on every hand; “If these were only levelled down,” they said, “it would be grand.”
Behind the Scenes
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
A Bunch of Roses
Roses ruddy and roses white, What are the joys that my heart discloses? Sitting alone in the fading light Memories come to me here tonight With the wonderful scent of the big red roses.
A Job for McGuinness
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
The Lost Drink
I had spent the night in the watch-house My head was the size of three So I went and asked the chemist To fix up a drink for me; And he brewed it from
Fed Up
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
Wisdom of Hafiz: the Philosopher Takes to Racing
My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo, Remember, it’s seldom the pigeon can pick out the eye of the crow; Remember, they live by the business; remember,
The Swagman's Rest
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
Frying Pan's Theology
Shock-headed blackfellow, Boy (on a pony). Snowflakes are falling Gentle and slow, Youngster says, “Frying Pan What makes it snow?” Frying Pan, confident, Makes the reply “Shake ‘im big flour bag Up in the