(To Punter): Aye marry Sir, I think well of the Favourite.PUNTER: And yet I have a billiard marker's wordThat in this race to-day they back Golumpus,And when they bet, they tell me, they will knockThe Favourite for a string of German Sausage.SHORTINBRAS: Aye, marry, they would tell thee, I've no doubt,It is the way of owners that they tellTo billiard markers and the men on tramsJust when they mean to bet. Credit:Australian War Memorial. I have alphabetically categorised & indexed over 700 poems & readings, in over 130 categories spreading over about 500 pages, but more are added regularly. So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate And admitted Andy Regan -- and a horse! "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.". There was some that cleared the water -- there was more fell in and drowned, Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck! Jan 2011. The way is won! Home Topics History & Culture Top 10 iconic Banjo Paterson bush ballads. J. Dennis. But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark -- A restless sleeper aye. And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die! Banjo Paterson. For the lawyer laughs in his cruel sport While his clients march to the Bankrupt Court." 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 . Some have even made it into outer space. Of Scottish descent on his father's side,. If we get caught, go to prison -- let them take lugger and all!" 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!" and this poem is great!!!! 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! (They fight. It was written at a time when cycling was a relatively new and popular social activity. I take your brief and I look to see That the same is marked with a thumping fee; But just as your case is drawing near I bob serenely and disappear. There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken-- We should grieve for them with a bitter pain; If the past could live and the dead could quicken, We then might turn to that life again. A Dog's Mistake. . 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. The tongue-in-cheek story of Mulga Bill, a man who claimed he was an excellent cyclist only to crash, was published by The Sydney Mail. "The goat -- was he back there? 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. 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. 'Twas a wether flock that had come to hand, Great struggling brutes, that shearers shirk, For the fleece was filled with the grass and sand, And seventy sheep was a big day's work. He had sold them both to the black police For the sake of the big reward. But on his ribs the whalebone stung, A madness it did seem! And the lavin's of the grub! The native grasses, tall as grain, Bowed, waved and rippled in the breeze; From boughs of blossom-laden trees The parrots answered back again. "And I never shall find the rails." `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. Parts have been sung at six Olympic Games ceremonies dating back to 1956. Fell at that wall once, he did, and it gave him a regular spread, Ever since that time he flies it -- he'll stop if you pull at his head, Just let him race -- you can trust him -- he'll take first-class care he don't fall, And I think that's the lot -- but remember, he must have his head at the wall. you all Must each bring a stone -- Great sport will be shown; Enormous Attractions! 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. 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. Andrew Barton Paterson was born on the 17th February 1864 in the township of Narambla, New South Wales. Rash men, that know not what they seek, Will find their courage tried. Maya Angelou (52 poem) 4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014. In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, "The trail of the serpent was over them all." how we rattled it down! (Alarums and Harbour excursions; enter Macpuffat the head of a Picnic Party. I back Pardon!" Out on those deserts lone and drear The fierce Australian black Will say -- "You show it pint o' beer, It show you Leichhardt track!" "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. 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. He would camp for days in the river-bed, And loiter and "fish for whales". The crowd with great eagerness studied the race -- "Great Scott! 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! don't he just look it -- it's twenty to one on a fall. And soon it rose on every tongue That Jack Macpherson rode among The creatures of his dream. Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough? 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. It was published in 1896 in the Australasian Pastoralists Review (1913-1977) and also in Patersons book Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other Verses. Their rifles stood at the stretcher head, Their bridles lay to hand; They wakened the old man out of his bed, When they heard the sharp command: "In the name of the Queen lay down your arms, Now, Dun and Gilbert, stand!" 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. Still bracing as the mountain wind, these rhymed stories of small adventure and obscure people reflect the pastoral-equestrian phase of Australian development with a fidelity of feeling and atmosphere for which generations to come will be grateful. So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees In the dim, half-dawning light, And he made his way to a patch of trees, And was lost in the black of night; And the trackers hunted his tracks all day, But they never could trace his flight. 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. I would fain go back to the old grey river, To the old bush days when our hearts were light; But, alas! Written from the point of view of the person being laid to rest. 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 how to do it? `Dead men on horses long since dead, They clustered on the track; The champions of the days long fled, They moved around with noiseless tread - Bay, chestnut, brown, and black. Go to!Strikes him.Alarms and excursions. Thy story quickly!MESSENGER: Gracious, my Lord,I should report that which I know I saw,But know not how to do it.MACBREATH: Well! Now for the treble, my hearty -- By Jove, he can ride, after all; Whoop, that's your sort -- let him fly them! 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. With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, The people came back from the desert in dread. Where are the children that strove and grew In the old homestead in days gone by? Well, now, I can hardly believe! Joe Nagasaki, the "tender", smiling a sanctified smile, Headed her straight for the gunboat--throwing out shells all the while -- Then went aboard and reported, "No makee dive in three mile! He falls. (Sings)They pulled him barefaced in the mile,Hey, Nonny, Nonny.The Stipes were watching them all the while;And the losers swear, but the winners smile,Hey, Nonny, Nonny.Exit Shortinbras.SECOND RUNTER: A scurvy knave! Joe Nagasaki, his "tender", is owner and diver instead. 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. . "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! For us the roving breezes bring From many a blossum-tufted tree -- Where wild bees murmur dreamily -- The honey-laden breath of Spring. 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. . Weight! Banjo Paterson. It was splendid; He gained on them yards every bound, Stretching out like a greyhound extended, His girth laid right down on the ground. Andrew Barton Paterson was born on the 17th February 1864 in the township of Narambla, New South Wales. 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.
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