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 King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat, Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote. And Kate Carew, when her father died, She kept the horse and she kept him well; The pride of the district far and wide, He lived in style at the bush hotel. 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! The Favourite drifts,And not a single wager has been laidAbout Golumpus. . Another search for Leichhardt's tomb, Though fifty years have fled Since Leichhardt vanished in the gloom, Our one Illustrious Dead! * * * * 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. (Alarums and Harbour excursions; enter Macpuffat the head of a Picnic Party. did you see how he struck, and the swell never moved in his seat? 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. Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side Was the scapegoat: And eating his latest advertisement! 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 down along the Monaro now they're starting out to shear, I can picture the excitement and the row; But they'll miss me on the Lachlan when they call the roll this year, For we're going on a long job now. Unnumbered I told them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright? A Ballad of Ducks. This poem tells of a man who reacts badly to a practical joke sprung on him by a Sydney barber. As participation in freediving reaches new levels, we look at whats driving the sports growing popularity. 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. The remains will be cremated to-day at the Northern Suburbs Crematorium. The Jockey's PunterHas he put up the stuff, or does he waitTo get a better price. 'Twill sometimes chance when a patient's ill That a doae, or draught, or a lightning pill, A little too strong or a little too hot, Will work its way to a vital spot. About us stretches wealth of land, A boundless wealth of virgin soil As yet unfruitful and untilled! To the front -- and then stay there - was ever The root of the Mameluke creed. Then the races came to Kiley's -- with a steeplechase and all, For the folk were mostly Irish round about, And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall, They were training morning in and morning out. I would fain go back to the old grey river, To the old bush days when our hearts were light; But, alas! For he rode at dusk with his comrade Dunn. Amateur! With his pants just as loose as balloons, How can he sit on a horse? 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. Our very last hope had departed -- We thought the old fellow was done, When all of a sudden he started To go like a shot from a gun. 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. Beyond all denials The stars in their glories The breeze in the myalls Are part of these stories. Ah, yes! Yet it sometimes happens by some strange crook That a ledger-keeper will 'take his hook' With a couple of hundred thousand 'quid', And no one can tell how the thing was did!" The way is won! It is hard to keep sight on him, The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. 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! Facing it yet! Banjo Paterson. 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. Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny, The horses in those days were stout, They had to run well to win money; I don't see such horses about. `And then I woke, and for a space All nerveless did I seem; For I have ridden many a race, But never one at such a pace As in that fearful dream. When this girl's father, old Jim Carew, Was droving out on the Castlereagh With Conroy's cattle, a wire came through To say that his wife couldn't live the day. Never shakeThy gory locks at me. Please try again later. 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! Eye-openers they are, and their system Is never to suffer defeat; It's "win, tie, or wrangle" -- to best 'em You must lose 'em, or else it's "dead heat". But the reason we print those statements fine Is -- the editor's uncle owns the mine." There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died, And they wondered who on earth he could have been. 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 o'er every galoot of 'em. Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. I slate his show from the floats to flies, Because the beggar won't advertise. To all devout Jews! 'Banjo' Paterson 1987: Gumnut design on jacket by Paul Jones and Ashcraft Fabrics. Did thou catch the last?SECOND HEAD: Aye, marry did I, and the one before,But this has got me beat. With sanctimonious and reverent look I read it out of the sacred book That he who would open the golden door Must give his all to the starving poor. Lawson almost always wrote as one who travelled afoot - Paterson as one who saw plain and bush from the back of a galloping horse. He falls. It will bring me fame and fortune! 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. 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. And up went my hat in the air! Good for the new chum! Banjo Paterson was born at Narrambla, and passed his earliest years at Buckinbah, near Obley, on an unfenced block of dingo infested country leased by his father and uncle from the Crown. He gave the infant kisses twain, One on the breast, one on the brain. Conroy's Gap 154. 'Tis safer to speak well of the dead: betimes they rise again. Clancy of the Overflow is a poem by Banjo Paterson, first published in The Bulletin, an Australian news magazine, on 21 December 1889. had I the flight of the bronzewing,Far o'er the plains would I fly,Straight to the land of my childhood,And there would I lay down and die. "Well, you're back right sudden,"the super said; "Is the old man dead and the funeral done?" Banjo Paterson is one of Australia's best-loved poets and his verse is among Australia's enduring traditions. But on his ribs the whalebone stung A madness, sure, it seemed And soon it rose on every tongue That Jack Macpherson rode among The creatures he had dreamed. 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! He focused on the outback and what rural life was like for the communities who lived there. On Banjo Patersons 150th birthday anniversary, here are his best ballads. This complete collection of verse shows the bush balladeer at his very best with favorites such as "A Bush Christening," "The Man from Ironbark," "Clancy of the Overflow," and the immortal "The Man . B. Paterson, 2008 . 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. Rataplan never will catch him if only he keeps on his pins; Now! You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo -- Whence comes the expression "to buck against faro". Dustjacket synopsis: "The poetry selected for this collection reveals Paterson's love and appreciation for the Australina bush and its people. Banjo Paterson. In very short order they got plenty word of him. Those British pioneers Had best at home abide, For things have changed in fifty years Since Ludwig Leichhardt died. 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. But they never started training till the sun was on the course For a superstitious story kept 'em back, That the ghost of Andy Regan on a slashing chestnut horse, Had been training by the starlight on the track. Read all poems by Banjo Paterson written. I'm all of a stew. The meaning of various words within the poem are given in the "Editor's notes" section at the end.] And then I watch with a sickly grin While the patient 'passes his counters in'. " T.Y.S.O.N. He was in his 77th year. So off they went, And as soon as ever they turned their backs The girl slipped down, on some errand bent Behind the stable and seized an axe. Go to!Strikes him.Alarms and excursions. And the priest would join the laughter: "Oh," said he, "I put him in, For there's five-and-twenty sovereigns to be won. 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 the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes: Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants, And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants: Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat, There it was that William Johnson sought his snake-bite antidote. He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo, And many a mile of the silent plain That lonely rider behind him threw Before they settled to sleep again. Don't tell me he can ride. 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.