Thinkest thou that both are dead?Re-enter PuntersPUNTER: Good morrow, Gentlemen. The Winds Message 162. The Favourite drifts,And not a single wager has been laidAbout Golumpus. Best Poets. Paterson's . By the Lord, he's got most of 'em beat -- Ho! Battleaxe, Battleaxe wins! Down in the world where men toil and spin Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her; Only the dead men her smiles can win In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water. Unnumbered I hold them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright? Follow him close.Give him good watch, I pray you, till we seeJust what he does his dough on. 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. And Pardon was better, we reckoned, His sickness was passing away, So we went to the post for the second And principal heat of the day. 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. Mr. Paterson was a prolific writer of light topical verse. "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.". "The Man from Snowy River" is a poem by Australian bush poet Banjo Paterson. 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." Banjo Paterson is one of Australia's best-loved poets and his verse is among Australia's enduring traditions. Behind the great impersonal 'We' I hold the power of the Mystic Three. Paterson worked as a lawyer but ere theyd watched a half-hours spell Stumpy was as dead as mutton, tother dog was live and well. A passing good horse.JOCKEY: I rose him yesternoon: it seemed to meThat in good truth a fairly speedy cowMight well outrun him.OWNER: Thou froward varlet; must I say again,That on the Woop Woop course he ran a mileIn less than forty with his irons on!JOCKEY: Then thou should'st bring the Woop Woop course down here.OWNER: Thou pestilential scurvy Knave. Our willing workmen, strong and skilled, Within our cities idle stand, And cry aloud for leave to toil. I'm all of a stew. Young Andrew spent his formative years living at a station called "Buckenbah' in the western districts of New South Wales. But hold! But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol! Dived in the depths of the Darnleys, down twenty fathom and five; Down where by law, and by reason, men are forbidden to dive; Down in a pressure so awful that only the strongest survive: Sweated four men at the air pumps, fast as the handles could go, Forcing the air down that reached him heated and tainted, and slow -- Kanzo Makame the diver stayed seven minutes below; Came up on deck like a dead man, paralysed body and brain; Suffered, while blood was returning, infinite tortures of pain: Sailed once again to the Darnleys -- laughed and descended again! His mind was filled with wond'ring doubt; He grabbed his hat and he started out, He walked the street and he made a "set" At the first half-dozen folk he met. The Seekers recorded it three times, and Slim played it at the closing ceremony of the Sydney 2000 Olympics. When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, Was dying, he murmured, "A rorty old hoss you are: I give you command of the whole of the band" -- And handed the Government over to Joshua. But they settled it among 'em, for the story got about, 'Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course, That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out For the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse! Then right through the ruck he was sailing -- I knew that the battle was won -- The son of Haphazard was failing, The Yattendon filly was done; He cut down The Don and The Dancer, He raced clean away from the mare -- He's in front! It was first published in The Bulletin, an Australian news magazine, on 26 April 1890, and was published by Angus & Robertson in October 1895, with other poems by Paterson, in The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses.The poem tells the story of a horseback pursuit to recapture the colt of a prizewinning racehorse . * * * * * * * 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. The infant moved towards the light, The angel spread his wings in flight. And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, Oh, wonderful night. 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 the singer, The lilt of the tune. Anon we'll all be fittedWith Parliamentary seats. The breeze came in with the scent of pine, The river sounded clear, When a change came on, and we saw the sign That told us the end was near. Hunt him over the plain, And drive back the brute to the desert again. . Hast thou seenThe good red gold Go in. Roll up to the Hall!! those days they have fled for ever, They are like the swans that have swept from sight. Plenty of swagmen far and near -- And yet to Ryan it meant a lot. A new look at the oldest-known evidence of life, which is said to be in Western Australia, suggests the evidence might not be what its thought to have been. 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. So the Dutch let him go; but they watched him, as off from the Islands he ran, Doubting him much -- but what would you? Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson, CBE (17 February 1864- 5 February 1941) was an Australian bush poet, journalist and author. A Ballad of Ducks. The field was at sixes and sevens -- The pace at the first had been fast -- And hope seemed to drop from the heavens, For Pardon was coming at last. 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. 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. Joe Nagasaki, his "tender", is owner and diver instead. And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die! For he left the others standing, in the straight; And the rider -- well they reckoned it was Andy Regan's ghost, And it beat 'em how a ghost would draw the weight! . make room! I loudly cried, But right in front they seemed to ride I cursed them in my sleep. 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. But on his ribs the whalebone stung, A madness it did seem! Pablo Neruda (143 poem) 12 July 1904 - 23 September 1973. 'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. 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 sleep And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, O wonderful night. 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. These volumes met with great success. First published in The Sydney Morning Herald on February 6, 1941. J. Dennis. When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat, It will cure him just to think of Johnsons Snakebite Antidote. Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can; I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure, Just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure. . And aren't they just going a pace? Far to the Northward there lies a land, A wonderful land that the winds blow over, And none may fathom or understand The charm it holds for the restless rover; A great grey chaos -- a land half made, Where endless space is and no life stirreth; There the soul of a man will recoil afraid From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth. 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. Video PDF When I'm Gone 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. Joe Nagasaki, the "tender", finding the profits grow small, Said, "Let us go to the Islands, try for a number one haul! 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. you all Must each bring a stone -- Great sport will be shown; Enormous Attractions! They went tearin' round and round, And the fences rang and rattled where they struck. With gladness we thought of the morrow, We counted our wages with glee, A simile homely to borrow -- "There was plenty of milk in our tea." "On," was the battle cry,"Conquer this day or die,Sons of Hibernia, fight for Liberty!Show neither fear nor dread,Strike at the foeman's head,Cut down horse, foot, and artillery! "The goat -- was he back there? And the priest would join the laughter: "Oh," said he, "I put him in, For there's five-and-twenty sovereigns to be won. And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. And lo, a miracle! It's a wayside inn, A low grog-shanty -- a bushman trap, Hiding away in its shame and sin Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap -- Under the shade of that frowning range The roughest crowd that ever drew breath -- Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange, Were mustered round at the "Shadow of Death". When night doth her glories Of starshine unfold, 'Tis then that the stories Of bush-land are told. Make miniature mechanised minions with teeny tiny tools! At length the hardy pioneers By rock and crag found out the way, And woke with voices of today A silence kept for years and tears. today Banjo Paterson is still one of. B. I have alphabetically categorised & indexed over 700 poems & readings, in over 130 categories spreading over about 500 pages, but more are added regularly. Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. Along where Leichhardt journeyed slow And toiled and starved in vain; These rash excursionists must go Per Queensland railway train. From 1903 to 1906 he was editor of the Evening News, in Sydney, and subsequently editor of the Town and Country Journal for a couple of years. What scoundrel ever would dare to hint That anything crooked appears in print! 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. 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. The stunted children come and go In squalid lanes and alleys black: We follow but the beaten track Of other nations, and we grow In wealth for some -- for many, woe. Paterson wrote this sad ballad about war-weary horses after working as a correspondent during the Boer War in South Africa. It follows a mountainous horseback pursuit to recapture the colt of a prize-winning racehorse living with brumbies. )Leaguers all,Mine own especial comrades of Reform,All amateurs and no professionals,So many worthy candidates I see,Alas that there are only ninety seats.Still, let us take them all, and Joe Carruthers,Ashton, and Jimmy Hogue, and all the rest,Will have to look for work! And then I watch with a sickly grin While the patient 'passes his counters in'. The trooper knew that his man would slide Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance; And with half a start on the mountain side Ryan would lead him a merry dance. Close to the headlands they drifted, picking up shell by the ton, Piled up on deck were the oysters, opening wide in the sun, When, from the lee of the headland, boomed the report of a gun. 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. 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! Good for the new chum! More than a Poet. 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. * * Yessir! A Dog's Mistake. Most popular poems of Banjo Paterson, famous Banjo Paterson and all 284 poems in this page. That I did for himI paid my shilling and I cast my vote.MACBREATH: Thou art the best of all the shilling voters.Prithee, be near me on election dayTo see me smite Macpuff, and now we shan'tBe long,(Ghost of Thompson appears. Evens the field!" )What if it should be! He wrote many ballads and poems about Australian life, focusing particularly on the rural and outback areas, including the district around Binalong, New South Wales, where he spent much of his childhood. 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. One, in the town where all cares are rife, Weary with troubles that cramp and kill, Fain would be done with the restless strife, Fain would go back to the old bush life, Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill. We have our songs -- not songs of strife And hot blood spilt on sea and land; But lilts that link achievement grand To honest toil and valiant life. Jan 2011. Banjo Paterson's Poems of the Bush A.B. In the early 80s I went from New Zealand to Darwin to work. We were objects of mirth and derision To folks in the lawn and the stand, Anf the yells of the clever division Of "Any price Pardon!" Didst not sayTo back Golumpus or the Favourite!SHORTINBRAS: Get work! The Bushfire - An Allegory 161. And there the phantoms on each side Drew in and blocked his leap; Make room! Now for the treble, my hearty -- By Jove, he can ride, after all; Whoop, that's your sort -- let him fly them! 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. (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. When the dash and the excitement and the novelty are dead, And you've seen a load of wounded once or twice, Or you've watched your old mate dying, with the vultures overhead -- Well, you wonder if the war is worth the price. "Run, Abraham, run! were grand.