All Poems

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Weary Will

© Andrew Barton Paterson

The strongest creature for his size
But least equipped for combat
That dwells beneath Australian skies
Is Weary Will the Wombat.

The Old Australian Ways

© Andrew Barton Paterson

The London lights are far abeam
Behind a bank of cloud,
Along the shore the gaslights gleam,
The gale is piping loud;

Chorus --
So it's any "Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!"
You can hear us round for half a mile or so
And you'll see the women rushing
To take in the Monday's washing
When they 'ear us crying, "Empty Bottle-O!"

Tar and Feathers

© Andrew Barton Paterson

And says he with a grin,
"That's the way to get in;
But I reckon I'd better be quiet or
They'll spiflicate me,"
And he chuckled, for he
Had the loan of the circus proprietor.

Driver Smith

© Andrew Barton Paterson

"Wherever the rifle bullets flash and the Maxims raise a din,
It's here you'll find the Medical men a-raking the wounded in --
A-raking 'em in like human flies -- and a driver smart like me
Will find some scope for his extra skill in the ranks of the A.M.C."

Song of the Future

© Andrew Barton Paterson

"I care for nothing, good nor bad,
My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled,
I am but sifting sand," he said:
What wonder Gordon's songs were sad!

Song of the Wheat

© Andrew Barton Paterson

We have sung the song of the droving days,
Of the march of the travelling sheep;
By silent stages and lonely ways
Thin, white battalions creep.

Not On It

© Andrew Barton Paterson

They watched him as the flag went down; his fate is quickly told --
The pony gave a sudden spring, and off the rider rolled.
The pony finished first all right, but then our hero bold
Was not on it.

Last Week

© Andrew Barton Paterson

Oh, the new-chum went to the backblock run,
But he should have gone there last week.
He tramped ten miles with a loaded gun,
But of turkey of duck saw never a one,

The Travelling Post Office

© Andrew Barton Paterson

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.
. . .. . . . .

Jimmy Dooley's Army

© Andrew Barton Paterson

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

Black Harry's Team

© Andrew Barton Paterson

No soft-skinned Durham steers are they,
No Devons plump and red,
But brindled, black and iron-grey
That mark the mountain-bred;

The Protest

What was the brand on 'is 'ide?
I couldn't say,
Brands can be transmogrified.
That ain't the way --
It's the look of a 'orse and the way that 'e moves
That I'd know any day.

Saltbush Bill's Gamecock

'Twas Saltbush Bill to the station rode ahead of his travelling sheep,
And sent a message to Rooster Hall that wakened him out of his sleep --
A crafty message that fetched him out, and hurried him as he came --
"A drover has an Australian bird to match with your British Game."
'Twas done, and done in half a trice; a five-pound note a side;
Old Rooster Hall, with his champion bird, and the drover's bird untried.

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.

The Ballad of That P.N.

The shades of night had fallen at last,
When through the house a shadow passed,
That once had been the Genial Dan,
But now become a desperate man,

Come-by-Chance

But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me;
Quite by chance I came across it -- "Come-by-Chance" was what I read;
No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it,
Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid.