Poems begining by A
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An Evening in Dandaloo
© Andrew Barton Paterson
It was while we held our races --
Hurdles, sprints and steplechases --
Up in Dandaloo,
That a crowd of Sydney stealers,
A Walgett Episode
© Andrew Barton Paterson
The sunburnt stranger was gaunt and brown,
But it soon appeared that he meant to flout
The iron law of the country town,
Which is -- that the stranger has got to shout:
"If he will not shout we must take him down,"
Remarked the yokels of Walgett Town.
A Job for McGuinness
© Andrew Barton Paterson
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.
A Nervous Governor-General
© Andrew Barton Paterson
We read in the press that Lord Northcote is here
To take up Lord Tennyson's mission.
'Tis pleasant to find they have sent us a Peer,
And a man of exalted position.
A Motor Courtship
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Into her presence he gaily pranced,
A very fat spark, and a bit advanced.
With a Samson tread on the earth he trod,
He was stayed and gaitered, and fifty odd.
A Voice from the Town
© Andrew Barton Paterson
I thought, in the days of the droving,
Of steps I might hope to retrace,
To be done with the bush and the roving
And settle once more in my place.
A Disqualified Jockey's Story
© Andrew Barton Paterson
But Mister -- if you'll lend us half-a-crown,
I know three certain winners at the Park --
Three certain cops as no one knows but me;
And -- thank you, Mister, come an' have a beer
(I always like a beer about this time) . . .
Well, so long, Mister, till we meet again.
An Idyll of Dandaloo
© Andrew Barton Paterson
There came a sportsman from the East,
The eastern land where sportsmen blow,
And brought with him a speedy beast --
A speedy beast as horses go.
He came afar in hope to "do"
The little town of Dandaloo.
A Singer of the Bush
© Andrew Barton Paterson
There is waving of grass in the breeze
And a song in the air,
And a murmur of myriad bees
That toil everywhere.
A Mountain Station
© Andrew Barton Paterson
I bought a run a while ago,
On country rough and ridgy,
Where wallaroos and wombats grow --
The Upper Murrumbidgee.
Australia Today 1916
© Andrew Barton Paterson
On the western stations, far and wide,
There's many an empty pen,
For the "ringers" have cast the machines aside
And answered the call for men.
A Dream of the Melbourne Cup
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Bring me a quart of colonial beer
And some doughy damper to make good cheer,
I must make a heavy dinner;
Heavily dine and heavily sup,
A Bushman's Song
© Andrew Barton Paterson
IM travellin down the Castlereagh, and Im a station hand,
Im handy with the ropin pole, Im handy with the brand,
And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day,
But theres no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh. +
"Ave Ceasar"
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Long ago the Gladiators,
When the call to combat came,
Marching past the massed spectators,
Hailed the Emp'ror with acclaim!
At the Melting of the Snow
© Andrew Barton Paterson
There's a sunny Southern land,
And it's there that I would be
Where the big hills stand,
In the South Countrie!
Australian Scenery
© Andrew Barton Paterson
A land where silence lies so deep that sound itself is dead
And a gaunt grey bird, like a homeless soul, drifts, noiseless, overhead
And the world's great story is left untold, and the message is left unsaid.
A Bush Lawyer
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Now, Dan-di-dan the water rat was exquisitely dressed,
For not a seal in Bass's Straits had half as fine a coat,
And every day he combed and brushed his golden-yellow vest,
A contrast with the white cravat he wore beneath his throat.
Ambition and Art
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Ambition
I am the maid of the lustrous eyes
Of great fruition,
Whom the sons of men that are over-wise
Have called Ambition.
A Song of the Pen
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try,
Gathering grain or chaff;
One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high,
One, that a child may laugh.
A Change of Menu
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Now the new chum loaded his three-nought-three,
It's a small-bore gun, but his hopes were big.
"I am fed to the teeth with old ewe," said he,
"And I might be able to shoot a pig."
And he trusted more to his nose than ear
To give him warning when pigs were near.
