Car poems
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The Mountain Squatter
© Andrew Barton Paterson
But when the summer sun
Gleams down like burnished brass,
You have to leave your run
And hustle off for grass.
Morgan's Dog
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Those that are healthy and strong
Battle away in the lead,
Carting the others along,
Eating the whole of the feed.
Hawker, the Standard Bearer
© Andrew Barton Paterson
"And the flag was a Jack with stars displayed,
A flag that is new to me;
For it does not ply in the Northern trade,
But it drove through the storm-wrack unafraid,
Now, what is that flag?" said he.
The Maori's Wool
© Andrew Barton Paterson
The Maoris are a mighty race -- the finest ever known;
Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone;
They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done
They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one.
The Amateur Rider
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Yessir! the 'orse is all ready -- I wish you'd have rode him before;
Nothing like knowing your 'orse, sir, and this chap's a terror to bore;
Battleaxe always could pull, and he rushes his fences like fun --
Stands off his jump twenty feet, and then springs like a shot from a gun.
Those Names
© Andrew Barton Paterson
The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong,
After the hard day's shearing, passing the joke along:
The "ringer" that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before,
And the novice who, toiling bravely, had tommy-hawked half a score,
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.
The Boss of the Admiral Lynch
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other day
Of President Balmaceda and of how he was sent away.
It seems that he didn't suit 'em -- they thought that they'd like a change,
So they started an insurrection and chased him across the range.
The Ballad of the Carpet Bag
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Hear dem voters callin'!
Pack de clean boiled rag.
For there's grass in the west, and the rain am fallin'.
Pack dat carpet bag!
Only a Jockey
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Fiercely he fights while the others run wide of him,
Reefs at the bit that would hold him in thrall,
Plunges and bucks till the boy that's astride of him
Goes to the ground with a terrible fall.
He Giveth His Beloved Sleep
© Andrew Barton Paterson
We plough and sow, and, as the hours grow later,
We strive to reap,
And build our barns, and hope to build them greater
Before we sleep.
Santa Claus in the Bush
© Andrew Barton Paterson
"Nay noo, nay noo," said the dour guidwife,
"But ye should let him be;
He's maybe only a drover chap
Frae the land o' the Darling Pea.
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.
The Wargeilah Handicap
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Wargeilah town is very small,
There's no cathedral nor a club,
In fact the township, all in all,
Is just one unpretentious pub;
And there, from all the stations round,
The local sportsmen can be found.
Swinging the Lead
© Andrew Barton Paterson
"And my legs have swelled up cruel, I can hardly walk at all,
Bur when the Taubes come over you should see me start to crawl;
When we're sprinting for the dugout, I can easy beat 'em all".
And the Surgeon said,
"That's Lead!"
Been There Before
© Andrew Barton Paterson
He knew that the river from bank to bank
Was fifty yards, and he smiled a smile
As he trundled down; but his hopes they sank,
For there wasnt a stone within fifty mile;
For the saltbush plain and the open down
Produce no quarries in Walgett town.
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,
The Duties of an Aide-de-camp
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Then they grab at his paw
And they chatter and jaw
Till they'd talk him to death -- if we'd let 'em --
And the folk he has met,
They are all in a fret,
Just for fear he might chance to forget 'em.
The Last Parade
© Andrew Barton Paterson
With never a sound of trumpet,
With never a flag displayed,
The last of the old campaigners
Lined up for the last parade.
In the Droving Days
© Andrew Barton Paterson
"Only a pound," said the auctioneer,
"Only a pound; and I'm standing here
Selling this animal, gain or loss --
Only a pound for the drover's horse?
