Poems begining by T
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The Man From Ironbark
© Andrew Barton Paterson
It was a man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,
He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down,
He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop,
Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.
" 'Ere! shave me beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,
I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark!"
Tommy Corrigan
© Andrew Barton Paterson
He gave the shirkers extra heart, he steadied down the rash,
He rode great clumsy boring brutes, and chanced a fatal smash;
He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all --
But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall.
You should have heard the cheers, my boys, that shook the members' stand
Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand.
The First Surveyor
© Andrew Barton Paterson
"'Twas then, with horses starved and weak and scarcely fit to crawl,
My husband went to find a way across the rocky wall.
He vanished in the wilderness -- God knows where he was gone --
He hunted till his food gave out, but still he battled on.
His horses strayed ('twas well they did), they made towards the grass,
And down behind that big red hill they found an easy pass.
The Pearl Diver
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Kanzo Makame, the diver, sturdy and small Japanee,
Seeker of pearls and of pearl-shell down in the depths of the sea,
Trudged o'er the bed of the ocean, searching industriously.
The Man From Snowy River
© Andrew Barton Paterson
There was movement at the station, for the word has passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horseshe was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
The Rum Parade
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Now ye gallant Sydney boys, who have left your household joys
To march across the sea in search of glory,
I am very much afraid that you do not love parade,
But the rum parade is quite another story.
The Bushfire - an Allegory
© Andrew Barton Paterson
And the out-paddocks -- holy frost!
There wouldn't be no sense
For me to try and tell you half --
They really are immense;
A man might ride for days and weeks
And never strike a fence.
The Lung Fish
© Andrew Barton Paterson
"These barramundi are the blokes
To give you all the sport you need:
For when the big lagoons and soaks
Are dried right down to mud and weed
They don't sit there and raise a roar,
They pack their traps and come ashore.
The Man from Iron Bark
© Andrew Barton Paterson
There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall.
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;
To them the barber passed the wink his dexter eyelid shut,
"I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut."
And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:
"I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark."
The Road to Old Man's Town
© Andrew Barton Paterson
And marching with us on the track
Full many friends we find:
We see them looking sadly back
For those who've dropped behind
The Wreck of the Golfer
© Andrew Barton Paterson
"Oh, Father, why did you hit the fence
Just there where the brambles twine?"
And the father he answered never a word,
But he got on the green in nine.
The Flying Gang
© Andrew Barton Paterson
And I worked my way to the end, and I
Was the head of the "Flying Gang".
'Twas a chosen band that was kept at hand
In case of an urgent need;
The Ballad of M. T. Nutt and His Dog
© Andrew Barton Paterson
The Horse remarked, "I would be soft
Such liberties to stand!"
"Oh dog," he said, "Go up aloft,
Young man, go on the land!"
The Angel's Kiss
© Andrew Barton Paterson
An angel stood beside the bed
Where lay the living and the dead.
He gave the mother -- her who died --
A kiss that Christ the Crucified
The Tavern
© Willa Cather
IN the tavern of my heart
Many a one has sat before,
Drunk red wine and sung a stave,
And, departing, come no more.
The Hawthorn Tree
© Willa Cather
ACROSS the shimmering meadows--
Ah, when he came to me!
In the spring-time,
In the night-time,
thought for Thursday
© Jonathan Bohrn
Tomorrow's Thursday again,
swept with the days' meandering flow:
this, that, and the week goes,
hearing time splash through cracks.
The Great Western Plains
© Hart Crane
The little voices of the prairie dogs
Are tireless . . .
They will give three hurrahs
Alike to stage, equestrian, and pullman,
And all unstingingly as to the moon.
The Visible, The Untrue
© Hart Crane
I'm wearing badges
that cancel all your kindness. Forthright
I watch the silver Zeppelin
destroy the sky. To
stir your confidence?
To rouse what sanctions?
To Brooklyn Bridge
© Hart Crane
How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty--
