Work poems
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Saltbush Bill's Gamecock
© Andrew Barton Paterson
'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
© 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.
Come-by-Chance
© Andrew Barton Paterson
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.
Over The Range
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed,
Playing alone in the creek-bed dry,
In the small green flat on every side
Walled in by the Moonbi ranges high;
In the Stable
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Go? She went mad! She went tearing and screaming with fear through the trees,
While the curst bucket beneath her was banging her flanks and her knees.
Bucking and racing and screaming she ran to the back of the run,
Killed herself there in a gully; by God, but they paid for their fun!
Paid for it dear, for the black-boys found tracks, and the bucket, and all,
And I swore that I'd live to get even with Gilbert, O'Meally and Hall.
The Billy-Goat Overland
© Andrew Barton Paterson
The squatters started to drive them back, but that was no good at all,
Their horses ran for the lick of their lives from the scent that was like a wall:
And never a dog had pluck or gall in front of the mob to stand
And face the charge of a thousand goats on the billy-goat overland.
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.
The Army Mules
© Andrew Barton Paterson
Oh the airman's game is a showman's game, for we all of us watch him go
With his roaring soaring aeroplane and his bombs for the blokes below,
Over the railways and over the dumps, over the Hun and the Turk,
You'll hear him mutter, "What ho, she bumps," when the Archies get to work.
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 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.
Father Riley's Horse
© Andrew Barton Paterson
'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog
By the troopers of the upper Murray side,
They had searched in every gully -- they had looked in every log,
But never sight or track of him they spied,
High Explosive
© Andrew Barton Paterson
'Twas the dingo pup to his dam that said,
"It's time I worked for my daily bread.
Out in the world I intend to go,
And you'd be surprised at the things I know.
Our New Horse
© Andrew Barton Paterson
The boys had come back from the races
All silent and down on their luck;
They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places,
But never a winner they's struck.
Black Swans
© Andrew Barton Paterson
As I lie at rest on a patch of clover
In the Western Park when the day is done.
I watch as the wild black swans fly over
With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun;
Reconstruction
© Andrew Barton Paterson
So, the bank has bust it's boiler! And in six or seven year
It will pay me all my money back -- of course!
But the horse will perish waiting while the grass is germinating,
And I reckon I'll be something like the horse.
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!"
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. +
Behind the Scenes
© Andrew Barton Paterson
'Tis each and all a work of art,
That constant care and practice means --
The actor who creates a part
Has done his work behind the scenes.
