A. B. Paterson

“ Hunt him over the plain, And drive back the brute to the desert again. The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids frown on you, From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you— Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you.” So Abraham ran; like a man did he go for him, But the goat made it clear each time he drew near That he had what the racing men call “too much toe” for him. The crowd with great eagerness studied the race— “Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace— And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. ”

“ Well done, Jim! They're sure to get them now, of course, That Tambourine is a spanking horse. And Crazy Jane is good as gold. And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold; Not like your father, but very fair. Jim will have to follow the mare.” “It never was yet in father's hide To best my Jim on the mountain-side. Jim can rally, and Jim can ride.” But here again Amelia cried. . . . . . The sound of a whip comes faint and far, A rattle of hoofs, and here they are, In all their tameless pride. The fleet wild horses snort with fear, And wheel and break as the yard draws near. Now, Jim the Ringer, ride! ”

“ Mountain or river or shining star, There's never a sight can beat— Away to the sky-line stretching far— A sea of the ripening Wheat. When the burning harvest sun sinks low, And the shadows stretch on the plain, The roaring strippers come and go Like ships on a sea of grain; Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear Their tale of the load complete. Of the world's great work he has done his share Who has gathered a crop of wheat. Princes and Potentates and Czars, They travel in regal state, But old King Wheat has a thousand cars For his trip to the water-gate ”

“ They venture out 'neath moon and star Along the flats to feed; But when the dawn makes pink the sky And steals along the plain, The Brumby horses turn and fly Towards the hills again. The traveller by the mountain-track May hear their hoof-beats pass, And catch a glimpse of brown and black Dim shadows on the grass. The eager stockhorse pricks his ears And lifts his head on high In wild excitement when he hears The Brumby mob go by. Old Brumby asks no price or fee O'er all his wide domains: The man who yards his stock is free To keep them for his pains. ”

“ Guid wife, he's never a drover chap, For their swags are neat and thin; And he's never a life assurance carle, Wi' the brick-dust burnt in his skin. “Guid wife, guid wife, be nae sae dour, For the wheat stands ripe and tall, And we shore a seven-pound fleece this year, Ewes and weaners and all. “There is grass tae spare, and the stock are fat Where they whiles are gaunt and thin, And we owe a tithe to the travelling poor, So we maun ask him in. ”

“ The Melting of the Snow There's a sunny Southern land, And it's there that I would be Where the big hills stand, In the South Countrie! When the wattles bloom again, Then it's time for us to go To the old Monaro country At the melting of the snow. To the East or to the West, Or wherever you may be, You will find no place Like the South Countrie. For the skies are blue above, And the grass is green below, In the old Monaro country At the melting of the snow. ”

“ Now for the Panics that never fail! But many a backer's face grows pale As old Commotion swings his tail And swerves—and the Cup is finished. . . . . . And now in my dream it all comes back: I bet my coin on the Sydney crack, A million I've won, no question! “Give me my money, you hooked-nosed hog! Give me my money, bookmaking dog!” But he disappeared in a kind of fog, And I woke with “the indigestion”.
The Gundaroo Bullock Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone, And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the “Goulburn Roan” ”

“ He reckoned if he faced the pull And climbed the rocky stair, The next to come might find his hide A land-mark on the mountain side, Along with Hogan's brindled bull And Hogan's old grey mare!
A Singer of the Bush There is waving of grass in the breeze And a song in the air, And a murmur of myriad bees That toil everywhere. There is scent in the blossom and bough, And the breath of the Spring Is as soft as a kiss on a brow— And Spring-time I sing. There is drought on the land, and the stock Tumble down in their tracks Or follow—a tottering flock— The scrub-cutter's axe. ”

“ But the wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go sadly back To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack, And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall, And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush-life after all. But we'll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun, For our fathers' hearts have failed us and the droving days are done. ”

“ The Pannikin Poet There's nothing here sublime, But just a roving rhyme, Run off to pass the time, With nought titanic in The theme that it supports, And, though it treats of quarts, It's bare of golden thoughts— It's just a pannikin. I think it's rather hard That each Australian bard— Each wan, poetic card— With thoughts galvanic in His fiery soul alight, In wild aerial flight, Will sit him down and write About a pannikin. ”

“ Wherever you are, whatever betide, Every year as the time draws near By lot or by rote choose you a goat, And let the high priest confess on the beast The sins of the people, the worst and the least. Lay your sins on the goat! ”

“ You see, they weren't particular about a wife or so— No more were we up Queensland way a score of years ago. But when the stock were strong and fat with grass and lots of rain, Then Jacob felt the call to take the homeward road again. It's strange in every creed and clime, no matter where you roam, There comes a day when every man would like to make for home. So off he set with sheep and goats, a mighty moving band, To battle down the homeward track along the Overland— It's droving mixed-up mobs like that that makes men cut their throats. ”

“ The thing is made so clear and plain, so solid in and out, There isn't any room at all for any kind of doubt. It's just a plain straightforward tale—a tale that lets you know The way they lived in Palestine three thousand years ago. It's strange to read it all to-day, the shifting of the stock; You'd think you see the caravans that loaf behind the flock, The little donkeys and the mules, the sheep that slowly spread, And maybe Dan or Naphthali a-ridin' on ahead. The long, dry, dusty summer days, the smouldering fires at night; The stir and bustle of the camp at break of morning light ”

“ But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet, Will over the steaming paddocks spread The first green flush of the Wheat. Green and amber and gold it grows When the sun sinks late in the West; And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows Where the quail and the skylark nest. ”

“ Walk not in the track of the trainer, nor hang round the rails at his stall. His wisdom belongs to his patron—shall he give it to one and to all? When the stable is served he may tell you—and his words are like jewels let fall. Run wide of the tipster who whispers that Borak is sure to be first, He tells the next mug that he corners a tale with the placings reversed; And, remember, of judges of racing, the jockey's the absolute worst. When they lay three to one on the field, and the runners are twenty-and-two, Take a pull on yourself; take a pull—it's a mighty big field to get through. ”

“ Now Isaac was a squatter man, and Jacob was his son, And when the boy grew up, you see, he wearied of the run. You know the way that boys grow up—there's some that stick at home; But any boy that's worth his salt will roll his swag and roam. So Jacob caught the roving fit and took the drovers' track To where his uncle had a run, beyond the outer back; You see they made for out-back runs for room to stretch and grow, The same we did out Queensland way, a score of years ago. Now, Jacob knew the ways of stock—that's most uncommon clear— For when he got to Laban's Run, they made him overseer ”

“ For the eyes are signs of the soul within, Of the heart that is leal and true, And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, Just as long as your eyes are blue. For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach May be reft of their golden hue ”

“ And then when times get bad That wandering English lad Writes out a message sad Upon his pannikin: “Oh, mother, think of me Beneath the wattle tree” (For you may bet that he Will drag the wattle in) “Oh, mother, here I think That I shall have to sink, There ain't a single drink The water-bottle in.” The dingo homeward hies, The sooty crows uprise And caw their fierce surprise A tone Satanic in; And bearded bushmen tread Around the sleeper's head— “See here—the bloke is dead! Now where's his pannikin?” ”

“ There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels, And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals. For to hang around the townships suits us better, you'll agree, And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we. Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push Till we lose the love of roving and we learn to hate the bush ”

“ It was a sight to see The people step for home. For big baboons with canine snout Are spiteful, as a rule— The people didn't sit it out When Dacey rode the mule. And from the beasts that made escape, The bushmen all declare, Were born some creatures partly ape And partly native-bear. They're rather few and far between, The race is nearly spent; But some of them may still be seen In Sydney Parliament. And when those legislators fight, And drink, and act the fool, Just blame it on that torrid night When Dacey rode the mule. ”

“ For the very best rule that you'll hear in a week— Is never to bet on a thing that can speak. And whether you're lucky or whether you lose, Keep clear of the cards and keep clear of the booze, And fortune in season will answer your prayer And send you a flyer like Mulligan's mare. ”

“ At length the poor soldier of Satan His course to a finish has run— And just think of Windeyer waiting To deal with “A Gentleman, One”! And some face it boldly, and brazen The shame and the utter disgrace; While others, more sensitive, hasten Their names and their deeds to efface. They snap the frail thread which the Furies And Fates have so cruelly spun. ”

“ 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. Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place, Freely she doth accord Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace, Work is its own reward! ”

“ When the charms of youth shall have passed away, Will your love as of old prove true? For the looks may change, and the heart may range, And the love be no longer fond; Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth And away to the years beyond? ”

“ Their very dogs will shirk, And drop their tails in fright When asked to go and work A mob that's out of sight. My little collie pup Works silently and wide; You'll see her climbing up Along the mountain side. As silent as a fox You'll see her come and go, A shadow through the rocks Where ash and messmate grow. Then, lost to sight and sound Behind some rugged steep, She works her way around And gathers up the sheep; And, working wide and shy, She holds them rounded up. The cash ain't coined to buy That little collie pup. ”

“ And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer, And we'll slip across to England—it's a nicer place than here; For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store, And the theatres are plenty and the pubs are more and more. ”

“ You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase. It's right enough while horses pull and take their fences strong, To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along; But what about the last half-mile, with horses blown and beat— When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet? When any slip means sudden death—with wife and child to keep— It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap— But Corrigan would ride them out, by danger undismayed, He never flinched at fence or wall, he never was afraid ”

“ Not the fast-fleeing hare, Nor the racehorses under the whip, Nor the birds of the air Can compete with our swiftness sublime, Our ease and our grace. We annihilate chickens and time And policemen and space. ”

“ Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, Claiming us all our days, Claiming our best endeavour—body and heart and brain Given with no reserve— Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain ”