Maya Angelou (52 poem) 4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014. you're all right, sir, and thank you; and them was the words that I said. Jack Thompson: The Campfire Yarns of Henry Lawson. He then settled at Coodravale, a pastoral property in the Wee Jasper district, near Yass, and remained there until the Great War, in which he served with a remount unit in Egypt returning with the rank of major. Evens the field!" All you can do is to hold him and just let him jump as he likes, Give him his head at the fences, and hang on like death if he strikes; Don't let him run himself out -- you can lie third or fourth in the race -- Until you clear the stone wall, and from that you can put on the pace. Here is a list of the top 10 most iconic Banjo Paterson ballads. And soon it rose on every tongue That Jack Macpherson rode among The creatures of his dream. By subscribing you become an AG Society member, helping us to raise funds for conservation and adventure projects. Now for the treble, my hearty -- By Jove, he can ride, after all; Whoop, that's your sort -- let him fly them! Breathless, Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank, Saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes, green and rank; Saw him, happy and contented, lick his lips, as off he crept, While the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept. `He's down! Banjo Paterson was born at Narrambla, and passed his earliest years at Buckinbah, near Obley, on an unfenced block of dingo infested country leased by his father and uncle from the Crown. They had taken toll of the country round, And the troopers came behind With a black who tracked like a human hound In the scrub and the ranges blind: He could run the trail where a white man's eye No sign of track could find. Such wasThe Swagman; and Ryan knew Nothing about could pace the crack; Little he'd care for the man in blue If once he got on The Swagman's back. '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, Till the priest at Kiley's Crossing heard a knocking very late And a whisper "Father Riley -- come across!" (Banjo) 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. Banjo Paterson. )What's this? But troubles came thicker upon us, For while we were rubbing him dry The stewards came over to warn us: "We hear you are running a bye! . For folks may widen their mental range, But priest and parson, thay never change." He had sold them both to the black police For the sake of the big reward. He wrote many ballads and poems about Australian life, focusing particularly on the rural and outback areas, including the district around Binalong, New South Wales, where he spent much of his childhood. Australian Geographic acknowledges the First Nations people of Australia as traditional custodians, and pay our respects to Elders past and present, and their stories and journeys that have lead us to where we are today. And over the tumult and louder Rang "Any price Pardon, I lay!" "Go forth into the world," he said, "With blessings on your heart and head, "For God, who ruleth righteously, Hath ordered that to such as be "From birth deprived of mother's love, I bring His blessing from above; "But if the mother's life he spare Then she is made God's messenger "To kiss and pray that heart and brain May go through life without a stain." His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. And if they have racing hereafter, (And who is to say they will not?) Thinkest thou that both are dead?Re-enter PuntersPUNTER: Good morrow, Gentlemen. Paterson worked as a lawyer but He was educated at Sydney Grammar School. Young Andrew spent his formative years living at a station called "Buckenbah' in the western . Don't hope it -- the slinking hound, He sloped across to the Queensland side, And sold The Swagman for fifty pound, And stole the money, and more beside. I Bought a Record and Tape called "Pioneers" by "Wallis and Matilda" a tribute to A.B. Well, well, 'tis sudden!These are the uses of the politician,A few brief sittings and another contest;He hardly gets to know th' billiard tablesBefore he's out . that's a sweet township -- a shindy To them is board, lodging, and sup. He left the camp by the sundown light, And the settlers out on the Marthaguy Awoke and heard, in the dead of night, A single horseman hurrying by. the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again, For we're going on a long job now. And the lashin's of the liquor! A word let fall Gave him the hint as the girl passed by; Nothing but "Swagman -- stable wall; Go to the stable and mind your eye." "On came the Saxons thenFighting our Fenian men,Soon they'll reel back from our piked volunteers.Loud was the fight and shrill,Wexford and Vinegar Hill,Three cheers for Father Murphy and the bold cavaliers.I dreamt that I saw our gallant commanderSeated on his charger in gorgeous array.He wore green trimmed with gold and a bright shining sabreOn which sunbeams of Liberty shone brightly that day. Video PDF When I'm Gone The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, And Abraham's tiring -- I'll lay six to four! Scarce grew the shell in the shallows, rarely a patch could they touch; Always the take was so little, always the labour so much; Always they thought of the Islands held by the lumbering Dutch -- Islands where shell was in plenty lying in passage and bay, Islands where divers could gather hundreds of shell in a day. We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, If he takes home our sins, it'll burst up the Synagogue!" Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true That close at hand he kept; He pointed straight at the voice, and drew, But never a flash outleapt, For the water ran from the rifle breech -- It was drenched while the outlaws slept. What meant he by his prateOf Fav'rite and outsider and the like?Forsooth he told us nothing. Will you fetch your dog and try it? Johnson rather thought he would. "Who'll bet on the field? For us the roving breezes bring From many a blossum-tufted tree -- Where wild bees murmur dreamily -- The honey-laden breath of Spring. . )PUNTER: Nay, good Shortinbras, what thinkest thou of Golumpus?Was it not dead last week?SHORTINBRAS: Marry, sir, I think well of Golumpus. I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better. And loud from every squatter's door Each pioneering swell Will hear the wild pianos roar The strains of "Daisy Bell". First published in The Sydney Morning Herald on February 6, 1941. The way is won! So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate And admitted Andy Regan -- and a horse! There was a girl in that shanty bar Went by the name of Kate Carew, Quiet and shy as the bush girls are, But ready-witted and plucky, too. Oh, he can jump 'em all right, sir, you make no mistake, 'e's a toff -- Clouts 'em in earnest, too, sometimes; you mind that he don't clout you off -- Don't seem to mind how he hits 'em, his shins is as hard as a nail, Sometimes you'll see the fence shake and the splinters fly up from the rail. If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation And win the next heat -- if he can -- He'll earn a disqualification; Just think over that now, my man!" It was shearing time at the Myall Lake, And then rose the sound through the livelong day Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make When the fastest shearers are making play; But there wasn't a man in the shearers' lines That could shear a sheep with the two Devines. The daylight is dying Away in the west, The wild birds are flying In silence to rest; In leafage and frondage Where shadows are deep, They pass to its bondage The kingdom of sleep. Never shakeThy gory locks at me. Because all your sins are 'his troubles' in future. Mr. Paterson was a prolific writer of light topical verse. But he found the rails on that summer night For a better place -- or worse, As we watched by turns in the flickering light With an old black gin for nurse. But the shearers knew that they's make a cheque When they came to deal with the station ewes; They were bare of belly and bare of neck With a fleece as light as a kangaroo's. Experience docet, they tell us, At least so I've frequently heard; But, "dosing" or "stuffing", those fellows Were up to each move on the board: They got to his stall -- it is sinful To think what such villains will do -- And they gave him a regular skinful Of barley -- green barley -- to chew. There was some that cleared the water -- there was more fell in and drowned, Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck! )GHOST: The Pledge! (We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of Pharisee.) Facing it yet! With dragging footsteps and downcast head The hypnotiser went home to bed, And since that very successful test He has given the magic art a rest; Had he tried the ladies, and worked it right, What curious tales might have come to light! he's down!' O my friend stout-hearted, What does it matter for rain or shine, For the hopes deferred and the grain departed? Enter a Messenger. (The ghost of Thompson disappears, and Macbreath revives himselfwith a great effort. Our very last hope had departed -- We thought the old fellow was done, When all of a sudden he started To go like a shot from a gun. And then I watch with a sickly grin While the patient 'passes his counters in'. (They fight. We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave At the foot of the Eaglehawk; We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave For fear that his ghost might walk; We carved his name on a bloodwood tree With the date of his sad decease And in place of "Died from effects of spree" We wrote "May he rest in peace". . In very short order they got plenty word of him. And I know full well that the strangers' faces Would meet us now is our dearest places; For our day is dead and has left no traces But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night. In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep, With the endless line of waggons stretching back, While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep, Plodding silent on the never-ending track, While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see Makes you wonder will your turn come -- when and how? And many voices such as these Are joyful sounds for those to tell, Who know the Bush and love it well, With all its hidden mysteries. When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat, It will cure him just to think of Johnsons Snakebite Antidote. Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can; I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure, Just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure. Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon; He swept like the wind down the dip, And over the rise by the garden The jockey was done with the whip. In fact I should think he was one of their weediest: 'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, That a "stag" makes quite good enough mutton for shearers. those days they have fled for ever, They are like the swans that have swept from sight. His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. That unkempt mound Shows where they slumber united still; Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound Out on the range as in holy ground, Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill. Loafing once beside the river, while he thought his heart would break, There he saw a big goanna fighting with a tiger-snake, In and out they rolled and wriggled, bit each other, heart and soul, Till the valiant old goanna swallowed his opponent whole. Grey are the plains where the emus pass Silent and slow, with their dead demeanour; Over the dead man's graves the grass Maybe is waving a trifle greener. Gone is the garden they kept with care; Left to decay at its own sweet will, Fruit trees and flower-beds eaten bare, Cattle and sheep where the roses were, Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill. The drought came down on the field and flock, And never a raindrop fell, Though the tortured moans of the starving stock Might soften a fiend from hell. A new look at the oldest-known evidence of life, which is said to be in Western Australia, suggests the evidence might not be what its thought to have been. There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken-- We should grieve for them with a bitter pain; If the past could live and the dead could quicken, We then might turn to that life again. Little Recruit in the lead there will make it a stoutly-run race. The Pledge!MACBREATH: I say I never signed the gory pledge. So fierce his attack and so very severe, it Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, Was rammed on the -- no, not the back -- but just near it. Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide, Drifting along with a languid motion, Lapping the reed-beds on either side, Wending their way to the North Ocean. 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. Battleaxe, Battleaxe, yet -- and it's Battleaxe wins for a crown; Look at him rushing the fences, he wants to bring t'other chap down. It's a wayside inn, A low grog-shanty -- a bushman trap, Hiding away in its shame and sin Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap -- Under the shade of that frowning range The roughest crowd that ever drew breath -- Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange, Were mustered round at the "Shadow of Death". But the lumbering Dutch in their gunboats they hunted the divers away. 'Twas done without reason, for leaving the seasonNo squatter could stand such a rub;For it's useless to squat when the rents are so hotThat one can't save the price of one's grub;And there's not much to choose 'twixt the banks and the JewsOnce a fellow gets put up a tree;No odds what I feel, there's no court of appeal For a broken-down squatter like me. He falls. Make room for Rio Grande! Hes down! With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst -- "Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, The sins of the people are whiter than snow!" Then right through the ruck he was sailing -- I knew that the battle was won -- The son of Haphazard was failing, The Yattendon filly was done; He cut down The Don and The Dancer, He raced clean away from the mare -- He's in front! And straightway from the barren coast There came a westward-marching host, That aye and ever onward prest With eager faces to the West, Along the pathway of the sun. We dug where the cross and the grave posts were, We shovelled away the mould, When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare All gleaming with yellow gold. But on his ribs the whalebone stung A madness, sure, it seemed And soon it rose on every tongue That Jack Macpherson rode among The creatures he had dreamed. Then the races came to Kiley's -- with a steeplechase and all, For the folk were mostly Irish round about, And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall, They were training morning in and morning out. From 1903 to 1906 he was editor of the Evening News, in Sydney, and subsequently editor of the Town and Country Journal for a couple of years. An early poem by Banjo Paterson's grandmother (In Memoriam) does not augur well: Grief laid her hand upon a stately head / And streams of silver were around it shed . Close to the headlands they drifted, picking up shell by the ton, Piled up on deck were the oysters, opening wide in the sun, When, from the lee of the headland, boomed the report of a gun. `And I am sure as man can be That out upon the track, Those phantoms that men cannot see Are waiting now to ride with me, And I shall not come back. Our willing workmen, strong and skilled, Within our cities idle stand, And cry aloud for leave to toil. (Ghost disappears. This was the way of it, don't you know -- Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep, And never a trooper, high or low, Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep! (Voter approaches the door. But when you reach the big stone wall Put down your bridle-hand And let him sail-he cannot fall, But dont you interfere at all; You trust old Rio Grande. We started, and in front we showed, The big horse running free: Right fearlessly and game he strode, And by my side those dead men rode Whom no one else could see.
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