Lost,

Another of Banjo’s ever popular poems, the man was a
wordsmith.

Lost

"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss.
He only went to the Two-mile -- he ought to be back by this.
He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his willful way;
And, here, he's not back at sundown -- and what will his mother say?”

"He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;
And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.
But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away
He hasn't got strength to hold her -- and what will his mother say?"

The old man walked to the slip rail, and peered up the dark'ning track,
And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;
And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:
"What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?"

Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,
The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;
For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,
And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.

And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,
Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;
And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey
Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.

And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,
"Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply;
And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,
God pity the stricken mother, and answers the widow's prayer!

Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;
For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by,
And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.

But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.

"I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said.
But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead.
And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
Was an angel smile of gladness -- she had found the boy at last.

Written by A B (Banjo) Paterson

Published in The Sydney Mail, 19 March 1887

Conroy's Gap.

This is a fairly lengthy poem, but it so well covers the language and
sentiments of “turn of the last century Australia” that it needed to
be included here.

Conroy’s Gap

written by AB (Banjo) Paterson

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!
Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford --
A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell --
Chanced to find him drunk as a lord
Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel.

D'you know the place? 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".

The trooper knew that his man would slide
Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance;
And with half a start on the mountain side
Ryan would lead him a merry dance.
Drunk as he was when the trooper came,
to him that did not matter a rap --
Drunk or sober, he was the same,
The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap.

"I want you, Ryan," the trooper said,
"And listen to me, if you dare resist,
So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!"
He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist,
And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click,
Recovered his wits as they turned to go,
For fright will sober a man as quick
As all the drugs that the doctors know.

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.
She loved this Ryan, or so they say,
And passing by, while her eyes were dim
With tears, she said in a careless way,
"The Swagman's round in the stable, Jim."

Spoken too low for the trooper's ear,
Why should she care if he heard or not?
Plenty of swagmen far and near --
And yet to Ryan it meant a lot.
That was the name of the grandest horse
In all the district from east to west;
In every show ring, on every course,
They always counted The Swagman best.

He was a wonder, a raking bay --
One of the grand old Snowdon strain --
One of the sort that could race and stay
With his mighty limbs and his length of rein.
Born and bred on the mountain side,
He could race through scrub like a kangaroo;
The girl herself on his back might ride,
And The Swagman would carry her safely through.

He would travel gaily from daylight's flush
Till after the stars hung out their lamps;
There was never his like in the open bush,
And never his match on the cattle-camps.
For faster horses might well be found
On racing tracks, or a plain's extent,
But few, if any, on broken ground
Could see the way that The Swagman went.

When this girl's father, old Jim Carew,
Was droving out on the Castlereagh
With Conroy's cattle, a wire came through
To say that his wife couldn't live the day.
And he was a hundred miles from home,
As flies the crow, with never a track
Through plains as pathless as ocean's foam;
He mounted straight on The Swagman's back.

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.
He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo,
And many a mile of the silent plain
That lonely rider behind him threw
Before they settled to sleep again.

He rode all night, and he steered his course
By the shining stars with a bushman's skill,
And every time that he pressed his horse
The Swagman answered him gamely still.
He neared his home as the east was bright.
The doctor met him outside the town
"Carew! How far did you come last night?"
"A hundred miles since the sun went down."

And his wife got round, and an oath he passed,
So long as he or one of his breed
Could raise a coin, though it took their last,
The Swagman never should want a feed.
And Kate Carew, when her father died,
She kept the horse and she kept him well;
The pride of the district far and wide,
He lived in style at the bush hotel.

Such was The 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.
But how to do it? 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."

He caught her meaning, and quickly turned
To the trooper: "Reckon you'll gain a stripe
By arresting me, and it's easily earned;
Let's go to the stable and get my pipe,
The Swagman has it." So off they went,
And as soon as ever they turned their backs
The girl slipped down, on some errand bent
Behind the stable and seized an axe.

The trooper stood at the stable door
While Ryan went in quite cool and slow,
And then (the trick had been played before)
The girl outside gave the wall a blow.
Three slabs fell out of the stable wall --
'Twas done 'fore ever the trooper knew --
And Ryan, as soon as he saw them fall,
Mounted The Swagman and rushed him through.

The trooper heard the hoof-beats ring
In the stable yard, and he jammed the gate,
But The Swagman rose with a mighty spring
At the fence, and the trooper fired too late
As they raced away, and his shots flew wide,
And Ryan no longer need care a rap,
For never a horse that was lapped in hide
Could catch The Swagman in Conroy's Gap.

And that's the story. You want to know
If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew;
Of course he should have, as stories go,
But the worst of it is this story's true:
And in real life it's a certain rule,
Whatever poets and authors say
Of high-toned robbers and all their school,
These horse thief fellows aren't built that way.

Come back! 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.
And took to drink, and by some good chance
Was killed -- thrown out of a stolen trap.
And that was the end of this small romance,
The end of the story of Conroy's Gap.

First published in;

The Bulletin, 20 December 1890

Waltzing Matilda.

Unofficial National Anthem

Lyrics by AB (Banjo) Paterson

Waltzing Matilda

Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong,
Under the shade of a Coolibah tree,
And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled,
You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me.

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda,
You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me,
And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled,
You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me.

Down came a jumbuck to drink at that billabong,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee,
And he sang as he shoved that jumbuck in his tucker bag,
You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me.

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda,
You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me,
And he sang as he shoved that jumbuck in his tucker bag,
You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me.

Up rode the squatter mounted on his thorough-bred,
Down came the troopers One Two Three,
Where’s that jolly jumbuck you've got in your tucker bag,
You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me.

Waltzing Matilda Waltzing Matilda,
You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me,
Where’s that jolly jumbuck you've got in your tucker-bag,
You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me.

Up jumped the swagman sprang in to the billabong,
You'll never catch me alive said he,
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,
You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me.

Waltzing Matilda Waltzing Matilda,
You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me,
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,
You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me.

Explanation of Aussie Words;

Swagman (Swaggie) ; Hobo, Tramp.

Billabong; A waterhole, usually part of a river system as the

river is drying up, and the river becomes a series of billabongs

(waterholes) instead of the river bed.

Waltzing Matilda; Carrying your swag (Bedroll) as a Hobo.

Jumbuck; Sheep

Squatter; Rancher, Farmer.

Trooper; Policeman

The Geebung Polo Club

A very amusing poem by A.B. ("Banjo") Paterson (1864 - 1941)

told as only Banjo could weave a story.

The Geebung Polo Club.

It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub,

That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.

They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side,

And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride;

But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash -

They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:

And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,

Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails
were long,

And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub;

They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.

It was somewhere down the country, in the city's smoke and steam,

That a polo club existed, called "The Cuff and Collar Team".

As a social institution 'twas a marvelous success,

For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.

They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth and sleek,

For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.

So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame.

For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;

And they took their valets with them - just to give their boots a rub

Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.

Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,

When the Geebung boys going it was time to clear the road;

And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone

A spectator's leg was broken - just from merely looking on.

For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead.

While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.

And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die

Was the last surviving player - so the game was called a tie.

Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,

Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;

There was no one to oppose him - all the rest were in a trance.

So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance.

For he meant to make an effort to get the victory to his side;

So he struck at goal - and missed it - then he tumbled off and died

By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,

There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,

For they bear a rude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear,

For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here."

And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,

You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;

You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,

And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet,

Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub -

He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club..

Clancy of the Overflow

Another very popular A.B. (Banjo) Paterson poem

Clancy of the Overflow

I had written him a letter which I had for want of better

Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan years ago;

He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him

Just ‘on spec’, addressed as follows; “Clancy of the Overflow.”

And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,

(And I think the same was written with a thumbnail dipped in tar);

“Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it;

“Clancy’s gone to Queensland droving, and we don’t know where he are.

In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy

Gone a-droving down the Cooper, where the western drovers go;

As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,

For the drovers life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him

In the murmur of the breezes and the river on it’s bars,

And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,

And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.

I am sitting in my office, where a stingy

Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,

And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city

Through the open window floating, spreads it’s foulness over all.

And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle

Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,

And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,

Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me

As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,

With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms are weedy.

For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste

And I somehow rather fancy, that I’d like to swap with Clancy,

Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,

While he faced the round eternal of the cashbook and the journal…

But I doubt he’d suit the office, Clancy of the Overflow.

A.B. (Banjo) Paterson

A Bush Christening.

Poetry that stirs my soul 8

A Bush Christening

On the outer Barcoo where churches are few,

And men of religion are scanty,

On a road never crossed ’cept by folk that are lost,

One Michael Magee had a shanty.

Now Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,

Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;

He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest

For the youngster had never been christened.

And his wife used to cry, ”If our darlin’ should die

Saint Peter would not recognize him,”

But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,

Who agreed straightaway to baptize him.

Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,

With his ear to the keyhole was listenin’,

And he muttered in fright while his features turned white,

What the devil and all is this christenin’?”

He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,

And it seemed to his small understanding,

If that man in the frock made him one of the flock,

It must mean something very like branding.

So away with a rush he set off for the bush,

While the tears in his eyelids they glistened –

“’Tis outrageous,” says he, “to brand youngsters like me,

I’ll be dashed if I’ll wait to be christened.”

Like a young native dog he ran into a log,

And his father with language uncivil,

Never heeding the “praste” cried aloud in his haste,

“Come out and be christened you devil!”

But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,

And his parents in vain might reprove him,

Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)

“I’ve a notion” says he, “that’ll move him.”

“Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prod;

Poke him aisy – don’t hurt him or maim him,

‘Tis not long that he’ll stand, I’ve the water at hand,

As he rushes out of this end here I’ll name him.”

Here he comes, and for shame! I’ve forgotten the name,

Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?”

Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout,

“Take a chance anyhow wid Maginnis.

As the howling youg cub ran away to the scrub

Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,

The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head

That was labeled “Maginnis’s Whiskey.”

And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.

And the one thing he hates more than sin is

To be asked by the folk who have heard of the joke,

How he came to be christened “Maginnis” !

By A B “banjo” Patterson.

The Man From Snowy River.

Poetry that stirs my soul 2

The Man From Snowy River

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around

That the colt from old Regret had got away,

And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound,

So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.

All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far

Had mustered at the homestead overnight,

For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,

And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,

The old man with his hair as white as snow;

But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up -

He would go wherever horse and man could go.

And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,

No better horseman ever held the reins;

For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand,

He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,

He was something like a racehorse undersized,

With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least -

And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.

He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won’t say die -

There was courage in his quick impatient tread;

And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,

And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,

And the old man said, “That horse will never do

For a long and tiring gallop - lad, you’d better stop away,

Those hills are far too rough for such as you.”

So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend -

“I think we ought to let him come,” he said;

“I’ll warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,

For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,

Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,

Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,

The man that holds his own is good enough.

And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,

Where the river runs those giant hills between;

I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam

But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.”

So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa clump -

They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,

And the old man gave his orders, “Boys, go at them from the jump,

No use to try for fancy riding now.

And, Clancy you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.

Ride boldly lad, and never fear the spills,

For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,

If once they gain the shelter of those hills.”

So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing

Where the best and boldest riders take their place,

And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring

With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.

Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,

But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,

And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,

And of into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black

Resounded to the thunder of their tread,

And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back

From the cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.

And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,

Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;

And the old man muttered fiercely, “We may bid the mob good day,

No man can hold them down the other side.”

When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,

It well might make the boldest hold their breath,

The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full

Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.

But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,

And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,

And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,

While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,

He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,

And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -

It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.

Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,

Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;

And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,

At the bottom of that terrible decent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,

And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,

Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,

As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.

Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met

In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals

On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,

With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single handed till their sides were white with foam.

He followed like a bloodhound on their track,

Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,

And alone and unassisted brought them back.

But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,

He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;

But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,

For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine clad ridges raise

Their torn and rugged battlements on high,

Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze

At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,

And where around the Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway

To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,

The man from Snowy River is a household word today,

And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

By A B “Banjo”Patterson.