When courts are sitting and work is flush I hurry about in a frantic rush. Banjo Paterson, original name Andrew Barton Paterson, (born February 17, 1864, Narrambla, New South Wales, Australiadied February 5, 1941, Sydney), Australian poet and journalist noted for his composition of the internationally famous song " Waltzing Matilda ." For Bob was known on the Overland, A regular old bush wag, Tramping along in the dust and sand, Humping his well-worn swag. Weight! Santa Claus In The Bush 156. SCENE ISCENE: The saddling paddock at a racecourse.Citizens, Battlers, Toffs, Trainers, Flappers, Satyrs, Bookmakers and Turf Experts.Enter Shortinbras, a Trainer, and two Punters.FIRST PUNTER: Good Shortinbras, what thinkest thou of the Fav'rite?SHORTINBRAS (aside): This poltroon would not venture a ducaton David to beat a dead donkey; a dull and muddy-mettled rascal. "At a pound a hundred it's dashed hard lines To shear such sheep," said the two Devines. As soon said as done, they started to run -- The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. Don't tell me he can ride. 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. tis the famous antidote. 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! Thus ended a wasted life and hard, Of energies misapplied -- Old Bob was out of the "swagman's yard" And over the Great Divide. )There's blood upon thy face.VOTER: 'Tis Thompsons's, then.MACBREATH: Is he thrown out? Catch him now if you can, sir! 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. Lord! )Leaguers all,Mine own especial comrades of Reform,All amateurs and no professionals,So many worthy candidates I see,Alas that there are only ninety seats.Still, let us take them all, and Joe Carruthers,Ashton, and Jimmy Hogue, and all the rest,Will have to look for work! " T.Y.S.O.N. Some have even made it into outer space. And Pardon was better, we reckoned, His sickness was passing away, So we went to the post for the second And principal heat of the day. )GHOST: The Pledge! The Reverend Mullineux 155. What of the parents? His ballads of the bush had enormous popularity. There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died, And they wondered who on earth he could have been. You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo -- Whence comes the expression "to buck against faro". With sanctimonious and reverent look I read it out of the sacred book That he who would open the golden door Must give his all to the starving poor. Ah, yes! "Dress no have got and no helmet -- diver go shore on the spree; Plenty wind come and break rudder -- lugger get blown out to sea: Take me to Japanee Consul, he help a poor Japanee!" A Bushman's Song I'm travelling down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station-hand, I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand, "And I never shall find the rails." Some have even made it into outer space. . (Banjo) Paterson. . We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, If he takes home our sins, it'll burst up the Synagogue!" He was never bought nor paid for, and there's not a man can swear To his owner or his breeder, but I know, That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare And his dam was close related to The Roe. "Run, Abraham, run! Kanzo Makame, the diver -- knowing full well what it meant -- Fatalist, gambler, and stoic, smiled a broad smile of content, Flattened in mainsail and foresail, and off to the Islands they went. One shriek from him burst -- "You creature accurst!" We ran him at many a meeting At crossing and gully and town, And nothing could give him a beating -- At least when our money was down. An angel stood beside the bed Where lay the living and the dead. Come back! But we have heard the bell-birds ring Their silver bells at eventide, Like fairies on the mountain side, The sweetest note man ever heard. 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. These are the risks of the pearling -- these are the ways of Japan; "Plenty more Japanee diver plenty more little brown man!". Go back it, back it! A Tragedy as Played at Ryde**Macbreath Mr HenleyMacpuff Mr TerryThe GhostACT ITIME: The day before the electionSCENE: A Drummoyne tram running past a lunatic asylum.All present are Reform Leaguers and supporters of Macbreath.They seat themselves in the compartment.MACBREATH: Here, I'll sit in the midst.Be large in mirth. Fell at that wall once, he did, and it gave him a regular spread, Ever since that time he flies it -- he'll stop if you pull at his head, Just let him race -- you can trust him -- he'll take first-class care he don't fall, And I think that's the lot -- but remember, he must have his head at the wall. Spoken too low for the trooper's ear, Why should she care if he heard or not? We still had a chance for the money, Two heats remained to be run: If both fell to us -- why, my sonny, The clever division were done. A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a "butter". And away in another court I lurk While a junior barrister does your work; And I ask my fee with a courtly grace, Although I never came near the case. Home Topics History & Culture Top 10 iconic Banjo Paterson bush ballads. He spoke in a cultured voice and low -- "I fancy they've 'sent the route'; I once was an army man, you know, Though now I'm a drunken brute; But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave, And, if ever you're fairly stuck, Just take and shovel me out of the grave And, maybe, I'll bring you luck. Who in the world would have thought it? Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny, The horses in those days were stout, They had to run well to win money; I don't see such horses about. Over the pearl-grounds the lugger drifted -- a little white speck: Joe Nagasaki, the "tender", holding the life-line on deck, Talked through the rope to the diver, knew when to drift or to check. . He said, `This day I bid good-bye To bit and bridle rein, To ditches deep and fences high, For I have dreamed a dream, and I Shall never ride again. Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can;All our mates in the paddock are dead.Let us wave our farewells to Glen Eva's sweet dellsAnd the hills where your lordship was bred;Together to roam from our drought-stricken homeIt seems hard that such things have to be,And its hard on a "hogs" when he's nought for a bossBut a broken-down squatter like me!For the banks are all broken, they say,And the merchants are all up a tree.When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court,What chance for a squatter like me.No more shall we muster the river for fats,Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain,Or rip through the scrub by the light of the moon,Or see the old stockyard again.Leave the slip-panels down, it won't matter much now,There are none but the crows left to see,Perching gaunt in yon pine, as though longing to dineOn a broken-down squatter like me.When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst,And the cattle were dying in scores,Though down on my luck, I kept up my pluck,Thinking justice might temper the laws.But the farce has been played, and the Government aidAin't extended to squatters, old son;When my dollars were spent they doubled the rent,And resumed the best half of the run. Our money all gone and our credit, Our horse couldn't gallop a yard; And then people thought that we did it It really was terribly hard. Lonely and sadly one night in NovemberI laid down my weary head in search of reposeOn my wallet of straw, which I long shall remember,Tired and weary I fell into a doze.Tired from working hardDown in the labour yard,Night brought relief to my sad, aching brain.Locked in my prison cell,Surely an earthly hell,I fell asleep and began for to dream.I dreamt that I stood on the green fields of Erin,In joyous meditation that victory was won.Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing. For tales were told of inland seas Like sullen oceans, salt and dead, And sandy deserts, white and wan, Where never trod the foot of man, Nor bird went winging overhead, Nor ever stirred a gracious breeze To wake the silence with its breath -- A land of loneliness and death. Get a pair of dogs and try it, let the snake give both a nip; Give your dog the snakebite mixture, let the other fellow rip; If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good. (We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of Pharisee.) And then I watch with a sickly grin While the patient 'passes his counters in'. 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. "I dreamt that the night was quickly advancing,I saw the dead and dying on the green crimson plain.Comrades I once knew well in death's sleep reposing,Friends that I once loved but shall ne'er see again.The green flag was waving high,Under the bright blue sky,And each man was singing most gloriously. It will bring me fame and fortune! Thy story quickly!MESSENGER: Gracious, my Lord,I should report that which I know I saw,But know not how to do it.MACBREATH: Well! 'Banjo' Paterson 1987: Gumnut design on jacket by Paul Jones and Ashcraft Fabrics. They started, and the big black steed Came flashing past the stand; All single-handed in the lead He strode along at racing speed, The mighty Rio Grande. ''Three to One, Bar One!' And more than 100 years after the words were penned we find they still ring out across the nation. Out on those deserts lone and drear The fierce Australian black Will say -- "You show it pint o' beer, It show you Leichhardt track!" These volumes met with great success. This sentimental work about a drover selling his faithful horse and reminiscing about their days on the land still speaks to people as mechanised transport and the cost of maintaining stock routes sees the very last of the drovers disappearing. Those British pioneers Had best at home abide, For things have changed in fifty years Since Ludwig Leichhardt died. '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.