A. B. Paterson
Saltbush Bill, J. P
Published by Good Press, 2022
EAN 4057664601988
Table of Contents
Song of the Pen
Song of the Wheat
Brumby's Run
Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs
The Reverend Mullineux
The Wisdom of Hafiz
Saltbush Bill, J.P.
The Riders in the Stand
Waltzing Matilda
An Answer to Various Bards
T.Y.S.O.N.
As Long as your Eyes are Blue
Bottle-O!
The Story of Mongrel Grey
Gilhooley's Estate
The Road to Hogan's Gap
A Singer of the Bush
“Shouting” for a Camel
The Lost Drink
Mulligan's Mare
The Matrimonial Stakes
The Mountain Squatter
Pioneers
Santa Claus in the Bush
“In Re a Gentleman, One”
The Melting of the Snow
A Dream of the Melbourne Cup
The Gundaroo Bullock
Lay of the Motor-Car
The Corner Man
When Dacey Rode the Mule
The Mylora Elopement
The Pannikin Poet
Not on It
The Protest
The Scapegoat
An Evening in Dandaloo
A Ballad of Ducks
Tommy Corrigan
The Maori's Wool
The Angel's Kiss
Sunrise on the Coast
The Reveille
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About the author
An incomplete Glossary of Australasian and obscure terms
Song of the Pen
Table of Contents
Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, Not for the people's praise; 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; Still, we are proud to serve. 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!
Song of the Wheat
Table of Contents
We have sung the song of the droving days, Of the march of the travelling sheep; By silent stages and lonely ways Thin, white battalions creep. But the man who now by the land would thrive Must his spurs to a plough-share beat. Is there ever a man in the world alive To sing the song of the Wheat! It's west by south of the Great Divide The grim grey plains run out, Where the old flock-masters lived and died In a ceaseless fight with drought. Weary with waiting and hope deferred They were ready to own defeat, Till at last they heard the master-word— And the master-word was Wheat. Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine— 'Twas axe and fire for all; They scarce could tarry to blaze the line Or wait for the trees to fall, Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide, And the dust of the horses' feet Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide The wonderful march of Wheat. Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold, The soil is turned on the plain; Better than silver and better than gold Is the surface-mine of the grain; Better than cattle and better than sheep In the fight with drought and heat; For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep, Lies hid in a grain of Wheat. When the stock is swept by the hand of fate, Deep down in his bed of clay The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait For the resurrection day: Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead; 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. 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; And his thousand steamships breast the tide And plough thro' the wind and sleet To the lands where the teeming millions bide That say: “Thank God for Wheat!”
Brumby's Run
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Brumby is the Aboriginal word for a wild horse. At a recent trial a N.S.W. Supreme Court Judge, hearing of Brumby horses, asked: “Who is Brumby, and where is his Run?”
It lies beyond the Western Pines Towards the sinking sun, And not a survey mark defines The bounds of “Brumby's Run”. On odds and ends of mountain land, On tracks of range and rock Where no one else can make a stand, Old Brumby rears his stock. A wild, unhandled lot they are Of every shape and breed. 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. So, off to scour the mountain-side With eager eyes aglow, To strongholds where the wild mobs hide The gully-rakers go. A rush of horses through the trees, A red shirt making play; A sound of stockwhips on the breeze, They vanish far away! . . . . . Ah, me! before our day is done We long with bitter pain To ride once more on Brumby's Run And yard his mob again.
Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs
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