Saltbush Bill J.P., and Other Verses | Page 3

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Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses?By A. B. Paterson?[Andrew Barton ("Banjo") Paterson, Australian poet & journalist. 1864-1941.]
[Note on text: Italicized lines and stanzas are marked by tildes (~). Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALISED. Lines longer than 78 characters are broken and the continuation is indented two spaces. Some obvious errors have been corrected (see Notes).]
Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses
By A. B. Paterson
Author of "The Man from Snowy River, and Other Verses",?"Rio Grande, and Other Verses", and "An Outback Marriage".
Note
Major A. B. Paterson has been on active service in Egypt?for the past eighteen months. The publishers feel it incumbent on them to say that only a few of the pieces in this volume have been seen by him in proof; and that he is not responsible for the selection, the arrangement or the title of "Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses".
Table of Contents
Song of the Pen?Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft,
Song of the Wheat?We have sung the song of the droving days,
Brumby's Run?It lies beyond the Western Pines
Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs?Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee;
The Reverend Mullineux?I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight,
The Wisdom of Hafiz?My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo,
Saltbush Bill, J.P.?Beyond the land where Leichhardt went,
The Riders in the Stand?There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride;
Waltzing Matilda?Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong,
An Answer to Various Bards?Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in,
T.Y.S.O.N.?Across the Queensland border line
As Long as your Eyes are Blue?Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey
Bottle-O!?I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job;
The Story of Mongrel Grey?This is the story the stockman told,
Gilhooley's Estate?Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes,
The Road to Hogan's Gap?Now look, you see, it's this way like,
A Singer of the Bush?There is waving of grass in the breeze
"Shouting" for a Camel?It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator,
The Lost Drink?I had spent the night in the watch-house --
Mulligan's Mare?Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place
The Matrimonial Stakes?I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall,
The Mountain Squatter?Here in my mountain home,
Pioneers?They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide;
Santa Claus in the Bush?It chanced out back at the Christmas time,
"In Re a Gentleman, One"?We see it each day in the paper,
The Melting of the Snow?There's a sunny Southern land,
A Dream of the Melbourne Cup?Bring me a quart of colonial beer
The Gundaroo Bullock?Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone,
Lay of the Motor-Car?We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd
The Corner Man?I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep,
When Dacey Rode the Mule?'Twas to a small, up-country town,
The Mylora Elopement?By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep,
The Pannikin Poet?There's nothing here sublime,
Not on It?The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet --
The Protest?I say 'e ISN'T Remorse!
The Scapegoat?We have all of us read how the Israelites fled
An Evening in Dandaloo?It was while we held our races --
A Ballad of Ducks?The railway rattled and roared and swung
Tommy Corrigan?You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace,
The Maori's Wool?Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how
The Angel's Kiss?An angel stood beside the bed
Sunrise on the Coast?Grey dawn on the sand-hills -- the night wind has drifted
The Reveille?Trumpets of the Lancer Corps,
Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses
~Song of the Pen
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
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