Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership



Best Famous Andrew Barton Paterson Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Andrew Barton Paterson poems. This is a select list of the best famous Andrew Barton Paterson poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Andrew Barton Paterson poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Andrew Barton Paterson poems.

Search for the best famous Andrew Barton Paterson poems, articles about Andrew Barton Paterson poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Andrew Barton Paterson poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also:

Famous poems below this ad
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

Not On It

 The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet -- 
The owner backed it for the Cup for all that he could get.
The books were laying fives to one, in tenners; and you bet He was on it.
The bell was rung, the nags came out their quality to try, The band played, "What Ho! Robbo!" as our hero cantered by, The people in the Leger Stand cried out, "Hi, mister, hi! Are you on it?" They watched him as the flag went down; his fate is quickly told -- The pony gave a sudden spring, and off the rider rolled.
The pony finished first all right, but then our hero bold Was not on it.


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

The Angels Kiss

 An angel stood beside the bed 
Where lay the living and the dead.
He gave the mother -- her who died -- A kiss that Christ the Crucified Had sent to greet the weary soul When, worn and faint, it reached its goal.
He gave the infant kisses twain, One on the breast, one on the brain.
"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.
" The infant moved towards the light, The angel spread his wings in flight.
But each man carries to his grave The kisses that in hopes to save The angel or his mother gave.


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

A Bunch of Roses

 Roses ruddy and roses white, 
What are the joys that my heart discloses? 
Sitting alone in the fading light 
Memories come to me here tonight 
With the wonderful scent of the big red roses.
Memories come as the daylight fades Down on the hearth where the firelight dozes; Flicker and flutter the lights and shades, And I see the face of a queen of maids Whose memory comes with the scent of roses.
Visions arise of a scent of mirth, And a ball-room belle who superbly poses -- A queenly woman of queenly worth, And I am the happiest man on earth With a single flower from a bunch of roses.
Only her memory lives tonight -- God in his wisdom her young life closes; Over her grave may the turf be light, Cover her coffin with roses white She was always fond of the big white roses.
* Such are the visions that fade away -- Man proposes and God disposes; Look in the glass and I see today Only an old man, worn and grey, Bending his head to a bunch of roses.


More great poems below...

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

The Ballad of M. T. Nutt and His Dog

 The Honourable M.
T.
Nutt About the bush did jog.
Till, passing by a settler's hut, He stopped and bought a dog.
Then started homewards full of hope, Alas, that hopes should fail! The dog pulled back and took the rope Beneath the horse's tail.
The Horse remarked, "I would be soft Such liberties to stand!" "Oh dog," he said, "Go up aloft, Young man, go on the land!"


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

A Bush Christening

 On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
 And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
 One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this 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 the darlin' should die Saint Peter would not recognise him.
" But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, Who agreed straightaway to baptise 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 divil 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 the 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 stop 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 divil!" 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 prog; 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 this end I'll name him.
"Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name— Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?" Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout— "Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!" As the howling young 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 labelled "Maginnis's Whisky"! 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!


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

Any Other Time

 ALL of us play our very best game— 
Any other time.
Golf or billiards, it’s all the same— Any other time.
Lose a match and you always say, “Just my luck! I was ‘off’ to-day! I could have beaten him quite half-way— Any other time!” After a fiver you ought to go— Any other time.
Every man that you ask says “Oh, Any other time.
Lend you a fiver! I’d lend you two, But I’m overdrawn and my bills are due, Wish you’d ask me—now, mind you do— Any other time!” Fellows will ask you out to dine— Any other time.
“Not to-night, for we’re twenty-nine — Any other time.
Not to-morrow, for cook’s on strike, Not next day, I’ll be out on the bike — Just drop in whenever you like — Any other time!” Seasick passengers like the sea— Any other time.
“Something .
.
I ate .
.
disagreed .
.
with me! Any other time Ocean-trav’lling is .
.
simply bliss, Must be my .
.
liver .
.
has gone amiss .
.
Why, I would .
.
laugh .
.
at a sea .
.
like this— Any other time.
” Most of us mean to be better men— Any other time: Regular upright characters then— Any other time.
Yet somehow as the years go by Still we gamble and drink and lie, When it comes to the last we’ll want to die— Any other time!


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

Moving On

 In this war we're always moving, 
Moving on; 
When we make a friend another friend has gone; 
Should a woman's kindly face 
Make us welcome for a space, 
Then it's boot and saddle, boys, we're 
Moving on.
In the hospitals they're moving, Moving on; They're here today, tomorrow they are gone; When the bravest and the best Of the boys you know "go west", Then you're choking down your tears and Moving on.


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

The Flying Gang

 And I worked my way to the end, and I 
Was the head of the "Flying Gang".
'Twas a chosen band that was kept at hand In case of an urgent need; Was it south or north, we were started forth And away at our utmost speed.
If word reached town that a bridge was down, The imperious summons rang -- "Come out with the pilot engine sharp, And away with the flying gang.
" Then a piercing scream and a rush of steam As the engine moved ahead; With measured beat by the slum and street Of the busy town we fled, By the uplands bright and the homesteads white, With the rush of the western gale -- And the pilot swayed with the pace we made As she rocked on the ringing rail.
And the country children clapped their hands As the engine's echoes rang, But their elders said: "There is work ahead When they send for the flying gang.
" Then across the miles of the saltbush plain That gleamed with the morning dew, Where the grasses waved like the ripening grain The pilot engine flew -- A fiery rush in the open bush Where the grade marks seemed to fly, And the order sped on the wires ahead, The pilot must go by.
The Governor's special must stand aside, And the fast express go hang; Let your orders be that the line is free For the boys in the flying gang.


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

Mulga Bills Bicycle

 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze; 
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days; 
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen; 
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine; 
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride, 
The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?" 
"See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea, 
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows, Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight; Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel, There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel, But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight: I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.
" 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode, That perched above the Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray, But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak, It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek.
It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box: The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks, The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground, As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree, It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be; And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek.
'Twas Mulga Bill from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore: He said, "I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before; I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet, But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; It's shaken all my nerve To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still; A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.
"


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

The Wreck of the Golfer

 It was the Bondi golfing man 
Drove off from the golf house tee, 
And he had taken his little daughter 
To bear him company.
"Oh, Father, why do you swing the club And flourish it such a lot?" "You watch it fly o'er the fences high!" And he tried with a brassey shot.
"Oh, Father, why did you hit the fence Just there where the brambles twine?" And the father he answered never a word, But he got on the green in nine.
"Oh, Father, hark from behind those trees, What dismal yells arrive!" "'Tis a man I ween on the second green, And I've landed him with my drive.
" "Oh, Father, why does the poor Chinee Fall down on his knees and cry?" "He taketh me for his Excellency, And he thinks once hit twice shy.
" So on they fared to the waterhole, And he drove with a lot of dash, But his balls full soon in the dread lagoon Fell down with a woeful splash.
"Oh, Father, why do you beat the sand Till it flies like the carded wool?" And the father he answered never a word, For his heart was much too full.
"Oh, Father, why are they shouting 'fore' And screaming so lustily?" But the father he answered never a word, A pallid corpse was he.
For a well-swung drive on the back of his head Had landed and laid him low.
Lord save us all from a fate like this When next to the links we go.


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

A Triolet

 Of all the sickly forms of verse, 
Commend me to the triolet.
It makes bad writers somewhat worse: Of all the sickly forms of verse, That fall beneath a reader's curse, It is the feeblest jingle yet.
Of all the sickly forms of verse, Commend me to the triolet.


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

Camouflage

 Beside the bare and beaten track of travelling flocks and herds 
The woodpecker went tapping on, the postman of the birds, 
"I've got a letter here," he said, "that no one's understood, 
Addressed as follows: 'To the bird that's like a piece of wood.
' "The soldier bird got very cross -- it wasn't meant for her; The spurwing plover had a try to stab me with a spur: The jackass laughed, and said the thing was written for a lark.
I think I'll chuck this postman job and take to stripping bark.
" Then all the birds for miles around came in to lend a hand; They perched upon a broken limb as thick as they could stand, And just as old man eaglehawk prepared to have his say A portion of the broken limb got up and flew away.
Then, casting grammar to the winds, the postman said, "That's him! The boobook owl -- he squats himself along a broken limb, And pokes his beak up like a stick; there's not a bird, I vow, Can tell you which is boobook owl and which is broken bough.
"And that's the thing he calls his nest -- that jerry-built affair -- A bunch of sticks across a fork; I'll leave his letter there.
A cuckoo wouldn't use his nest, but what's the odds to him -- A bird that tries to imitate a piece of leaning limb!"


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

Camouflage

 Beside the bare and beaten track of travelling flocks and herds 
The woodpecker went tapping on, the postman of the birds, 
"I've got a letter here," he said, "that no one's understood, 
Addressed as follows: 'To the bird that's like a piece of wood.
' "The soldier bird got very cross -- it wasn't meant for her; The spurwing plover had a try to stab me with a spur: The jackass laughed, and said the thing was written for a lark.
I think I'll chuck this postman job and take to stripping bark.
" Then all the birds for miles around came in to lend a hand; They perched upon a broken limb as thick as they could stand, And just as old man eaglehawk prepared to have his say A portion of the broken limb got up and flew away.
Then, casting grammar to the winds, the postman said, "That's him! The boobook owl -- he squats himself along a broken limb, And pokes his beak up like a stick; there's not a bird, I vow, Can tell you which is boobook owl and which is broken bough.
"And that's the thing he calls his nest -- that jerry-built affair -- A bunch of sticks across a fork; I'll leave his letter there.
A cuckoo wouldn't use his nest, but what's the odds to him -- A bird that tries to imitate a piece of leaning limb!"


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

Waltzing Matilda

 Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong,
 Under the shade of a Coolabah tree;
And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling,
 "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
" Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling, Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag— Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? Down came a jumbuck to drink at the water-hole, Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee; And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag, "You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!" Down came the Squatter a-riding his thorough-bred; Down came Policemen—one, two, and three.
"Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag? You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
" But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the water-hole, Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree; And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the Billabong, "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

A Dogs Mistake

 He had drifted in among us as a straw drifts with the tide, 
He was just a wand'ring mongrel from the weary world outside; 
He was not aristocratic, being mostly ribs and hair, 
With a hint of spaniel parents and a touch of native bear.
He was very poor and humble and content with what he got, So we fed him bones and biscuits, till he heartened up a lot; Then he growled and grew aggressive, treating orders with disdain, Till at last he bit the butcher, which would argue want of brain.
Now the butcher, noble fellow, was a sport beyond belief, And instead of bringing actions he brought half a shin of beef, Which he handed on to Fido, who received it as a right And removed it to the garden, where he buried it at night.
'Twas the means of his undoing, for my wife, who'd stood his friend, To adopt a slang expression, "went in off the deepest end", For among the pinks and pansies, the gloxinias and the gorse He had made an excavation like a graveyard for a horse.
Then we held a consultation which decided on his fate: 'Twas in anger more than sorrow that we led him to the gate, And we handed him the beef-bone as provision for the day, Then we opened wide the portal and we told him, "On your way.
"