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Best Famous Bullocks Poems

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

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Written by Paul Muldoon | Create an image from this poem

Why Brownlee Left

 Why Brownlee left, and where he went,
Is a mystery even now.
For if a man should have been content
It was him; two acres of barley,
One of potatoes, four bullocks,
A milker, a slated farmhouse.
He was last seen going out to plough
On a March morning, bright and early.

By noon Brownlee was famous;
They had found all abandoned, with
The last rig unbroken, his pair of black
Horses, like man and wife,
Shifting their weight from foot to
Foot, and gazing into the future.


Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

Old Deuteronomy

 Old Deuteronomy's lived a long time;
He's a Cat who has lived many lives in succession.
He was famous in proverb and famous in rhyme
A long while before Queen Victoria's accession.
Old Deuteronomy's buried nine wives
And more--I am tempted to say, ninety-nine;
And his numerous progeny prospers and thrives
And the village is proud of him in his decline.
At the sight of that placid and bland physiognomy,
When he sits in the sun on the vicarage wall,
The Oldest Inhabitant croaks: "Well, of all . . .
Things. . . Can it be . . . really! . . . No!. . . Yes!. . .
Ho! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My mind may be wandering, but I confess
I believe it is Old Deuteronomy!"

Old Deuteronomy sits in the street,
He sits in the High Street on market day;
The bullocks may bellow, the sheep they may bleat,
But the dogs and the herdsmen will turn them away.
The cars and the lorries run over the kerb,
And the villagers put up a notice: ROAD CLOSED--
So that nothing untoward may chance to distrub
Deuteronomy's rest when he feels so disposed
Or when he's engaged in domestic economy:
And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: "Well, of all . . .
Things. . . Can it be . . . really! . . . No!. . . Yes!. . .
Ho! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My sight's unreliable, but I can guess
That the cause of the trouble is Old Deuteronomy!"

Old Deuteronomy lies on the floor
Of the Fox and French Horn for his afternoon sleep;
And when the men say: "There's just time for one more,"
Then the landlady from her back parlour will peep
And say: "New then, out you go, by the back door,
For Old Deuteronomy mustn't be woken--

I'll have the police if there's any uproar"--
And out they all shuffle, without a word spoken.
The digestive repose of that feline's gastronomy
Must never be broken, whatever befall:
And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: "Well, of all . . .
Things. . . Can it be . . . really! . . . No!. . . Yes!. . .
Ho! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My legs may be tottery, I must go slow
And be careful of Old Deuteronomy!"

Of the awefull battle of the Pekes and the Pollicles:
together with some account of the participation of the 
 Pugs and the Poms, and the intervention of the Great 
 Rumpuscat

The Pekes and the Pollicles, everyone knows,
Are proud and implacable passionate foes;
It is always the same, wherever one goes.
And the Pugs and the Poms, although most people say
That they do not like fighting, yet once in a way,
They will now and again join in to the fray
And they
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now on the occasion of which I shall speak
Almost nothing had happened for nearly a week
(And that's a long time for a Pol or a Peke).
The big Police Dog was away from his beat--
I don't know the reason, but most people think
He'd slipped into the Wellington Arms for a drink--
And no one at all was about on the street
When a Peke and a Pollicle happened to meet.
They did not advance, or exactly retreat,
But they glared at each other, and scraped their hind 
 feet,
And they started to
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now the Peke, although people may say what they please,
Is no British Dog, but a Heathen Chinese.
And so all the Pekes, when they heard the uproar,
Some came to the window, some came to the door;
There were surely a dozen, more likely a score.
And together they started to grumble and wheeze
In their huffery-snuffery Heathen Chinese.
But a terrible din is what Pollicles like,
For your Pollicle Dog is a dour Yorkshire tyke,
And his braw Scottish cousins are snappers and biters,
And every dog-jack of them notable fighters;
And so they stepped out, with their pipers in order,
Playing When the Blue Bonnets Came Over the Border.
Then the Pugs and the Poms held no longer aloof,
But some from the balcony, some from the roof,
Joined in
To the din
With a 
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now when these bold heroes together assembled,
That traffic all stopped, and the Underground trembled,
And some of the neighbours were so much afraid
That they started to ring up the Fire Brigade.
When suddenly, up from a small basement flat,
Why who should stalk out but the GREAT RUMPUSCAT.
His eyes were like fireballs fearfully blazing,
He gave a great yawn, and his jaws were amazing;
And when he looked out through the bars of the area,
You never saw anything fiercer or hairier.
And what with the glare of his eyes and his yawning,
The Pekes and the Pollicles quickly took warning.
He looked at the sky and he gave a great leap--
And they every last one of them scattered like sheep.

And when the Police Dog returned to his beat,
There wasn't a single one left in the street.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Saltbush Bills Second Flight

 The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large, 
That twenty thousand travelling sheep, with Saltbush Bill in charge, 
Were drifting down from a dried-out run to ravage the Castlereagh; 
And the squatters swore when they heard the news, and wished they were well away: 
For the name and the fame of Saltbush Bill were over the country-side 
For the wonderful way that he fed his sheep, and the dodges and tricks he tried. 
He would lose his way on a Main Stock Route, and stray to the squatters' grass; 
He would come to a run with the boss away, and swear he had leave to pass; 
And back of all and behind it all, as well the squatters knew, 
If he had to fight, he would fight all day, so long as his sheep got through: 
But this is the story of Stingy Smith, the owner of Hard Times Hill, 
And the way that he chanced on a fighting man to reckon with Saltbush Bill. 

'Twas Stingy Smith on his stockyard sat, and prayed for an early Spring, 
When he started at sight of a clean-shaved tramp, who walked with a jaunty swing; 
For a clean-shaved tramp with a jaunty walk a-swinging along the track 
Is as rare a thing as a feathered frog on the desolate roads out back. 
So the tramp he made for the travellers' hut, to ask could he camp the night; 
But Stingy Smith had a bright idea, and called to him, "Can you fight?" 
"Why, what's the game?" said the clean-shaved tramp, as he looked at him up and down; 
"If you want a battle, get off that fence, and I'll kill you for half-a-crown! 
But, Boss, you'd better not fight with me -- it wouldn't be fair nor right; 
I'm Stiffener Joe, from the Rocks Brigade, and I killed a man in a fight: 
I served two years for it, fair and square, and now I'm trampin' back, 
To look for a peaceful quiet life away on the outside track." 

"Oh, it's not myself, but a drover chap," said Stingy Smith with glee, 
"A bullying fellow called Saltbush Bill, and you are the man for me. 
He's on the road with his hungry sheep, and he's certain to raise a row, 
For he's bullied the whole of the Castlereagh till he's got them under cow -- 
Just pick a quarrel and raise a fight, and leather him good and hard, 
And I'll take good care that his wretched sheep don't wander a half a yard. 
It's a five-pound job if you belt him well -- do anything short of kill, 
For there isn't a beak on the Castlereagh will fine you for Saltbush Bill." 

"I'll take the job," said the fighting man; "and, hot as this cove appears, 
He'll stand no chance with a bloke like me, what's lived on the game for years; 
For he's maybe learnt in a boxing school, and sparred for a round or so, 
But I've fought all hands in a ten-foot ring each night in a travelling show; 
They earned a pound if they stayed three rounds, and they tried for it every night. 
In a ten-foot ring! Oh, that's the game that teaches a bloke to fight, 
For they'd rush and clinch -- it was Dublin Rules, and we drew no colour line; 
And they all tried hard for to earn the pound, but they got no pound of mine. 
If I saw no chance in the opening round I'd slog at their wind, and wait 
Till an opening came -- and it always came -- and I settled 'em, sure as fate; 
Left on the ribs and right on the jaw -- and, when the chance comes, make sure! 
And it's there a professional bloke like me gets home on an amateur: 
For it's my experience every day, and I make no doubt it's yours, 
That a third-class pro is an over-match for the best of the amateurs --" 
"Oh, take your swag to the travellers' hut," said Smith, "for you waste your breath; 
You've a first-class chance, if you lose the fight, of talking your man to death. 
I'll tell the cook you're to have your grub, and see that you eat your fill, 
And come to the scratch all fit and well to leather this Saltbush Bill." 

'Twas Saltbush Bill, and his travelling sheep were wending their weary way 
On the Main Stock Route, through the Hard Times Run, on their six-mile stage a day; 
And he strayed a mile from the Main Stock Route, and started to feed along, 
And when Stingy Smith came up Bill said that the Route was surveyed wrong; 
And he tried to prove that the sheep had rushed and strayed from their camp at night, 
But the fighting man he kicked Bill's dog, and of course that meant a fight. 

So they sparred and fought, and they shifted ground, and never a sound was heard 
But the thudding fists on their brawny ribs, and the seconds' muttered word, 
Till the fighting man shot home his left on the ribs with a mighty clout, 
And his right flashed up with a half-arm blow -- and Saltbush Bill "went out". 
He fell face down, and towards the blow; and their hearts with fear were filled, 
For he lay as still as a fallen tree, and they thought that he must be killed. 

So Stingy Smith and the fighting man, they lifted him from the ground, 
And sent back home for a brandy-flask, and they slowly fetched him round; 
But his head was bad, and his jaw was hurt -- in fact, he could scarcely speak -- 
So they let him spell till he got his wits; and he camped on the run a week, 
While the travelling sheep went here and there, wherever they liked to stray, 
Till Saltbush Bill was fit once more for the track to the Castlereagh. 

Then Stingy Smith he wrote a note, and gave to the fighting man: 
'Twas writ to the boss of the neighbouring run, and thus the missive ran: 
"The man with this is a fighting man, one Stiffener Joe by name; 
He came near murdering Saltbush Bill, and I found it a costly game: 
But it's worth your while to employ the chap, for there isn't the slightest doubt 
You'll have no trouble from Saltbush Bill while this man hangs about." 
But an answer came by the next week's mail, with news that might well appal: 
"The man you sent with a note is not a fighting man at all! 
He has shaved his beard, and has cut his hair, but I spotted him at a look; 
He is Tom Devine, who has worked for years for Saltbush Bill as cook. 
Bill coached him up in the fighting yard, and taught him the tale by rote, 
And they shammed to fight, and they got your grass, and divided your five-pound note. 
'Twas a clean take-in; and you'll find it wise -- 'twill save you a lot of pelf -- 
When next you're hiring a fighting man, just fight him a round yourself." 

And the teamsters out on the Castlereagh, when they meet with a week of rain, 
And the waggon sinks to its axle-tree, deep down in the black-soil plain, 
When the bullocks wade in a sea of mud, and strain at the load of wool, 
And the cattle-dogs at the bullocks' heels are biting to make them pull, 
When the off-side driver flays the team, and curses tham while he flogs, 
And the air is thick with the language used, and the clamour of men and dogs -- 
The teamsters say, as they pause to rest and moisten each hairy throat, 
They wish they could swear like Stingy Smith when he read that neighbour's note.
Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

Borderland

 I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went -- 
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; 
I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track -- 
Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back. 
Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast, 
But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast -- 
Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town 
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down. 

Sunny plains! Great Scot! -- those burning wastes of barren soil and sand 
With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land! 
Desolation where the crow is! Desert! where the eagle flies, 
Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes; 
Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep 
Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep. 
Stunted "peak" of granite gleaming, glaring! like a molten mass 
Turned, from some infernal furnace, on a plain devoid of grass. 

Miles and miles of thirsty gutters -- strings of muddy waterholes 
In the place of "shining rivers" (walled by cliffs and forest boles). 
"Range!" of ridgs, gullies, ridges, barren! where the madden'd flies -- 
Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt -- swarm about your blighted eyes! 
Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees 
Nothing. Nothing! but the maddening sameness of the stunted trees! 
Lonely hut where drought's eternal -- suffocating atmosphere -- 
Where the God forgottcn hatter dreams of city-life and beer. 

Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, endless roads that gleam and glare, 
Dark and evil-looking gullies -- hiding secrets here and there! 
Dull, dumb flats and stony "rises," where the bullocks sweat and bake, 
And the sinister "gohanna," and the lizard, and the snake. 
Land of day and night -- no morning freshness, and no afternoon, 
For the great, white sun in rising brings with him the heat of noon. 
Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall 
From the sad, heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum, worst of all. 

Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift 
O'er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift -- 
Dismal land when it is raining -- growl of floods and oh! the "woosh" 
Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush -- 
Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are pil'd 
On the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild. 

Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men, 
Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again -- 
Homes of men! if homes had ever such a God-forgotten place, 
Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face. 
Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell, 
Heaven of the shanty-keeper -- fitting fiend for such a hell -- 
And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the "curlew's call" -- 
And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward thro' it all! 

I am back from up the country -- up the country where I went 
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; 
I have left a lot of broken idols out along the track, 
Burnt a lot of fancy verses -- and I'm glad that I am back -- 
I believe the Southern poet's dream will not be realised 
Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised. 
I intend to stay at present -- as I said before -- in town 
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes -- taking baths and cooling down.
Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

The City Bushman

 It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went, 
For you sought the greener patches and you travelled like a gent; 
And you curse the trams and buses and the turmoil and the push, 
Though you know the squalid city needn't keep you from the bush; 
But we lately heard you singing of the `plains where shade is not', 
And you mentioned it was dusty -- `all was dry and all was hot'. 

True, the bush `hath moods and changes' -- and the bushman hath 'em, too, 
For he's not a poet's dummy -- he's a man, the same as you; 
But his back is growing rounder -- slaving for the absentee -- 
And his toiling wife is thinner than a country wife should be. 
For we noticed that the faces of the folks we chanced to meet 
Should have made a greater contrast to the faces in the street; 
And, in short, we think the bushman's being driven to the wall, 
And it's doubtful if his spirit will be `loyal thro' it all'. 

Though the bush has been romantic and it's nice to sing about, 
There's a lot of patriotism that the land could do without -- 
Sort of BRITISH WORKMAN nonsense that shall perish in the scorn 
Of the drover who is driven and the shearer who is shorn, 
Of the struggling western farmers who have little time for rest, 
And are ruined on selections in the sheep-infested West; 
Droving songs are very pretty, but they merit little thanks 
From the people of a country in possession of the Banks. 

And the `rise and fall of seasons' suits the rise and fall of rhyme, 
But we know that western seasons do not run on schedule time; 
For the drought will go on drying while there's anything to dry, 
Then it rains until you'd fancy it would bleach the sunny sky -- 
Then it pelters out of reason, for the downpour day and night 
Nearly sweeps the population to the Great Australian Bight. 
It is up in Northern Queensland that the seasons do their best, 
But it's doubtful if you ever saw a season in the West; 
There are years without an autumn or a winter or a spring, 
There are broiling Junes, and summers when it rains like anything. 

In the bush my ears were opened to the singing of the bird, 
But the `carol of the magpie' was a thing I never heard. 
Once the beggar roused my slumbers in a shanty, it is true, 
But I only heard him asking, `Who the blanky blank are you?' 
And the bell-bird in the ranges -- but his `silver chime' is harsh 
When it's heard beside the solo of the curlew in the marsh. 

Yes, I heard the shearers singing `William Riley', out of tune, 
Saw 'em fighting round a shanty on a Sunday afternoon, 
But the bushman isn't always `trapping brumbies in the night', 
Nor is he for ever riding when `the morn is fresh and bright', 
And he isn't always singing in the humpies on the run -- 
And the camp-fire's `cheery blazes' are a trifle overdone; 
We have grumbled with the bushmen round the fire on rainy days, 
When the smoke would blind a bullock and there wasn't any blaze, 
Save the blazes of our language, for we cursed the fire in turn 
Till the atmosphere was heated and the wood began to burn. 
Then we had to wring our blueys which were rotting in the swags, 
And we saw the sugar leaking through the bottoms of the bags, 
And we couldn't raise a chorus, for the toothache and the cramp, 
While we spent the hours of darkness draining puddles round the camp. 

Would you like to change with Clancy -- go a-droving? tell us true, 
For we rather think that Clancy would be glad to change with you, 
And be something in the city; but 'twould give your muse a shock 
To be losing time and money through the foot-rot in the flock, 
And you wouldn't mind the beauties underneath the starry dome 
If you had a wife and children and a lot of bills at home. 

Did you ever guard the cattle when the night was inky-black, 
And it rained, and icy water trickled gently down your back 
Till your saddle-weary backbone fell a-aching to the roots 
And you almost felt the croaking of the bull-frog in your boots -- 
Sit and shiver in the saddle, curse the restless stock and cough 
Till a squatter's irate dummy cantered up to warn you off? 
Did you fight the drought and pleuro when the `seasons' were asleep, 
Felling sheoaks all the morning for a flock of starving sheep, 
Drinking mud instead of water -- climbing trees and lopping boughs 
For the broken-hearted bullocks and the dry and dusty cows? 

Do you think the bush was better in the `good old droving days', 
When the squatter ruled supremely as the king of western ways, 
When you got a slip of paper for the little you could earn, 
But were forced to take provisions from the station in return -- 
When you couldn't keep a chicken at your humpy on the run, 
For the squatter wouldn't let you -- and your work was never done; 
When you had to leave the missus in a lonely hut forlorn 
While you `rose up Willy Riley' -- in the days ere you were born? 

Ah! we read about the drovers and the shearers and the like 
Till we wonder why such happy and romantic fellows strike. 
Don't you fancy that the poets ought to give the bush a rest 
Ere they raise a just rebellion in the over-written West? 
Where the simple-minded bushman gets a meal and bed and rum 
Just by riding round reporting phantom flocks that never come; 
Where the scalper -- never troubled by the `war-whoop of the push' -- 
Has a quiet little billet -- breeding rabbits in the bush; 
Where the idle shanty-keeper never fails to make a draw, 
And the dummy gets his tucker through provisions in the law; 
Where the labour-agitator -- when the shearers rise in might -- 
Makes his money sacrificing all his substance for The Right; 
Where the squatter makes his fortune, and `the seasons rise and fall', 
And the poor and honest bushman has to suffer for it all; 
Where the drovers and the shearers and the bushmen and the rest 
Never reach the Eldorado of the poets of the West. 

And you think the bush is purer and that life is better there, 
But it doesn't seem to pay you like the `squalid street and square'. 
Pray inform us, City Bushman, where you read, in prose or verse, 
Of the awful `city urchin who would greet you with a curse'. 
There are golden hearts in gutters, though their owners lack the fat, 
And we'll back a teamster's offspring to outswear a city brat. 
Do you think we're never jolly where the trams and buses rage? 
Did you hear the gods in chorus when `Ri-tooral' held the stage? 
Did you catch a ring of sorrow in the city urchin's voice 
When he yelled for Billy Elton, when he thumped the floor for Royce? 
Do the bushmen, down on pleasure, miss the everlasting stars 
When they drink and flirt and so on in the glow of private bars? 

You've a down on `trams and buses', or the `roar' of 'em, you said, 
And the `filthy, dirty attic', where you never toiled for bread. 
(And about that self-same attic -- Lord! wherever have you been? 
For the struggling needlewoman mostly keeps her attic clean.) 
But you'll find it very jolly with the cuff-and-collar push, 
And the city seems to suit you, while you rave about the bush. 

. . . . . 

You'll admit that Up-the Country, more especially in drought, 
Isn't quite the Eldorado that the poets rave about, 
Yet at times we long to gallop where the reckless bushman rides 
In the wake of startled brumbies that are flying for their hides; 
Long to feel the saddle tremble once again between our knees 
And to hear the stockwhips rattle just like rifles in the trees! 
Long to feel the bridle-leather tugging strongly in the hand 
And to feel once more a little like a native of the land. 
And the ring of bitter feeling in the jingling of our rhymes 
Isn't suited to the country nor the spirit of the times. 
Let us go together droving, and returning, if we live, 
Try to understand each other while we reckon up the div.


Written by John Davidson | Create an image from this poem

A Runnable Stag

 When the pods went pop on the broom, green broom, 
And apples began to be golden-skinn'd, 
We harbour'd a stag in the Priory coomb, 
And we feather'd his trail up-wind, up-wind, 
We feather'd his trail up-wind- 
A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, 
A runnable stag, a kingly crop, 
Brow, bay and tray and three on top, 
A stag, a runnable stag.

Then the huntsman's horn rang yap, yap yap, 
And 'Forwards' we heard the harbourer shout; 
But 'twas only a brocket that broke a gap 
In the beechen underwood, driven out, 
From the underwood antler'd out 
By warrant and might of the stag, the stag, 
The runnable stag, whose lordly mind 
Was bent on sleep though beam'd and tined 
He stood, a runnable stag

So we tufted the covert till afternoon 
With Tinkerman's Pup and Bell- of-the-North; 
And hunters were sulky and hounds out of tune 
Before we tufted the right stag forth, 
Before we tufted him forth, 
The stag of warrant, the wily stag, 
The runnable stag with his kingly crop, 
Brow, bay and tray and three on top, 
The royal and runnable stag.

It was Bell-of-the-North and Tinkerman's Pup 
That stuck to the scent till the copse was drawn. 
'Tally ho! tally ho!' and the hunt was up, 
The tufters whipp'd and the pack laid on, 
The resolute pack laid on, 
And the stag of warrant away at last, 
The runnable stag, the same, the same, 
His hoofs on fire, his horns like flame, 
A stag, a runnable stag.

'Let your gelding be: if you check or chide 
He stumbles at once and you're out of the hunt 
For three hundred gentlemen, able to ride, 
On hunters accustom'd to bear the brunt, 
Accustom'd to bear the brunt, 
Are after the runnable stag, the stag, 
The runnable stag with his kingly crop, 
Brow, bay and tray and three on top, 
The right, the runnable stag.

By perilous paths in coomb and dell, 
The heather, the rocks, and the river-bed, 
The pace grew hot, for the scent lay well, 
And a runnable stag goes right ahead, 
The quarry went right ahead-- 
Ahead, ahead, and fast and far; 
His antler'd crest, his cloven hoof, 
Brow, bay and tray and three aloof, 
The stag, the runnable stag.

For a matter of twenty miles and more, 
By the densest hedge and the highest wall, 
Through herds of bullocks lie baffled the lore 
Of harbourer, huntsman, hounds and all, 
Of harbourer, hounds and all 
The stag of warrant, the wily stag, 
For twenty miles, and five and five, 
He ran, and he never was caught alive, 
This stag, this runnable stag.

When he turn'd at bay in the leafy gloom, 
In the emerald gloom where the brook ran deep 
He heard in the distance the rollers boom, 
And he saw In a vision of peaceful sleep 
In a wonderful vision of sleep, 
A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, 
A runnable stag in a jewell'd bed, 
Under the sheltering ocean dead, 
A stag, a runnable stag.

So a fateful hope lit up his eye, 
And he open'd his nostrils wide again, 
And he toss'd his branching antlers high 
As he headed the hunt down the Charlock glen, 
As he raced down the echoing glen 
For five miles more, the stag, the stag, 
For twenty miles, and five and five, 
Not to be caught now, dead or alive, 
The stag, the runnable stag.

Three hundred gentleman, able to ride, 
Three hundred horses as gallant and free, 
Beheld him escape on the evening tide, 
Far out till he sank in the Severn Sea, 
Till he sank in the depths of the sea 
The stag, the buoyant stag, the stag 
That slept at last in a jewell'd bed 
Under the sheltering ocean spread, 
The stag, the runnable stag.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Johnny Boer

 Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run, 
And no man knows his courage till he stands before a gun. 
At mixed-up fighting, hand to hand, and clawing men about 
They reckon Fuzzy-Wuzzy is the hottest fighter out. 
But Fuzzy gives himself away -- his style is out of date, 
He charges like a driven grouse that rushes on its fate; 
You've nothing in the world to do but pump him full of lead: 
But when you're fighting Johhny Boer you have to use your head; 
He don't believe in front attacks or charging at the run, 
He fights you from a kopje with his little Maxim gun. 
For when the Lord He made the earth, it seems uncommon clear, 
He gave the job of Africa to some good engineer, 
Who started building fortresses on fashions of his own -- 
Lunettes, redoubts, and counterscarps all made of rock and stone. 
The Boer need only bring a gun, for ready to his hand 
He finds these heaven-built fortresses all scattered through the land; 
And there he sits and winks his eye and wheels his gun about, 
And we must charge across the plain to hunt the beggar out. 
It ain't a game that grows on us -- there's lots of better fun 
Than charging at old Johnny with his little Maxim gun. 

On rocks a goat could scarcely climb, steep as the walls of Troy, 
He wheels a four-point-seven about as easy as a toy; 
With bullocks yoked and drag-ropes manned, he lifts her up the rocks 
And shifts her every now and then, as cunning as a fox. 
At night you mark her right ahead, you see her clean and clear, 
Next day at dawn -- "What, ho! she bumps" -- from somewhere in the rear. 
Or else the keenest-eyed patrol will miss him with the glass -- 
He's lying hidden in the rocks to let the leaders pass; 
But when the mainguard comes along he opens up the fun; 
There's lots of ammunition for the little Maxim gun. 

But after all the job is sure, although the job is slow. 
We have to see the business through, the Boer has got to go. 
With Nordenfeldt and lyddite shell it's certain, soon or late, 
We'll hunt him from his kopjes and across the Orange State; 
And then across those open flats you'll see the beggar run, 
And we'll be running after him with our little Maxim gun.
Written by Robert Herrick | Create an image from this poem

A Panegyric To Sir Lewis Pemberton

 Till I shall come again, let this suffice,
I send my salt, my sacrifice
To thee, thy lady, younglings, and as far
As to thy Genius and thy Lar;
To the worn threshold, porch, hall, parlour, kitchen,
The fat-fed smoking temple, which in
The wholesome savour of thy mighty chines,
Invites to supper him who dines:
Where laden spits, warp'd with large ribs of beef,
Not represent, but give relief
To the lank stranger and the sour swain,
Where both may feed and come again;
For no black-bearded Vigil from thy door
Beats with a button'd-staff the poor;
But from thy warm love-hatching gates, each may
Take friendly morsels, and there stay
To sun his thin-clad members, if he likes;
For thou no porter keep'st who strikes.
No comer to thy roof his guest-rite wants;
Or, staying there, is scourged with taunts
Of some rough groom, who, yirk'd with corns, says, 'Sir,
'You've dipp'd too long i' th' vinegar;
'And with our broth and bread and bits, Sir friend,
'You've fared well; pray make an end;
'Two days you've larded here; a third, ye know,
'Makes guests and fish smell strong; pray go
'You to some other chimney, and there take
'Essay of other giblets; make
'Merry at another's hearth; you're here
'Welcome as thunder to our beer;
'Manners knows distance, and a man unrude
'Would soon recoil, and not intrude
'His stomach to a second meal.'--No, no,
Thy house, well fed and taught, can show
No such crabb'd vizard: Thou hast learnt thy train
With heart and hand to entertain;
And by the arms-full, with a breast unhid,
As the old race of mankind did,
When either's heart, and either's hand did strive
To be the nearer relative;
Thou dost redeem those times: and what was lost
Of ancient honesty, may boast
It keeps a growth in thee, and so will run
A course in thy fame's pledge, thy son.
Thus, like a Roman Tribune, thou thy gate
Early sets ope to feast, and late;
Keeping no currish waiter to affright,
With blasting eye, the appetite,
Which fain would waste upon thy cates, but that
The trencher creature marketh what
Best and more suppling piece he cuts, and by
Some private pinch tells dangers nigh,
A hand too desp'rate, or a knife that bites
Skin-deep into the pork, or lights
Upon some part of kid, as if mistook,
When checked by the butler's look.
No, no, thy bread, thy wine, thy jocund beer
Is not reserved for Trebius here,
But all who at thy table seated are,
Find equal freedom, equal fare;
And thou, like to that hospitable god,
Jove, joy'st when guests make their abode
To eat thy bullocks thighs, thy veals, thy fat
Wethers, and never grudged at.
The pheasant, partridge, gotwit, reeve, ruff, rail,
The cock, the curlew, and the quail,
These, and thy choicest viands, do extend
Their tastes unto the lower end
Of thy glad table; not a dish more known
To thee, than unto any one:
But as thy meat, so thy immortal wine
Makes the smirk face of each to shine,
And spring fresh rose-buds, while the salt, the wit,
Flows from the wine, and graces it;
While Reverence, waiting at the bashful board,
Honours my lady and my lord.
No scurril jest, no open scene is laid
Here, for to make the face afraid;
But temp'rate mirth dealt forth, and so discreet-
Ly, that it makes the meat more sweet,
And adds perfumes unto the wine, which thou
Dost rather pour forth, than allow
By cruse and measure; thus devoting wine,
As the Canary isles were thine;
But with that wisdom and that method, as
No one that's there his guilty glass
Drinks of distemper, or has cause to cry
Repentance to his liberty.
No, thou know'st orders, ethics, and hast read
All oeconomics, know'st to lead
A house-dance neatly, and canst truly show
How far a figure ought to go,
Forward or backward, side-ward, and what pace
Can give, and what retract a grace;
What gesture, courtship, comeliness agrees,
With those thy primitive decrees,
To give subsistence to thy house, and proof
What Genii support thy roof,
Goodness and greatness, not the oaken piles;
For these, and marbles have their whiles
To last, but not their ever; virtue's hand
It is which builds 'gainst fate to stand.
Such is thy house, whose firm foundations trust
Is more in thee than in her dust,
Or depth; these last may yield, and yearly shrink,
When what is strongly built, no chink
Or yawning rupture can the same devour,
But fix'd it stands, by her own power
And well-laid bottom, on the iron and rock,
Which tries, and counter-stands the shock
And ram of time, and by vexation grows
The stronger. Virtue dies when foes
Are wanting to her exercise, but, great
And large she spreads by dust and sweat.
Safe stand thy walls, and thee, and so both will,
Since neither's height was raised by th'ill
Of others; since no stud, no stone, no piece
Was rear'd up by the poor-man's fleece;
No widow's tenement was rack'd to gild
Or fret thy cieling, or to build
A sweating-closet, to anoint the silk-
Soft skin, or bath[e] in asses' milk;
No orphan's pittance, left him, served to set
The pillars up of lasting jet,
For which their cries might beat against thine ears,
Or in the damp jet read their tears.
No plank from hallow'd altar does appeal
To yond' Star-chamber, or does seal
A curse to thee, or thine; but all things even
Make for thy peace, and pace to heaven.
--Go on directly so, as just men may
A thousand times more swear, than say
This is that princely Pemberton, who can
Teach men to keep a God in man;
And when wise poets shall search out to see
Good men, they find them all in thee.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Black Harrys Team

 No soft-skinned Durham steers are they, 
No Devons plump and red, 
But brindled, black and iron-grey 
That mark the mountain-bred; 
For mountain-bred and mountain-broke, 
With sullen eyes agleam, 
No stranger's hand could put a yoke 
On old Black Harry's team. 


Pull out, pull out, at break of morn 
The creeks are running white, 
And Tiger, Spot and Snailey-horn 
Must bend their bows by night; 
And axles, wheels, and flooring boards 
Are swept with flying spray 
As shoulder-deep, through mountain fords 
The leaders feel their way. 


He needs no sign of cross or kirn 
To guide him as he goes, 
For every twist and every turn 
That old black leader knows. 
Up mountains steep they heave and strain 
Where never wheel has rolled, 
And what the toiling leaders gain 
The body-bullocks hold. 


Where eagle-hawks their eyries make, 
On sidlings steep and blind, 
He rigs the good old-fashioned brake--- 
A tree tied on behind. 
Up mountains, straining to the full, 
Each poler plays his part--- 
The sullen, stubborn, bullock-pull 
That breaks a horse's heart. 


Beyond the farthest bridle track 
His wheels have blazed the way; 
The forest giants, burnt and black, 
Are ear-marked by his dray. 
Through belts of scrub, where messmates grow 
His juggernaut has rolled, 
For stumps and saplings have to go 
When Harry's team takes hold. 


On easy grade and rubber tyre 
The tourist car goes through, 
They halt a moment to admire 
The far-flung mountain view. 
The tourist folk would be amazed 
If they could get to know 
They take the track Black Harry blazed 
A Hundred Years Ago.
Written by Rabindranath Tagore | Create an image from this poem

Lovers Gifts XVI: She Dwelt Here by the Pool

 She dwelt here by the pool with its landing-stairs in ruins. Many
an evening she had watched the moon made dizzy by the shaking of
bamboo leaves, and on many a rainy day the smell of the wet earth
had come to her over the young shoots of rice.
Her pet name is known here among those date-palm groves and
in the courtyards where girls sit and talk while stitching their
winter quilts. The water in this pool keeps in its depth the memory
of her swimming limbs, and her wet feet had left their marks, day
after day, on the footpath leading to the village.
The women who come to-day with their vessels to the water have
all seen her smile over simple jests, and the old peasant, taking
his bullocks to their bath, used to stop at her door every day to
greet her.
Many a sailing-boat passes by this village; many a traveller
takes rest beneath that banyan tree; the ferry-boat crosses to
yonder ford carrying crowds to the market; but they never notice
this spot by the village road, near the pool with its ruined
landing-stairs,-where dwelt she whom I love.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things