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Best Famous Keep It Down Poems

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

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Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

A Dream of the Melbourne Cup

 Bring me a quart of colonial beer 
And some doughy damper to make good cheer, 
I must make a heavy dinner; 
Heavily dine and heavily sup, 
Of indigestible things fill up, 
Next month they run the Melbourne Cup, 
And I have to dream the winner.
Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham, The rich ragout and the charming cham.
, I've got to mix my liquor; Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg, Hard and tough as a wooden peg, And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg, 'Twill make me dream the quicker.
Now that I'm full of fearful feed, Oh, but I'll dream of a winner indeed In my restless, troubled slumber; While the night-mares race through my heated brain And their devil-riders spur amain, The trip for the Cup will reward my pain, And I'll spot the winning number.
Thousands and thousands and thousands more, Like sands on the white Pacific shore, The crowding people cluster; For evermore is the story old, While races are bought and backers are sold, Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold, In their thousands still they muster.
* * * * * And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot, "I'll lay the Cup! The double, if not!" "Five monkeys, Little John, sir!" "Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!" And so they shout through the livelong day, And stick to the game that is sure to pay, While fools put money on, sir! And now in my dream I seem to go And bet with a "book" that I seem to know -- A Hebrew money-lender; A million to five is the price I get -- Not bad! but before I book the bet The horse's name I clean forgret, Its number and even gender.
Now for the start, and here they come, And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum Beat by a hand unsteady; They come like a rushing, roaring flood, Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood; For Acme is making the pace so good They are some of 'em done already.
But round the track she begins to tire, And a mighty shout goes up "Crossfire!" The magpie jacket's leading; And Crossfire challenges fierce and bold, And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold, But at length gives way to the black and gold, Which right to the front is speeding.
Carry them on and keep it up -- A flying race is the Melbourne Cup, You must race and stay to win it; And old Commotion, Victoria's pride, Now takes the lead with his raking stride, And a mighty roar goes far and wide -- "There's only Commotion in it!" But one draws out from the beaten ruck And up on the rails by a piece of luck He comes in a style that's clever; "It's Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!" "Go at 'em now while their courage fails;" "Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!" "The blue and white for ever!" Under the whip! with the ears flat back, Under the whip! though the sinews crack, No sign of the base white feather: Stick to it now for your breeding's sake, Stick to it now though your hearts should break, While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake, They come down the straignt together.
Trident slowly forges ahead, The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red, The pace is undiminished Now for the Panics that never fail! But many a backer's face grows pale As old Commotion swings his tail And swerves -- and the Cup is finished.
* * * * * And now in my dream it all comes back: I bet my coin on the Sydney crack, A million I've won, no question! "Give me my money, you hook-nosed hog! Give me my money, bookmaking dog!" But he disappeared in a kind of fog, And I woke with "the indigestion".

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Cassidys Epitaph

 Here lies a bloke who's just gone West, 
A Number One Australian; 
He took his gun and did his best 
To mitigate the alien.
So long as he could get to work He needed no sagacity; A German, Austrian, or Turk, Were all the same to Cassidy.
Wherever he could raise "the stuff" -- A liquor deleterious -- The question when he'd have enough Was apt to be mysterious.
'Twould worry prudent folks a lot Through mental incapacity; If he could keep it down or not, Was all the same to Cassidy.
And when the boys would start a dance, In honour of Terpsichore, 'Twas just an even-money chance You'd find him rather shickery.
But once he struck his proper stride, And heard the band's vivacity, The jazz, the tango, or the slide Was all the same to Cassidy.
And now he's gone to face the Light, With all it may reveal to him, A life without a drink or fight Perhaps may not appeal to him; But when St Peter calls the roll Of men of proved tenacity, You'll find the front-rank right-hand man Will answer; "Here .