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Best Famous Wombat Poems

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

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Written by Mark Twain | Create an image from this poem

A Sweltering Day In Australia

 The Bombola faints in the hot Bowral tree, 
Where fierce Mullengudgery's smothering fires 
Far from the breezes of Coolgardie 
Burn ghastly and blue as the day expires; 

And Murriwillumba complaineth in song 
For the garlanded bowers of Woolloomooloo, 
And the Ballarat Fly and the lone Wollongong 
They dream of the gardens of Jamberoo; 

The wallabi sighs for the Murrubidgee, 
For the velvety sod of the Munno Parah, 
Where the waters of healing from Muloowurtie 
Flow dim in the gloaming by Yaranyackah; 

The Koppio sorrows for lost Wolloway, 
And sigheth in secret for Murrurundi, 
The Whangeroo wombat lamenteth the day 
That made him an exile from Jerrilderie; 

The Teawamute Tumut from Wirrega's glade, 
The Nangkita swallow, the Wallaroo swan, 
They long for the peace of the Timaru shade 
And thy balmy soft airs, O sweet Mittagong! 

The Kooringa buffalo pants in the sun, 
The Kondoparinga lies gaping for breath, 
The Kongorong Camaum to the shadow has won, 
But the Goomeroo sinks in the slumber of death; 

In the weltering hell of the Moorooroo plain 
The Yatala Wangary withers and dies, 
And the Worrow Wanilla, demented with pain, 
To the Woolgoolga woodlands despairingly flies; 

Sweet Nangwarry's desolate, Coonamble wails, 
And Tungkillo Kuito in sables is drest, 
For the Whangerei winds fall asleep in the sails 
And the Booleroo life-breeze is dead in the west.
Mypongo, Kapunda, O slumber no more Yankalilla, Parawirra, be warned There's death in the air! Killanoola, wherefore Shall the prayer of Penola be scorned? Cootamundra, and Takee, and Wakatipu, Toowoomba, Kaikoura are lost From Onkaparinga to far Oamaru All burn in this hell's holocaust! Paramatta and Binnum are gone to their rest In the vale of Tapanni Taroom, Kawakawa, Deniliquin - all that was best In the earth are but graves and a tomb! Narrandera mourns, Cameron answers not When the roll of the scathless we cry Tongariro, Goondiwindi, Woolundunga, the spot Is mute and forlorn where ye lie.

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

The Man From Snowy River

 There was movement at the station, for the word has passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses—he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up— He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand; No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand— He had learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a sripling on a small and weedy beast, He was something like a racehorse undersized, With a touch of Timor pony—three parts thoroughbred at least— And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry—just the sort that won't say die— There was courage in his quick impatient tread; And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, And the old man said, "That horse will never do For a long and tiring gallop—lad, you'd better stop away, For those hills are far too rough for such as you.
" So he waited, sad and wistful—only Clancy stood his friend— "I think we ought to let him come," he said; "I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
'He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosiosko's side, Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough; Where the horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flintstones every stride, There the man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders in the mountains make their home, Wher the river runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many riders since I first commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.
" So he went; they found the horses by the big mimosa clump, They raced away towards the mountain's brow, And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump, No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once they gain the shelter of those hills.
" So Clancy rode to wheel them—he was racing on the wing Where the best and boldest riders take their place.
And he raced his stock-horse past them.
and he made the ranges ring With his stock-whip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stock-whip with a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And their stock-whips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back from the cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, Where the mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good-day, For no man can hold them down the other side.
" When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull— It well might make the boldest hold their breath; For the wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full Of wombat holes, and any slip meant death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have its head, He swung his stock-whip round and gave a cheer, And he raced him down that mountain like a torrent down its bed, While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flintstones flying, but the pony kept its feet, He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat— It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, over rough and broken ground, Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as he climbed the further hill, And the watchers on the hillside, standing mute, Saw him ply the stock-whip fiercely; he was right among them still, As he raced across a clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges—but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside, the wild horses racing yet With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their flanks were white with foam; He followed like a bloodhound in their track, Till they halted, cowed and beaten; and he turned their heads for home, And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosiosko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze Of a midnight in the cold and frosty sky, And where around the Overflow the reed-beds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, There the man from Snowy River is a household word today, And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Weary Will

 The strongest creature for his size 
But least equipped for combat 
That dwells beneath Australian skies 
Is Weary Will the Wombat.
He digs his homestead underground, He's neither shrewd nor clever; For kangaroos can leap and bound But wombats dig forever.
The boundary rider's netting fence Excites his irritation; It is to his untutored sense His pet abomination.
And when to pass it he desires, Upon his task he'll centre And dig a hole beneath the wires Through which the dingoes enter.
And when to block the hole they strain With logs and stones and rubble, Bill Wombat digs it out again Without the slightest trouble.
The boundary rider bows to fate, Admits he's made a blunder And rigs a little swinging gate To let Bill Wombat under.
So most contentedly he goes Between his haunt and burrow: He does the only thing he knows, And does it very thorough.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Mountain Squatter

 Here in my mountain home, 
On rugged hills and steep, 
I sit and watch you come, 
O Riverinia Sheep! 
You come from the fertile plains 
Where saltbush (sometimes) grows, 
And flats that (when it rains) 
Will blossom like the rose.
But when the summer sun Gleams down like burnished brass, You have to leave your run And hustle off for grass.
'Tis then that -- forced to roam -- You come to where I keep, Here in my mountain home, A boarding-house for sheep.
Around me where I sit The wary wombat goes -- A beast of little wit, But what he knows, he knows.
The very same remark Applies to me also; I don't give out a spark, But what I know, I know.
My brain perhaps would show No convolutions deep, But anyhow I know The way to handle sheep.
These Riverina cracks, They do not care to ride The half-inch hanging tracks Along the mountain side.
Their horses shake with fear When loosened boulders go With leaps, like startled deer, Down to the gulfs below.
Their very dogs will shirk, And drop their tails in fright When asked to go and work A mob that's out of sight.
My little collie pup Works silently and wide; You'll see her climbing up Along the mountain side.
As silent as a fox You'll see her come and go, A shadow through the rocks Where ash and messmate grow.
Then, lost to sight and sound Behind some rugged steep, She works her way around And gathers up the sheep; And, working wide and shy, She holds them rounded up.
The cash ain't coined to buy That little collie pup.
And so I draw a screw For self and dog and keep To boundary-ride for you, O Riverina Sheep! And, when the autumn rain Has made the herbage grow, You travel off again, And glad -- no doubt -- to go.
But some are left behind Around the mountain's spread, For those we cannot find We put them down as dead.
So, when we say adieu And close the boarding job, I always find a few Fresh ear-marks in my mob.
And, what with those I sell, And what with those I keep, You pay me pretty well, O Riverina Sheep! It's up to me to shout Before we say good-bye -- "Here's to a howlin' drought All west of Gundagai!