Bourkes Dream

Lonely and sadly one night in November
    I laid down my weary head in search of repose
On my wallet of straw, which I long shall remember,
    Tired and weary I fell into a doze.
            Tired from working hard
            Down in the labour yard,
Night brought relief to my sad, aching brain.
            Locked in my prison cell,
            Surely an earthly hell,
I fell asleep and began for to dream.

I dreamt that I stood on the green fields of Erin,
    In joyous meditation that victory was won.
Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing.
    Stand, was the cry, every man to his gun.
            On came the Saxons then,
            Fighting our Fenian men,
Soon theyll reel back from our piked volunteers.
            Loud was the fight and shrill,
            Wexford and Vinegar Hill,
Three cheers for Father Murphy and the bold cavaliers.

I dreamt that I saw our gallant commander
    Seated on his charger in gorgeous array.
He wore green trimmed with gold and a bright shining sabre
    On which sunbeams of Liberty shone brightly that day.
            On, was the battle cry,
            Conquer this day or die,
Sons of Hibernia, fight for Liberty!
            Show neither fear nor dread,
            Strike at the foemans head,
Cut down horse, foot, and artillery!

I dreamt that the night was quickly advancing,
    I saw the dead and dying on the green crimson plain.
Comrades I once knew well in deaths sleep reposing,
    Friends that I once loved but shall neer see again.
            The green flag was waving high,
            Under the bright blue sky,
    And each man was singing most gloriously.
            Come from your prison, Bourke,
            We Irishmen have done our work,
God has been with us, and old Ireland is free.

I dreamt I was homeward, back over the mountain track,
    With joy my mother fainted and gave a loud scream.
With the shock I awoke, just as the day had broke,
    And found myself an exile, and twas all but a dream.

Andrew Barton Paterson

Andrew Barton Paterson, also known as Banjo Paterson, was an Australian bush poet, journalist, and author. Renowned for his poignant and humorous depictions of rural Australia, he wrote iconic works like "Waltzing Matilda" and "The Man from Snowy River." His storytelling, deeply rooted in Australian culture, has cemented his legacy as one of the nation's most beloved literary figures.

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English

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My decent friends and parents, they will tell to you the same.
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    Then come, my hearties, well roam the mountains high!
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Ive had all sorts of luck, sometimes bad, sometimes better,
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For I stooped in the street and I picked up a letter,
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Dear Dermot, I hope when this letter gets to you
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I thought, in the days of the droving,
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With a heart that was well nigh to breaking,
In the long, lonely rides on the plain,
I thought of the pleasure of taking
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And somehow, I'm out of it all.

For I go to the balls and the races
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Australia Today 1916

They came from the lower levels
Deep down in the Brilliant mine;
From the wastes where the whirlwind revels,
Whirling the leaves of pine.

On the western plains, where the Darling flows,
And the dust storms wheel and shift,
The teamster loosened his yokes and bows,
And turned his team adrift.

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There's many an empty pen,
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The women are driving the mowers now,
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If I ever be worthy or famous,
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I wish for no snivlling about me
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But I hope that my country will shout me
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Thump! thump! of the drum and Ta-ra-rit,
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And the men of 'Fifty-four.

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Aglow in sunset light,
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The stream of Life ran brimming
In that golden time gone by.

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Bourkes Dream

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Bourkes Dream