Bringing Home The Cows

Shadows of the twilight falling
    On the mountains brow,
To each other birds are calling,
    In the leafy bough.
Where the daisies are a-springing,
And the cattle bells are ringing,
Comes my Mary, gaily singing,
    Bringing home the cows.

By a bush the pathway skirted,
    Room for two allows.
All the cornfields are deserted,
    Idle are the ploughs.
Striving for wealths spoil and booty,
Farmer boys have finished duty,
When I meet my little beauty,
    Bringing home the cows.

Tender words and kind addresses,
    Most polite of bows,
Rosy cheeks and wavy tresses
    Do my passions rouse

Dress so natty and so cleanly,
Air so modest and so queenly.
Oh! so haughty, yet serenely,
    Bringing home the cows.

Arm-in-arm together walking,
    While the cattle browse,
Earnestly together talking,
    Plighting lovers vows.
Where the daisies are a-springing,
Wedding bells will soon be ringing,
Then well watch our servant bringing
    Mine and Marys cows.

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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The drought is down on field and flock,
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We cannot use the whip for shame
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With the Cattle

    The drought is down on field and flock,
    The river-bed is dry;
    And we must shift the starving stock
    Before the cattle die.
    We muster up with weary hearts
    At breaking of the day,
    And turn our heads to foreign parts,
    To take the stock away.
            And it's hunt 'em up and dog 'em,
            And it's get the whip and flog 'em,
    For it's weary work is droving when they're dying every day;
            By stock-routes bare and eaten,
            On dusty roads and beaten,
    With half a chance to save their lives we take the stock away.

    We cannot use the whip for shame
    On beasts that crawl along;
    We have to drop the weak and lame,
    And try to save the strong;
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The Old Bullock Dray

Oh! the shearing is all over,
    And the wool is coming down,
And I mean to get a wife, boys,
    When I go up to town.
Everything that has two legs
    Represents itself in view,
From the little paddy-melon
    To the bucking kangaroo.

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    So its roll up your blankets,
        And lets make a push,
    Ill take you up the country,
        And show you the bush.
    Ill be bound you wont get
        Such a chance another day,
    So come and take possession
        Of my old bullock dray.

Now, Ive saved up a good cheque,
    I mean to buy a team,
And when I get a wife, boys,
    Ill be all-serene
For calling at the depôt.
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The Eumerella Shore

Theres a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore,
    Where Ive lingered many happy hours away,
On my little free selection I have acres by the score,
    Where I unyoke the bullocks from the dray.

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    To my bullocks then I say
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When the moon has climbed the mountains and the stars are shining bright,
    Then we saddle up our horses and away,
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    And we have the calves all branded by the day.

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Mary

The skylark mounts up with the morn,
The valleys are green with the Spring,
The linnets sit in the whitethorn,
To build mossy dwellings and sing;
I see the thornbush getting green,
I see the woods dance in the Spring,
But Mary can never be seen,
Though the all-cheering Spring doth begin.

I see the grey bark of the oak
Look bright through the underwood now;
To the plough plodding horses they yoke,
But Mary is not with her cow.
The birds almost whistle her name:
Say, where can my Mary be gone?
The Spring brightly shines, and 'tis shame
That she should be absent alone.

The cowslips are out on the grass,
Increasing like crowds at a fair;
The river runs smoothly as glass,
And the barges float heavily there;
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Rural Morning

Soon as the twilight through the distant mist
In silver hemmings skirts the purple east,
Ere yet the sun unveils his smiles to view
And dries the morning's chilly robes of dew,
Young Hodge the horse-boy, with a soodly gait,
Slow climbs the stile, or opes the creaky gate,
With willow switch and halter by his side
Prepared for Dobbin, whom he means to ride;
The only tune he knows still whistling oer,
And humming scraps his father sung before,
As "Wantley Dragon," and the "Magic Rose,"
The whole of music that his village knows,
Which wild remembrance, in each little town,
From mouth to mouth through ages handles down.
Onward he jolls, nor can the minstrel-throngs
Entice him once to listen to their songs;
Nor marks he once a blossom on his way;
A senseless lu...

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