My Religion

Let Romanists all at the Confessional kneel,
    Let the Jew with disgust turn from it,
Let the mighty Crown Prelate in Church pander zeal,
    Let the Mussulman worship Mahomet.

From all these I differtruly wise is my plan,
    With my doctrine, perhaps, youll agree,
To be upright and downright and act like a man,
    Thats the religion for me.

I will go to no Church and to no house of Prayer
    To see a white shirt on a preacher.
And in no Courthouse on a book will I swear
    To injure a poor fellow-creature.

For parsons and preachers are all a mere joke,
    Their hands must be greased by a fee;
But with the poor toiler to share your last toke*
    Thats the religion for me.

[Footnote: Toke is a slang word for bread.]

Let Psalm-singing Churchmen and Lutheran sing,
    They cant deceive God with their blarney;
They might just as well dance the Highland Fling,
    Or sing the fair fame of Kate Kearney.

But let man unto man like brethren act,
    My doctrine this suits to a T,
The heart that can feel for the woes of another,
    Oh, thats the religion for me.

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.

Andrew Barton Paterson

Gilhooley's Estate

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Broken-Down Squatter

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Man From Goondiwindi, Q.

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

How Gilbert Died

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

English

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A Spiritual Manifestation

To-day the plant by Williams set
Its summer bloom discloses;
The wilding sweethrier of his prayers
Is crowned with cultured roses.

Once more the Island State repeats
The lesson that he taught her,
And binds his pearl of charity
Upon her brown-locked daughter.

Is 't fancy that he watches still
His Providence plantations?
That still the careful Founder takes
A part on these occasions.

Methinks I see that reverend form,
Which all of us so well know
He rises up to speak; he jogs
The presidential elbow.

"Good friends," he says, "you reap a field
I sowed in self-denial,
For toleration had its griefs
And charity its trial.

"Great grace, as saith Sir Thomas More,
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Ode To Sir Andrew Agnew, Bart.[1]

"At certain seasons he makes a prodigious clattering with his bill." - SELBY.

"The bill is rather long, flat, and tinged with green." - BEWICK.


O Andrew Fairservice, - but I beg pardon,
You never labor'd in Di Vernon's garden,
On curly kale and cabbages intent, -
Andrew Churchservice was the thing I meant, -
You are a Christian - I would be the same,
Although we differ, and I'll tell you why,
Not meaning to make game,
I do not like my Church so very High!

When people talk, as talk they will,
About your bill,
They say, among their other jibes and small jeers,
That, if you had your way,
You'd make the seventh day
As overbearing as the Dey of Algiers.
Talk of converting Blacks -
    By your attacks,
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Thomas Hood

The Fudges In England. Letter VI. From Miss Biddy Fudge, To Mrs. Elizabeth ----.

How I grieve you're not with us!--pray, come, if you can,
Ere we're robbed of this dear, oratorical man,
Who combines in himself all the multiple glory
Of, Orangeman, Saint, quondam Papist and Tory;--
(Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded,
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The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly,
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In short, he's a dear--and such audiences draws,
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As can't but do good to the Protestant cause.

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I verily think 'twould be worth England's while
    To consider, for Paddy's own benefit, whether
'Twould not be as well to give up the green isle
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