Our Own Flag

They mustered us up with a royal din,
In wearisome weeks of drought.
Ere ever half of the crops were in,
Or the half of the sheds cut out.

'Twas down with the saddle and spurs and whip
The swagman dropped his swag.
And we hurried us off to the outbound ship
To fight for the English flag.

The English flag, it is ours in sooth
We stand by it wrong or right.
But deep in our hearts is the honest truth
We fought for the sake of a fight.

And the English flag may flutter and wave
Where the World-wide Oceans toss,
But the flag the Australian dies to save
Is the flag of the Southern Cross.

If ever they want us to stand the brunt
Of a hard-faught, grim campaign,
We will carry our own flag up to the front
When we go to the wars again.

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

The Sausage Candidate - A Tale Of The Elections

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

In Defence Of The Bush

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Swagman

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Ballad Of The Carpet Bag

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

"We're All Australians Now"

Australia takes her pen in hand
To write a line to you,
To let you fellows understand
How proud we are of you.

From shearing shed and cattle run,
From Broome to Hobson's Bay,
Each native-born Australian son
Stands straighter up today.

The man who used to "hump his drum",
On far-out Queensland runs
Is fighting side by side with some
Tasmanian farmer's sons.

The fisher-boys dropped sail and oar
To grimly stand the test,
Along that storm-swept Turkish shore,
With miners from the west.

The old state jealousies of yore
Are dead as Pharaoh's sow,
We're not State children any more,
We're all Australians now!

Our six-starred flag that used to fly
Half-shyly to the breeze,
Unknown where older nations ply
...

Andrew Barton Paterson

Hawker, the Standard Bearer

The grey gull sat on a floating whale,
On a floating whale sat he,
And he told his tale of the storm and the gale,
And the ships that he saw with steam and sail,
As he flew by the Northern Sea.

"I have seen a sign that is strange and new,
That I never before did see:
A flying ship that roared as it flew,
The storm and the tempest driving through,
It carried a flag and it carried a crew,
Now what would that be?" said he.

"And the flag was a Jack with stars displayed,
A flag that is new to me;
For it does not ply in the Northern trade,
But it drove through the storm-wrack unafraid,
Now, what is that flag?" said he.

"I have seen that flag that is starred with white,"
Said a southern gull, said he,
"And saw it fly in a bloody fight,

Andrew Barton Paterson

Flag Of The Southern Cross

Sons of Australia, be loyal and true to her,
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
Sing a loud song to be joyous and new to her,
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
Stain'd with the blood of the diggers who died by it,
Fling out the flag to the front, and abide by it,
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!

See how the toadies of Austral throw dust o'er her,
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
We who are holding her honour in trust for her,
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
See how the yellow-men next to her lust for her,
Sooner or later to battle we must for her,
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross.

Beg not of England the right to preserve ourselves,
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross,
We are the servants best ...

Henry Lawson

The Song Of The Flag.

I.

        Up with the country's flag!
        And let the winds caress it, fold on fold,--
        A stainless flag, and glorious to behold!
        It is our honour's pledge;
        It is the token of a truth sublime,
        A thing to die for, and to wonder at,
        When, on the shuddering edge
        Of some great storm, it waves its woven joy,
        Which no man shall destroy,
        In shine or shower, in peace or battle-time.
        Up with the flag!
        The winds are wild to toss it, and to brag
        Of England's high renown,--
        And of the throne where Chivalry has sat
        Acclaimed in bower and town
        For England's high renown!--
        And of these happy isles where men are free
        And masters o...

Eric Mackay

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.

On the western stations, far and wide,
There's many an empty pen,
For the "ringers" have cast the machines aside
And answered the call for men.

On the lucerne flats where the stream runs slow,
And the Hunter finds the sea,
The women are driving the mowers now,
With the children at their knee.

For the men have gone, as a man must go,
At the call of the rolling drums;
For the men have sworn that the Turks shall know
When the old battali...

Andrew Barton Paterson

Boots

We've travelled per Joe Gardiner, a humping of our swag
In the country of the Gidgee and Belar.
We've swum the Di'mantina with our raiment in a bag,
And we've travelled per superior motor car,
But when we went to Germany we hadn't any choice,
No matter what our training or pursuits,
For they gave us no selection 'twixt a Ford or Rolls de Royce
So we did it in our good Australian boots.

They called us "mad Australians"; they couldn't understand
How officers and men could fraternise,
Thay said that we were "reckless", we were "wild, and out of hand",
With nothing great or sacred to our eyes.
But on one thing you could gamble, in the thickest of the fray,
Though they called us volunteers and raw recruits,
You could track us past the shell holes, and the tracks were a...

Andrew Barton Paterson