Sam Holt

    (Air: Ben Bolt.)


Oh! dont you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt
    Black Alice, so dusky and dark,
The Warrego gin, with the straw through her nose,
    And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark.

The terrible sheepwash tobacco she smoked
    In the gunyah down there by the lake,
And the grubs that she roasted, and the lizards she stewed,
    And the damper you taught her to bake.

Oh! dont you remember the moons silver sheen,
    And the Warrego sand-ridges white?
And dont you remember those big bull-dog ants
    We caught in our blankets at night?

Oh! dont you remember the creepers, Sam Holt,
    That scattered their fragrance around?
And dont you remember that broken-down colt
    You sold me, and swore he was sound?

And dont you remember that fiver, Sam Holt,
    You borrowed so frank and so free,
When the publican landed your fifty-pound cheque
    At Tambo your very last spree?

Luck changes some natures, but yours, Sammy Holt,
    Was a grand one as ever I see,
And I fancy Ill whistle a good many tunes
    Ere you think of that fiver or me.

Oh! dont you remember the cattle you duffed,
    And your luck at the Sandy Creek rush,
And the poker you played, and the bluffs that you bluffed,
    And your habits of holding a flush?

And dont you remember the pasting you got
    By the boys down in Callaghans store,
When Tim Hooligan found a fifth ace in his hand,
    And you holding his pile upon four?

You were not the cleanest potato, Sam Holt,
    You had not the cleanest of fins.
But you made your pile on the Towers, Sam Holt,
    And that covers the most of your sins.

They say youve ten thousand per annum, Sam Holt,
    In England, a park and a drag;
Perhaps you forget you were six months ago
    In Queensland a-humping your swag.

But whod think to see you now dining in state
    With a lord and the devil knows who,
You were flashing your dover, six short months ago,
    In a lambing camp on the Barcoo.

Whens my time coming?    Perhaps never, I think,
    And its likely enough your old mate
Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden-road
    To the end of the chapter of fate.

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

A Dream Of The Melbourne Cup

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

Paddys Letter, 1857

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

With The Cattle

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

Immigration

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

English

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The Squatter Of The Olden Time

    (Air: A fine old English gentleman.)


Ill sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,
Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,
Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
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Sweeney

It was somewhere in September, and the sun was going down,
When I came, in search of `copy', to a Darling-River town;
`Come-and-have-a-drink' we'll call it, 'tis a fitting name, I think,
And 'twas raining, for a wonder, up at Come-and-have-a-drink.

'Neath the public-house verandah I was resting on a bunk
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`No erfence,' he said. I told him that he needn't mention it,
For I might have met him somewhere; I had travelled round a bit,
And I knew a lot of fellows in the bush and in the streets,
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Very old and thin and dirty were th...

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The Last Review

Turn the light down, nurse, and leave me, while I hold my last review,
For the Bush is slipping from me, and the town is going too:
Draw the blinds, the streets are lighted, and I hear the tramp of feet,
And Im weary, very weary, of the Faces in the Street.

In the dens of Grind and Heartbreak, in the streets of Never-Rest,
I have lost the scent and colour and the music of the West:
And I would recall old faces with the memories they bring,
Where are Bill and Jim and Mary and the Songs They used to Sing?

They are coming! They are coming! they are passing through the room
With the smell of gum leaves burning, and the scent of Wattle bloom!
And behind them in the timber, after dust and heat and toil,
Others sit beside the camp fire yarning while the billies boil.

...

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Billy Barlow In Australia

When I was at home I was down on my luck,
And I earned a poor living by drawing a truck;
But old aunt died, and left me a thousandOh, oh,
Ill start on my travels, said Billy Barlow.
        Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
        So off to Australia came Billy Barlow.

When to Sydney I got, there a merchant I met,
Who said he would teach me a fortune to get;
Hed cattle and sheep past the colonys bounds,
Which he sold with the station for my thousand pounds.
        Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
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When the bargain was struck, and the money was paid,
He said, My dear fellow, your fortune is made;
I can furnish supplies for the station, you know,
And your bill is sufficient, good Mr. Barlow.
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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.

                        CHORUS

    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,
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The Broken-Down Squatter

    (Air: Its a fine hunting day.)


Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can;
    All our mates in the paddock are dead.
Let us wave our farewells to Glen Evas sweet dells
    And the hills where your lordship was bred;
Together to roam from our drought-stricken home
    It seems hard that such things have to be,
And its hard on a hogs when hes nought for a boss
    But a broken-down squatter like me!

                                        Chorus

    For the banks are all broken, they say,
        And the merchants are all up a tree.
    When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court,
        What chance for a squatter like me.

No more shall we muster the river for fats,
    Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain,

Andrew Barton Paterson