The Dying Stockman

    (Air: The Old Stable Jacket.)


A strapping young stockman lay dying,
    His saddle supporting his head;
His two mates around him were crying,
    As he rose on his pillow and said:

                            Chorus

    Wrap me up with my stockwhip and blanket,
        And bury me deep down below,
    Where the dingoes and crows cant molest me,
        In the shade where the coolibahs grow.

Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing,
    Far oer the plains would I fly,
Straight to the land of my childhood,
    And there would I lay down and die.

                Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

Then cut down a couple of saplings,
    Place one at my head and my toe,
Carve on them cross, stockwhip, and saddle,
    To show theres a stockman below.

                Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

Hark! theres the wail of a dingo,
    Watchful and weirdI must go,
For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman
    From the gloom of the scrub down below.

                Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

Theres tea in the battered old billy;
    Place the pannikins out in a row,
And well drink to the next merry meeting,
    In the place where all good fellows go.

                Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

And oft in the shades of the twilight,
    When the soft winds are whispering low,
And the darkning shadows are falling,
    Sometimes think of the stockman below.

            Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

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 Overlander

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Broken-Down Squatter

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Plains

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

A Voice From The Town

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

English

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The Stockmans Last Bed

Be ye stockmen or no, to my story give ear.
Alas! for poor Jack, no more shall we hear
The crack of his stockwhip, his steeds lively trot,
His clear Go ahead, boys, his jingling quart pot.

                                        Chorus

    For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed,
    And the tall gum trees shadow the stockmans last bed.

Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow.
Alas! cried poor Jack, its all up with me now,
For I never again shall my saddle regain,
Nor bound like a wallaby over the plain.

His whip it is silent, his dogs they do mourn,
His steed looks in vain for his masters return;
No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies;
Save Australias dark sons, few know where he lies.

Now, stockm...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Stockmen Of Australia

The stockmen of Australia, what rowdy boys are they,
They will curse and swear an hurricane if you come in their way.
They dash along the forest on black, bay, brown, or grey,
And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.

            Chorus: And the stockmen, &c.

By constant feats of horsemanship, they procure for us our grub,
And supply us with the fattest beef by hard work in the scrub.
To muster up the cattle they cease not night nor day,
And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.

            Chorus: And the stockmen, &c.

Just mark him as he jogs along, his stockwhip on his knee,
His white mole pants and polished boots and jaunty cabbage- tree.
His horsey-pattern Crimean shirt of colours bright and gay,
And the st...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Old Stockman's Lament

Wrap me up in me stockwhip and blanket,
And bury me deep down below,
Where this piffle and sham wont disgust me,
In the land where the coolibahs grow;
For Ive stayed with some well-to-do people,
And Ive dined with some middle-class folk;
And Ive sorrowed by clock-tower and steeple
Till my heart for the Commonwealths broke.

They have flown in another direction,
Who used to clack-clack by the hour
Of this awful Freetrade and Protection,
Of our dear darling member in power,
And the Higher Religion for Dossers,
And the Need of an Object for Drunks,
Now theyre all of them Red or Blue Crossers,
With their tails sticking out of their trunks.

There are citified Martins in dozens,
The Darling Point Martins the pick,
Who used to be horrif...

Henry Lawson

Years After The War In Australia

The Big rough boys from the runs out back were first where the balls flew free,
And yelled in the slang of the Outside Track: By God, its a Christmas spree!
Its not too rusty, and Wool away!, stand clear of the blazing shoots!,
Sheep O! Sheep O!, Well cut out to-day, Look out for the bosss boots!
What price the tally in camp to-night!, What price the boys Out Back!
Go it, you tigers, for Right or Might and the pride of the Outside Track!
Needle and thread!, I have broke my comb!, Now ride, you flour-bags, ride!
Fight for your mates and the folk at home!, Heres for the Lachlan side!
Those men of the West would sneer and scoff at the gates of hell ajar,
And oft the sight of a head cut off was hailed by a yell for Tar!

I heard the push in the Red Red...

Henry Lawson

Jacks Last Muster

Diamantina River, Western Queensland


The first flush of grey light, the herald of daylight,
Is dimly outlining the musterers camp,
Where over the sleeping, the stealthily creeping
Breath of the morning lies chilly and damp,

As, blankets forsaking, twixt sleeping and waking,
The black-boys turn out to the managers call;
Whose order, of course, is, Be after the horses,
And take all sorts of care you unhobble them all.

Then, each with a bridle (provokingly idle)
They saunter away his commands to fulfil,
Where, cheerily chiming, the musical rhyming
From equine bell-ringers comes over the hill.

But now the dull dawning gives place to the morning,
The sun, springing up in a glorious flood
Of golden-shot fire, mounts higher and hi...

Barcroft Boake

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.

...

Henry Lawson