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.

                                    Chorus

    To my bullocks then I say
    No matter where you stray,
        You will never be impounded any more;
    For youre running, running, running on the duffers piece of land,
        Free selected on the Eumerella shore.

When the moon has climbed the mountains and the stars are shining bright,
    Then we saddle up our horses and away,
And we yard the squatters cattle in the darkness of the night,
    And we have the calves all branded by the day.

                                    Chorus

Oh, my pretty little calf,
At the squatter you may laugh,
    For hell never be your owner any more;
For youre running, running, running on the duffers piece of land,
    Free selected on the Eumerella shore.

If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down,
    Although before theyre never known to stray,
Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town,
    And sell them into slavry far away.

                                    Chorus

    To Jack Robertson well say
    Youve been leading us astray,
        And well never go a-farming any more;
    For its easier duffing cattle on the little piece of land
        Free selected on the Eumerella shore.

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 Silent Shearer

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Squatter Of The Olden Time

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Lung Fish

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

Ambition And Art

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

English

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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,
    I mean to buy a team,
And when I get a wife, boys,
    Ill be all-serene
For calling at the depôt.
    They say theres no delay
To get an off-side...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Mountain Squatter

Here in my mountain home,
On rugged hills and steep,
I sit and watch you come,
O Riverinia Sheep!

You come from the fertile plains
Where saltbush (sometimes) grows,
And flats that (when it rains)
Will blossom like the rose.

But when the summer sun
Gleams down like burnished brass,
You have to leave your run
And hustle off for grass.

'Tis then that, forced to roam,
You come to where I keep,
Here in my mountain home,
A boarding-house for sheep.

Around me where I sit
The wary wombat goes,
A beast of little wit,
But what he knows, he knows.

The very same remark
Applies to me also;
I don't give out a spark,
But what I know, I know.

My brain perhaps would show
No convolutions deep,

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Freehold On The Plain

    (Air: The Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane.)


Im a broken-down old squatter, my cash it is all gone,
    Of troubles and bad seasons I complain;
My cattle are all mortgaged, of horses I have none,
    And Ive lost that little freehold on the plain.

                                        Chorus

    The stockyards broken down, and the woolsheds tumbling in;
        Ive written to the mortgagees in vain;
    My wool it is all damaged and it is not worth a pin,
        And Ive lost that little freehold on the plain.

I commenced life as a squatter some twenty years ago,
    When fortune followed in my train;
But I speculated heavy and Id have you all to know
    That Ive lost that little freehold on the plain.

    Chorus: The...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Murrumbidgee Shearer

Come, all you jolly natives, and Ill relate to you
Some of my observationsadventures, too, a few.
Ive travelled about the country for miles, full many a score,
And oft-times would have hungered, but for the cheek I bore.

Ive coasted on the Barwonlow down the Darling, too,
Ive been on the Murrumbidgee, and out on the Paroo;
Ive been on all the diggings, boys, from famous Ballarat;
Ive loafed upon the Lachlan and fossicked Lambing Flat.

I went up to a squatter, and asked him for a feed,
But the knowledge of my hunger was swallowed by his greed.
He said I was a loafer and for work had no desire,
And so, to do him justice, I set his shed on fire.

Oh, yes, Ive touched the shepherds hut, of sugar, tea, and flour;
And a tender bit of mutton I always coul...

Andrew Barton Paterson

Song Of The Squatter

    [The subjoined is one of the Songs of the Squatters, written by the Hon. Robert Lowe (afterwards Viscount Sherbrooke), while resident in New South Wales.]

The Commissioner bet me a ponyI won;
So he cut off exactly two-thirds of my run;
For he said I was making a fortune too fast,
And profit gained slower the longer would last.

He remarked as devouring my mutton he sat,
That I suffered my sheep to grow sadly too fat;
That they wasted waste land, did prerogative brown,
And rebelliously nibbled the droits of the Crown;

That the creek that divided my station in two
Showed that Nature designed that two fees should be due.
Mr. Riddle assured me twas paid but for show;
But he kept it and spent it; thats all that I know.

The Commissioner fined me be...

Andrew Barton Paterson

A Mountain Station

I bought a run a while ago
On country rough and ridgy,
Where wallaroos and wombats grow,
The Upper Murrumbidgee.
The grass is rather scant, it's true,
But this a fair exchange is,
The sheep can see a lovely view
By climbing up the ranges.

And She-oak Flat's the station's name,
I'm not surprised at that, sirs:
The oaks were there before I came,
And I supplied the flat, sirs.
A man would wonder how it's done,
The stock so soon decreases,
They sometimes tumble off the run
And break themselves to pieces.

I've tried to make expenses meet,
But wasted all my labours;
The sheep the dingoes didn't eat
Were stolen by the neighbours.
They stole my pears, my native pears,
Those thrice-convicted felons,
And ravished from me unaware...

Andrew Barton Paterson