The Free Selector

    (A Song of 1861.)


Ye sons of industry, to you I belong,
And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song,
Rejoicing oer the victory John Robertson has won
Now the Land Bill has passed and the good time has come
    Now the Land Bill, &c.

No more with our swags through the bush need we roam
For to ask of another there to give us a home,
Now the land is unfettered and we may reside
In a home of our own by some clear waterside.
    In a home of our own, &c.

On some fertile spot which we may call our own,
Where the rich verdure grows, we will build up a home.
There industry will flourish and content will smile,
While our children rejoicing will share in our toil.
    While our children, &c.

We will plant our garden and sow our own field,
And eat from the fruits which industry will yield,
And be independent, what we long for have strived,
Though those that have ruled us the right long denied.
    Though those that have ruled us, &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 Fitzroy Blacksmith

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Freehold On The Plain

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Eumerella Shore

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

Old Australian Ways

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.

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

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

Song Of The Future

'Tis strange that in a land so strong
So strong and bold in mighty youth,
We have no poet's voice of truth
To sing for us a wondrous song.

Our chiefest singer yet has sung
In wild, sweet notes a passing strain,
All carelessly and sadly flung
To that dull world he thought so vain.

"I care for nothing, good nor bad,
My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled,
I am but sifting sand," he said:
What wonder Gordon's songs were sad!

And yet, not always sad and hard;
In cheerful mood and light of heart
He told the tale of Britomarte,
And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Garde.

And some have said that Nature's face
To us is always sad; but these
Have never felt the smiling grace
Of waving grass and forest trees
On sunlit plains as wide as...

Andrew Barton Paterson

Sunny New South Wales

We often hear men boast about the land which gave them birth,
And each one thinks his native land the fairest spot on earth;
In beauty, riches, power, no land can his surpass;
To his, all other lands on earth cannot even hold a glass.
Now, if other people have their boasts, then, say, why should not we,
For we can drink our jovial toast and sing with three times three;
For theres not a country in the world where all thats fair prevails
As here it does in this our land, our sunny New South Wales.

                                    Chorus

    Then toast with me our happy land,
        Where all thats fair prevails,
    Our colours blue and our hearts are true,
        In sunny New South Wales.

Now let us take a passing glance at all that we possess.

Andrew Barton Paterson

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
That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made great
    Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.

His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots and shoes,
And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and snooze,
And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums choose
    Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.

And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears them ...

Andrew Barton Paterson

Colonial Experience

    [By A New Chum]

    (Air: So Early in the Morning.)


When first I came to Sydney Cove
And up and down the streets did rove,
I thought such sights I neer did see
Since first I learnt my A, B, C.

                        Chorus

    Oh! its broiling in the morning,
    Its toiling in the morning,
    Its broiling in the morning,
    Its toiling all day long.

Into the park I took a stroll
I felt just like a buttered roll.
A pretty name The Sunny South!
A better one The Land of Drouth!

    Chorus: Oh! its broiling, &c.

Next day into the bush I went,
On wild adventure I was bent,
Dame Natures wonders Id explore,
All thought of danger would ignore.

    Chorus: Oh! its broi...

Andrew Barton Paterson