The Maori Pig Market

In distant New Zealand, whose tresses of gold
The billows are ceaselessly combing,
Away in a village all tranquil and old
I came on a market where porkers were sold,
A market for pigs in the gloaming.

And Maoris in plenty in picturesque rig
The lands of their forefathers roaming,
Were weighing their swine, whether little or big,
For purchasers paid by the weight of the pig,
The weight of the pig in the gloaming.

And one mighty chieftain, I grieve to relate,
The while that his porker was foaming
And squealing like fifty, that Maori sedate,
He leant on the pig just to add to its weight,
He leant on the pig in the gloaming.

Alas! for the buyer, an Irishman stout,
O'Grady, I think, his cognomen,
Perceived all his doings, and, giving a shout,
With the butt of his whip laid him carefully out
By the side of his pig in the gloaming.

A terrible scrimmage did straightway begin,
And I thought it was time to be homing,
For Maoris and Irish were fighting like sin
'Midst war-cries of "Pakeha!" "Batherashin!"
As I fled from the spot in the gloaming.

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

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English

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The Maori's Wool

The Maoris are a mighty race, the finest ever known;
Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone;
They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done
They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one.
But now-a-days about the pahs in idleness they lurk,
Prepared to smoke or drink or talk, or anything but work.
The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow,
Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti-iti-au.

'Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came,
A Rangatira of the best, Rerenga was his name,
(The word Rerenga means a "snag", but until he was gone
This didn't strike the folk he met, it struck them later on).
He stalked into the Bank they call the "Great Financial Hell",
And told the Chief Financial Fie...

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A Change Of Menu

Now the new chum loaded his three-nought-three,
It's a small-bore gun, but his hopes were big.
"I am fed to the teeth with old ewe," said he,
"And I might be able to shoot a pig."
And he trusted more to his nose than ear
To give him warning when pigs were near.

Out of his lair in the lignum dark.
Where the wild duck nests and the bilbie digs,
With a whoof and a snort and a kind of bark
There rose the father of all the pigs:
And a tiger would have walked wide of him
As he stropped his tusks on a leaning limb.

Then the new chum's three-nought-three gave tongue
Like a popgun fired in an opera bouffe:
But a pig that was old when the world was young
Is near as possible bullet-proof.
(The more you shoot him the less he dies,
Unless you catch him bet...

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Paddy Malone In Australia

Och! my names Pat Malone, and Im from Tipperary.
    Sure, I dont know it now Im so bothered, Ohone!
And the gals that I danced with, light-hearted and airy,
    Its scarcely theyd notice poor Paddy Malone.
Tis twelve months or more since our ship she cast anchor
    In happy Australia, the Emigrants home,
And from that day to this theres been nothing but canker,
    And grafe and vexation for Paddy Malone.
        Oh, Paddy Malone! Oh, Paddy, Ohone!
        Bad luck to the agent that coaxed ye to roam.

Wid a man called a squatter I soon got a place, sure,
    Hed a beard like a goat, and such whiskers, Ohone!
And he saidas he peeped through the hair on his faitures
    That he liked the appearance of Paddy Malone.
Wid him I agreed to go up to his stat...

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Pat And The Pig

Old Deutchland's the country for sauerkraut and beer,
Old England's the land of roast beef and good cheer,
Auld Scotland's the mother of gristle and grit,
But Ireland, my boy, is the mother of wit.
Once Pat was indicted for stealing a pig,
And brought into court to the man in the wig.
The indictment was long and so lumbered with Latin
That Pat hardly knew what a pickle was Pat in;
But at last it was read to the end, and the wig
Said: "Pat, are you guilty of stealing the pig?"
Pat looked very wise, though a trifle forlorn,
And he asked of milord that the witness be sworn.
"Bless yer sowl," stammered Pat, "an' the day ye was born!
Faith how in the divil d'ye think Oi can tell
Till Oi hear the ividince?"
        Pat reckoned well;
For the witness was sworn and th...

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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
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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
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