The Shepherd

    (Air: She Wore a Wreath of Roses.)


He wore an old blue shirt the night that first we met,
An old and tattered cabbage-tree concealed his locks of jet;
His footsteps had a languor, his voice a husky tone;
Both man and dog were spent with toil as they slowly wandered home.

                                    Chorus

    I saw him but a momentyet methinks I see him now
    While his sheep were gently feeding neath the rugged mountain brow.

When next we met, the old blue shirt and cabbage-tree were gone;
A brand new suit of tweed and Doctor Dod he had put on;
Arm in arm with him was one who strove, and not in vain,
To ease his pockets of their load by drinking real champagne.

    I saw him but a moment, and he was going a pace,
    Shouting nobbler after nobbler, with a smile upon his face.

When next again I saw that man his suit of tweed was gone,
The old blue shirt and cabbage-tree once more he had put on;
Slowly he trudged along the road and took the well-known track
From the station he so lately left with a swag upon his back.

    I saw him but a moment as he was walking by
    With two black eyes and broken nose and a tear-drop in his eye.

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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A Shepherd's Dream

A silly shepherd lately sat
    Among a flock of sheep;
Where musing long on this and that,
    At last he fell asleep.
And in the slumber as he lay,
    He gave a piteous groan;
He thought his sheep were run away,
    And he was left alone.
He whoop'd, he whistled, and he call'd,
    But not a sheep came near him;
Which made the shepherd sore appall'd
    To see that none would hear him.
But as the swain amazèd stood,
    In this most solemn vein,
Came Phyllida forth of the wood,
    And stood before the swain.
Whom when the shepherd did behold
    He straight began to weep,
And at the heart he grew a-cold,
    To think upon his sheep.
For well he knew, where came the queen,
    The shepherd durst not stay:
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The Sad Shepherd

Shepherd That crys from the first cuckoo of the year
I wished before it ceased.

Goatherd Nor bird nor beast
Could make me wish for anything this day,
Being old, but that the old alone might die,
And that would be against Gods Providence.
Let the young wish. But what has brought you here?
Never until this moment have we met
Where my goats browse on the scarce grass or leap
From stone to stone.

Shepherd. I am looking for strayed sheep;
Something has troubled me and in my trouble
I let them stray. I thought of rhyme alone,
For rhyme can beat a measure out of trouble
And make the daylight sweet once more; but when
I had driven every rhyme into its place
The sheep had gone from theirs.

Goatherd. I know right well
What turned so good a ...

William Butler Yeats

The Drover's Sweetheart

An hour before the sun goes down
Behind the ragged boughs,
I go across the little run
And bring the dusty cows;
And once I used to sit and rest
Beneath the fading dome,
For there was one that I loved best
Who'd bring the cattle home.

Our yard is fixed with double bails,
Round one the grass is green,
The bush is growing through the rails,
The spike is rusted in;
And 'twas from there his freckled face
Would turn and smile at me
He'd milk a dozen in the race
While I was milking three.

I milk eleven cows myself
Where once I milked but four;
I set the dishes on the shelf
And close the dairy door;
And when the glaring sunlight fails
And the fire shines through the cracks,
I climb the broken stockyard rails
And watch the...

Henry Lawson

The Swagman

Kind friends, pray give attention
    To this, my little song.
Some rum things I will mention,
    And Ill not detain you long.
Up and down this country
    I travel, dont you see,
Im a swagman on the wallaby,
    Oh! dont you pity me.
Im a swagman on the wallaby,
    Oh! dont you pity me.

At first I started shearing,
    And I bought a pair of shears.
On my first sheep appearing,
    Why, I cut off both its ears.
Then I nearly skinned the brute,
    As clean as clean could he.
So I was kicked out of the shed,
    Oh! dont you pity me, &c.

I started station loafing,
    Short stages and took my ease;
So all day long till sundown
    Id camp beneath the trees.
Then Id walk up to the station,
    The ma...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Shepherd And His Dog. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

My dog and I are both grown old;
On these wild downs we watch all day;
He looks in my face when the wind blows cold,
And thus methinks I hear him say:

The gray stone circlet is below,
The village smoke is at our feet;
We nothing hear but the sailing crow,
And wandering flocks, that roam and bleat.

Far off, the early horseman hies,
In shower or sunshine rushing on;
Yonder the dusty whirlwind flies;
The distant coach is seen and gone.

Though solitude around is spread,
Master, alone thou shalt not be;
And when the turf is on thy head,
I only shall remember thee!

I marked his look of faithful care,
I placed my hand on his shaggy side;
There is a sun that shines above,
A sun that shines on both, I cried.

William Lisle Bowles

The Forlorn Shepherd's Complaint.[1] - An Unpublished Poem, From Sydney.

"Vell! Here I am - no Matter how it suits
A-keeping Company vith them dumb Brutes;
Old Park vos no bad Judge - confound his vig!
Of vot vood break the Sperrit of a Prig!

"The Like of Me, to come to New Sow Wales
To go a-tagging arter Vethers' Tails
And valk in Herbage as delights the Flock,
But stinks of Sweet Herbs vorser nor the Dock!

"To go to set this solitary Job
To Von whose Vork vos alvay in a Mob!
It's out of all our Lines, for sure I am
Jack Shepherd even never kep a Lamb!

"I arn't ashamed to say I sit and veep
To think of Seven Year of keepin Sheep,
The spooniest Beast in Nater, all to Sticks,
And not a Votch to take for all their Ticks!

"If I'd fore-seed how Transports vould turn out
To only Baa! and Botanize about,

Thomas Hood