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, stockman, if ever on some future day
After the wild mob you happen to stray,
Tread softly where wattles their sweet fragrance spread,
Where alone and neglected poor Jacks bones are laid.

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

Saltbush Bill, J.P.

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

Santa Claus In The Bush

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Scapegoat

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

Old Schooldays

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 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,

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Stockman

    (Air: A wet sheet and a flowing sea.)


A bright sun and a loosened rein,
    A whip whose pealing sound
Rings forth amid the forest trees
    As merrily forth we bound
As merrily forth we bound, my boys,
    And, by the dawns pale light,
Speed fearless on our horses true
    From morn till starry night.

Oh! for a tame and quiet herd,
    I hear some crawler cry;
But give to me the mountain mob
    With the flash of their tameless eye
With the flash of their tameless eye, my boys,
    As down the rugged spur
Dash the wild children of the woods,
    And the horse that mocks at fear.

Theres mischief in you wide-horned steer,
    Theres danger in you cow;
Then mount, my merry horsemen all,
    The wild mobs ...

Andrew Barton Paterson

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 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 Australian Stockman

The sun peers oer you wooded ridge and thro the forest dense,
Its golden edge oer the mountain ledge looks down on the stockyard fence,
Looks down, looks down, looks down on the stockyard fence;
And dark creeks rush thro the tangled brush, when their shuddering shadows throng
Until they chime in the rude rough rhyme of the wild goburras song.

                                    Chorus

    Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the wild goburras song;
    Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the wild goburras song.

The night owl to her home hath fled, to shun the glorious pomp
Of golden day she speeds away to her nest in the tea-tree swamp;
Away, away to her nest in the tea-tree swamp.

The dingo looks with a timid stare as he...

Andrew Barton Paterson

In The Droving Days

"Only a pound," said the auctioneer,
"Only a pound; and I'm standing here
Selling this animal, gain or loss,
Only a pound for the drover's horse?
One of the sort that was ne'er afraid,
One of the boys of the Old Brigade;
Thoroughly honest and game, I'll swear,
Only a little the worse for wear;
Plenty as bad to be seen in town,
Give me a bid and I'll knock him down;
Sold as he stands, and without recourse,
Give me a bid for the drover's horse."

Loitering there in an aimless way
Somehow I noticed the poor old grey,
Weary and battered and screwed, of course;
Yet when I noticed the old grey horse,
The rough bush saddle, and single rein
Of the bridle laid on his tangled mane,
Straighway the crowd and the auctioneer
Seemed on a sudden to disappe...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Stockmans Last Bed

Suggested Poems

The Stockmans Last Bed