Waltzing Matilda

Oh! there once was a swagman camped in a Billabong,
Under the shade of a Coolabah tree;
And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling,
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"

    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling?
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
    Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag,
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?

Down came a jumbuck to drink at the water-hole,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee;
And he sang as he stowed him away in his tucker-bag,
"You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

Down came the Squatter a-riding his thoroughbred;
Down came Policemen, one, two and three.
"Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!"

But the swagman he up and he jumped in the water-hole,
Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree;
And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the Billabong
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"

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 Diggers

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

The Old Keg Of Rum

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

Typographical

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

A Triolet

Andrew Barton Paterson, Simple Poetry

English

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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 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

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

The Wallaby Brigade

You often have been told of regiments brave and bold,
But we are the bravest in the land;
Were called the Tag-rag Band, and we rally in Queensland,
We are members of the Wallaby Brigade.

                                        Chorus

    Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders,
    The swagmen are rolling up, I see.
    When the shearings at an end well go fishing in a bend.
    Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade.

When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp
If there are any jobs to be had,
Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop
For a member of the Wallaby Brigade.

    Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.

You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then,
If they dont stump up a warning should be made;

Andrew Barton Paterson

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

On The Wallaby

Now the tent poles are rotting, the camp fires are dead,
And the possums may gambol in trees overhead;
I am humping my bluey far out on the land,
And the prints of my bluchers sink deep in the sand:
I am out on the wallaby humping my drum,
And I came by the tracks where the sundowners come.

It is nor'-west and west o'er the ranges and far
To the plains where the cattle and sheep stations are,
With the sky for my roof and the grass for my bunk,
And a calico bag for my damper and junk;
And scarcely a comrade my memory reveals,
Save the spiritless dingo in tow of my heels.

But I think of the honest old light of my home
When the stars hang in clusters like lamps from the dome,
And I think of the hearth where the dark shadows fall,
When my camp fire is built...

Henry Lawson