60 Classic Australian Poems for Children Read online

  An overgrown two-storey lad from Tangmalangaloo?

  A hefty son of virgin soil, where nature has her fling,

  And grows the trefoil three feet high and mats it in the spring;

  Where mighty hills uplift their heads to pierce the welkin’s rim,

  And trees sprout up a hundred feet before they shoot a limb;

  There everything is big and grand, and men are giants too—

  But Christian Knowledge wilts, alas, at Tangmalangaloo.

  The bishop summed the youngsters up, as bishops only can;

  He cast a searching glance around, then fixed upon his man.

  But glum and dumb and undismayed through every bout he sat;

  He seemed to think that he was there, but wasn’t sure of that.

  The bishop gave a scornful look, as bishops sometimes do,

  And glared right through the pagan in from Tangmalangaloo.

  ‘Come, tell me, boy,’ his lordship said in crushing tones severe,

  ‘Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the year?

  ‘How is it that around the world we celebrate that day

  ‘And send a name upon a card to those who’re far away?

  ‘Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and greetings, too?’

  A squall of knowledge hit the lad from Tangmalangaloo.

  He gave a lurch which set a-shake the vases on the shelf,

  He knocked the benches all askew, up-ending of himself.

  And so, how pleased his lordship was, and how he smiled to say,

  ‘That’s good, my boy. Come, tell me now; and what is Christmas Day?’

  The ready answer bared a fact no bishop ever knew—

  ‘It’s the day before the races out at Tangmalangaloo.’

  Around the Boree Log and other verses, 1922

  47

  The Teacher

  CJ Dennis

  I’d like to be a teacher, and have a clever brain,

  Calling out, ‘Attention, please!’ and ‘Must I speak in vain?’

  I’d be quite strict with boys and girls whose minds I had to train,

  And all the books and maps and things I’d carefully explain;

  I’d make them learn the dates of kings, and all the capes of Spain;

  But I wouldn’t be a teacher if …

  I couldn’t use the cane.

  Would you?

  A Book for Kids, 1921

  48

  The Teams

  Henry Lawson

  A cloud of dust on the long white road,

  And the teams go creeping on,

  Inch by inch with the weary load;

  And by the power of the green-hide goad

  The distant goal is won.

  With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust,

  And necks to the yokes bent low,

  The beasts are pulling as bullocks must,

  And the shining rims of the tire-rings rust

  While the spokes are turning slow.

  With face half-hid ’neath a broad-brimm’d hat

  That shades from the heat’s white waves,

  And shoulder’d whip with its green-hide plat,

  The driver plods with a gait like that

  Of his weary, patient slaves.

  He wipes his brow, for the day is hot,

  And spits to the left with spite;

  He shouts at ‘Bally’, and flicks at ‘Scot’,

  And raises dust from the back of ‘Spot’,

  And spits to the dusty right.

  He’ll sometimes pause as a thing of form

  In front of a lonely door,

  And ask for a drink, and remark ‘’Tis warm,’

  Or say ‘There’s signs of a thunder-storm;’

  But he seldom utters more.

  But, ah! there are other scenes than these;

  And, passing his lonely home,

  For weeks together the settler sees

  The teams bogg’d down o’er the axletrees,

  Or ploughing the sodden loam.

  And then when the roads are at their worst,

  The bushman’s children hear

  The cruel blows of the whips revers’d

  While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst,

  And bellow with pain and fear.

  And thus with little of joy or rest

  Are the long, long journeys done;

  And thus—’tis a cruel war at the best—

  Is distance fought in the lonely west,

  And the dusty battles won.

  Australian Town and Country Journal, 1889

  49

  The Tram-Man

  CJ Dennis

  I’d like to be a Tram-man, and ride about all day,

  Calling out, ‘Fares, please!’ in quite a ’ficious way,

  With pockets full of pennies which I’d make the people pay.

  But in the hottest days I’d take my tram down to the Bay;

  And when I saw the nice cool sea I’d shout

  ‘Hip, hip, hooray!’

  But I wouldn’t be a Tram-man if …

  I couldn’t stop and play.

  Would you?

  A Book for Kids, 1921

  50

  The Traveller

  CJ Dennis

  As I rode in to Burrumbeet,

  I met a man with funny feet;

  And, when I paused to ask him why

  His feet were strange, he rolled his eye

  And said the rain would spoil the wheat;

  So I rode on to Burrumbeet.

  As I rode in to Beetaloo,

  I met a man whose nose was blue;

  And when I asked him how he got

  A nose like that, he answered, ‘What

  Do bullocks mean when they say “Moo”?’

  So I rode on to Beetaloo.

  As I rode in to Ballarat,

  I met a man who wore no hat;

  And, when I said he might take cold,

  He cried, ‘The hills are quite as old

  As yonder plains, but not so flat.’

  So I rode on to Ballarat.

  As I rode in to Gundagai,

  I met a man and passed him by

  Without a nod, without a word.

  He turned, and said he’d never heard

  Or seen a man so wise as I.

  But I rode on to Gundagai.

  As I rode homeward, full of doubt,

  I met a stranger riding out:

  A foolish man he seemed to me;

  But, ‘Nay, I am yourself,’ said he,

  ‘Just as you were when you rode out.’

  So I rode homeward, free of doubt.

  A Book for Kids, 1921

  51

  The Travelling Post-Office

  Banjo Paterson

  The roving breezes come and go, the reed-beds sweep and sway,

  The sleepy river murmurs low, and loiters on its way;

  It is the land of Lots o’ Time—along the Castlereagh.

  The old man’s son had left the farm—he found it dull and slow,

  He drifted to the great North-west where all the rovers go.

  ‘He’s gone so long,’ the old man said; ‘he’s dropped right out of mind,

  But if you’d write a line to him I’d take it very kind.

  He’s shearing here and fencing there—a kind of waif and stray,

  He’s droving now with Conroy’s sheep along the Castlereagh.

  ‘The sheep are travelling for the grass and travelling very slow,

  They may be at Mundooran now, or past the Overflow—

  Or tramping down the black soil flats across by Waddiwong,

  But all those little country towns would send the letter wrong.

  The mailman, if he’s extra-full, would pass them in his sleep—

  It’s safest to address the note to “care of Conroy’s sheep,”

  For five-and-twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray—

  You write to “care of Conr
oy’s sheep along the Castlereagh”.’

  By rock and ridge and riverside the Western mail has gone,

  Across the great Blue Mountain Range to take that letter on.

  A moment on the topmost grade, while open fire-doors glare,

  She pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air;

  Then launches down the other side across the plains away

  To bear that note to Conroy’s sheep along the Castlereagh.

  And now by coach and mailman’s bag it goes from town to town,

  And Conroy’s Gap and Conroy’s Creek have marked it ‘further down.’

  Beneath a sky of deepest blue, where never cloud abides,

  A speck upon the waste of plain the lonely mailman rides;

  Where fierce hot winds have set the pine and myall boughs asweep

  He hails the shearers passing by for news of Conroy’s sheep.

  By big lagoons where wild-fowl play and crested pigeons flock,

  By camp-fires where the drovers ride around their restless stock,

  And past the teamster toiling down to fetch the wool away

  My letter chases Conroy’s sheep along the Castlereagh.

  The Bulletin, 1894

  52

  The Triantiwontigongolope

  CJ Dennis

  There’s a very funny insect that you do not often spy,

  And it isn’t quite a spider, and it isn’t quite a fly;

  It is something like a beetle, and a little like a bee,

  But nothing like a woolly grub that climbs upon a tree.

  Its name is quite a hard one, but you’ll learn it soon, I hope.

  So try:

  Tri-

  Tri-anti-wonti-

  Triantiwontigongolope.

  It lives on weeds and wattle-gum, and has a funny face;

  Its appetite is hearty, and its manners a disgrace.

  When first you come upon it, it will give you quite a scare,

  But when you look for it again, you find it isn’t there.

  And unless you call it softly it will stay away and mope.

  So try:

  Tri-

  Tri-anti-wonti-

  Triantiwontigongolope.

  It trembles if you tickle it or tread upon its toes;

  It is not an early riser, but it has a snubbish nose.

  If you sneer at it, or scold it, it will scuttle off in shame,

  But it purrs and purrs quite proudly if you call it by its name,

  And offer it some sandwiches of sealing-wax and soap.

  So try:

  Tri-

  Tri-anti-wonti-

  Triantiwontigongolope.

  But of course you haven’t seen it; and I truthfully confess

  That I haven’t seen it either, and I don’t know its address.

  For there isn’t such an insect, though there really might have been

  If the trees and grass were purple, and the sky was bottle-green.

  It’s just a little joke of mine, which you’ll forgive, I hope.

  Oh, try!

  Tri!

  Tri-anti-wonti-

  Triantiwontigongolope.

  A Book for Kids, 1921

  53

  Waiting for the Rain

  (A Shearing Song)

  John Neilson

  The weather has been warm for a fortnight now or more,

  And the shearers have been driving might and main,

  For some have got the century who ne’er got it before;

  But now all hands are waiting for the rain.

  CHORUS

  For the boss is getting rusty, and the ringer’s caving in,

  His bandaged wrist is aching with the pain,

  And the second man, I fear, will make it hot for him

  Unless we have another fall of rain.

  Some are taking quarters and keeping well in bunk

  While we shear the six-tooth wethers from the plain,

  And if the sheep get harder some more of us will funk,

  Unless we have another fall of rain.

  Some cockies come here shearing; they would fill a little book

  About this sad dry weather for the grain,

  But here’s lunch a-coming, make way for Dick the cook—

  Old Dick is nigh as welcome as the rain.

  But now the sky is overcast; the thunder’s muttering loud;

  The clouds are drifting westward o’er the plain,

  And I see the red fire breaking from the edge of yonder cloud!

  I hear the gentle patter of the rain!

  So, lads, put on your stoppers, and let us to the hut,

  We all can do a full day’s rest again;

  Some will be playing music, while some play ante-up,

  And some are gazing outward at the rain.

  And now the rain is over let the pressers spin the screw,

  Let the teamsters back their wagons in again,

  We’ll block the classers up by the way we put them through

  For everything goes merry since the rain.

  Let the boss bring out the bottle, let him ‘wet’ the final flock,

  For the shearers here may ne’er meet all again;

  Some may meet next season, but perhaps not even then

  For soon we all will vanish like the rain.

  The Men of the Fifties, 1938

  54

  Waltzing Matilda

  Banjo Paterson

  There once was a swagman camped in a billabong

  Under the shade of a Coolibah tree

  And he sang as he looked at the 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 put him away in his tucker-bag

  You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me

  You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda my darling

  You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me

  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag

  You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me

  Down came the squatter a-riding his thorough-bred

  Down came policemen one two three

  Whose is the jumbuck you’ve got in the tucker-bag

  You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me

  You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda my darling

  You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me

  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-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 Coolibah tree

  And his ghost may be heard as it sings by the billabong

  Who’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

  * * *

  The Waltzing Matilda logo on the Australian $10 note is from a 1903 musical arrangement and was used to promote Billy Tea.

  Paterson wrote the first verse while holidaying in 1895 specifically to accompany a tune played by his friend Christina Macpherson. Her tune was probably based on a Scottish song.

  The version of ‘Waltzing Matilda’ most popular today first appeared in 1903. It is based on this version. A third version—the Queensland version—uses similar words but a different tune.

  * * *

  55

  Waratah and Wattle

  Henry Lawson

  Though poor and in trouble I wander alone,

  With a rebel cockade in my hat;

  Though friends may desert me, and kindred disown,

  My country will never do that!

  You may sing of the Shamrock, the Thistle, and Rose,

  Or the three in a bunch if you will;

  But I know of a country that gathered
all those,

  And I love the great land where the Waratah grows,

  And the Wattle-bough blooms on the hill.

  Australia! Australia! so fair to behold—

  While the blue sky is arching above;

  The stranger should never have need to be told,

  That the Wattle-bloom means that her heart is of gold,

  And the Waratah red blood of love.

  Australia! Australia! most beautiful name,

  Most kindly and bountiful land;

  I would die every death that might save her from shame,

  If a black cloud should rise on the strand;

  But whatever the quarrel, whoever her foes,

  Let them come! Let them come when they will!

  Though the struggle be grim, ’tis Australia that knows,

  That her children shall fight while the Waratah grows,

  And the Wattle blooms out on the hill.

  When I was King, and other verses, 1905

  56

  The Warrigal4

  Henry Kendall

  Through forest boles the stormwind rolls,

  Vext of the sea-driv’n rain;

  And, up in the clift, through many a rift,

  The voices of torrents complain.

  The sad marsh-fowl and the lonely owl

  Are heard in the fog-wreaths grey,

  When the warrigal wakes, and listens, and takes

  To the woods that shelter the prey.