Banjo Paterson

Banjo’s celebrates the legend of AB ‘Banjo’ Paterson.

Andrew Barton ‘Banjo’ Paterson (1864-1941)

Banjo-PattersonBanjo Paterson, known as ‘Barty’ to his family, was born on 17 February 1864. Growing up in country NSW and Sydney, he was to become a solicitor, journalist, horseman – and Australia’s most celebrated bush poet.

Banjo Paterson’s poems were first published in the Sydney Bulletin in 1885, under the pseudonym of ‘B’ or ‘The Banjo’ (the name of his favourite horse). An ardent nationalist, he published a pamphlet, Australia for the Australians in 1889 expressing his disdain for cheap labour and his admiration of hard work and the nationalist spirit.

In 1890, he wrote The Man from Snowy River a poem that captured the heart of the nation, and five years later published his first collection under that name, which remains Australia’s best-selling collection of bush poetry. In 1895, he composed his famous ballad Waltzing Matilda.

At the time of his death on 5 February 1941 Banjo Paterson had published seven volumes of poetry and prose in many editions, a collection The Collected Verse of A.B. Paterson (1923), a children’s book The Animals Noah Forgot (1933) and an anthology The Old Bush Songs (1905), in addition to his many pieces of journalism and reportage.

On the night of his death, a tribute was broadcast saying that Banjo Paterson had captured both our affections and our imaginations…

… made himself a vital part of the country we all know and love, and it would not only have been a poorer country but one far less united in bonds of intimate feeling, if he had never lived and written’.

Banjo Paterson is honoured on our Australian $10 note. His image appears along with an illustration inspired by The Man From Snowy River and, as part of the copy-protection microprint, the text of the poem itself.

Banjo Paterson’s ballad, Walzing Matilda, has become Australia’s unofficial national anthem. His poem The Man From Snowy River was made into a film in 1982, filmed on location in and around Mansfield.

Waltzing Matilda

Banjo Paterson wrote Waltzing Matilda while on holidays with friends in 1885.

Waltzing Matilda

WALT

Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong,
Under the shade of a coolibah tree,
And he sang as he watched and waited ’til his billy boiled “Who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me?”
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
“Who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me?”
And he sang as he watched and waited ’til his billy boiled, “Who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me?”

Along came a jumbuck to drink at the billabong,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee,
And he sang as he stowed that jumbuck in his tucker bag,
“You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me.”
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me
And he sang as he stowed that jumbuck in his tucker bag, “You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me?”

Up rode the squatter, mounted on his thoroughbred,
Down came the troopers, one, two, three,
“Whose is that jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker bag?”
“You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me.
“Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me
“Whose is that jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker bag?”
“You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me?”

Up jumped the swagman, leapt into the billabong,
“You’ll never catch me alive,” said he,
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by the billabong,
“Who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me?”
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by the billabong,
“Who’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me?

Word meanings

Billabong: Waterhole
Billy: A can used to boil water for tea
Coolabah tree: Type of native tree in Australia
Jumbuck: Sheep
Matilda: Army coats or blankets that soldiers rolled and tossed over their shoulders
Swagman: Hobo
Trooper: Soldier
Tucker bag: Knapsack or bag for storing food

The Man From Snowy River

by AB “Banjo” Paterson

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses – he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up-
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony-three parts thoroughbred at least-
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry-just the sort that won’t say die-
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, “That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop-lad, you’d better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.”
So he waited sad and wistful-only Clancy stood his friend –
“I think we ought to let him come,” he said;
“I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

“He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.”

So he went – they found the horses by the big mimosa clump –
They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’

So Clancy rode to wheel them – he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, “We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side.”

When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat-
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.