60 Classic Australian Poems for Children (7 page)

It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,

He wandered over street and park he wandered up and down.

He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop

Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.

‘'Ere! shave my hair and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,

I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark.'

The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,

He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar:

He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,

He laid the odds and kept a ‘tote' whatever that may be,

And when he saw our friend arrive he whispered ‘here's a lark!

Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark.'

There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall,

Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;

To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut,

‘I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut.'

And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:

‘I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark.'

A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,

Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.

He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,

Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat;

Upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark—

No doubt it fairly took him in the man from Ironbark.

He fetched a wild up-country yell the dead might wake to hear,

And though his throat, he knew full well was cut from ear to ear,

He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe

‘You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! One hit before I go!

I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!

But you'll remember all your life, the man from Ironbark.'

He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout

He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.

He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck;

He grabbed the nearest gilded youth and tried to break his neck.

And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,

And ‘Murder! Bloody Murder!' yelled the man from Ironbark.

A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show,

He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.

And when at last the barber spoke, and said, ‘'twas all in fun,

'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.'

‘A joke!' he cried, ‘by George, that's fine, a lively sort of lark;

I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark.'

And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape,

He tells the story o'er and o'er and brags of his escape.

‘Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, by George, I've had enough,

One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough!'

And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark,

That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.

The Bulletin
(Christmas edition), 1892

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 over-night,

For the bushmen love hard-riding where the fleet wild horses are,

And the stockhorse 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 graceful beast;

He was something like a racehorse undersized,

With a touch of Timor pony, three parts thoroughbred at least,

The sort that 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,

The 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 never 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,

And they wavered 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, upward ever, 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 his 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 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 the 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;

And 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 Araluen, where the stony 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.

The Bulletin
, 1890

Have a close look at the front of the current Australian $10 note.

Can you see:

• an extract from this poem written in Paterson's own handwriting?

• an illustration inspired by this poem? It was based on lithographs and photographs printed in 1870s newspapers.

 

In the last verse there is often a different first line:

And down by Araluen, where the stony ridges raise
becomes
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise

MR SMITH OF TALLABUNG

HAS VERY WICKED WAYS,

HE WANDERS OFF INTO THE BUSH

AND STAYS AWAY FOR DAYS

He never says he's going;

We only know he's gone.

There's lots of cats like Mr Smith,

Who like to walk alone.

He plays that he's a tiger,

And makes the dingoes run.

He scratches emus on the legs

And plays at football with their eggs;

But does it all in fun.

And then one day, he's home again,

The skin all off his nose;

His ears all torn and tattered,

His face all bruised and battered,

And bindies in his toes.

He wanders round and finds a place

To sleep in in the sun.

And dream of all the wicked things

That he has been and done.

MR SMITH OF TALLABUNG

MAY BE A BAD CAT;

BUT EVERYBODY LIKES HIM—

SO THAT'S JUST THAT.

Bush-Babs:
with pictures, 1933

Bush-Babs:
with pictures is Souter's collection of nursery rhymes (Souter called them jingles), some of which he wrote and illustrated for his children. It was published in 1933. The ‘Souter cat' is there along with a sketch of DH Souter himself in the introduction. Cats also feature on chairs he owned, in sketches and on his chinaware.