Travel poems

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It's Grand

© Andrew Barton Paterson

It's grand to be a squatter
And sit upon a post,
And watch your little ewes and lambs
A-giving up the ghost.

The Ballad of the Carpet Bag

© Andrew Barton Paterson

Hear dem voters callin'!
Pack de clean boiled rag.
For there's grass in the west, and the rain am fallin'.
Pack dat carpet bag!

Santa Claus in the Bush

© Andrew Barton Paterson

"Nay noo, nay noo," said the dour guidwife,
"But ye should let him be;
He's maybe only a drover chap
Frae the land o' the Darling Pea.

Investigating Flora

© Andrew Barton Paterson

'Twas in scientific circles
That the great Professor Brown
Had a world-wide reputation
As a writer of renown.

The Bee-birds over the homestead flew
And told each other the long day through
"The cold has come, we must take the track."
"Now, I'll make you a bet," said the Laughing Jack,
"Of a hundred mice, that you dare not go
With the little Bee-birds, by Boastful Crow."

The Road to Gundagai

© Andrew Barton Paterson

The mountain road goes up and down
From Gundagai to Tumut Town
And, branching off, there runs a track
Across the foothills grim and black,

A Bushman's Song

© Andrew Barton Paterson

IM travellin down the Castlereagh, and Im a station hand,
Im handy with the ropin pole, Im handy with the brand,
And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day,
But theres no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh. +

Conroy's Gap

© Andrew Barton Paterson

This was the way of it, don't you know --
Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep,
And never a trooper, high or low,
Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep!

Boots

© Andrew Barton Paterson

We've travelled per Joe Gardiner, a humping of our swag
In the country of the Gidgee and Belar.
We've swum the Di'mantina with our raiment in a bag,
And we've travelled per superior motor car,

The Road to Old Man's Town

© Andrew Barton Paterson

And marching with us on the track
Full many friends we find:
We see them looking sadly back
For those who've dropped behind

Camouflage

© Andrew Barton Paterson

Then all the birds for miles around came in to lend a hand;
They perched upon a broken limb as thick as they could stand,
And just as old man eaglehawk prepared to have his say
A portion of the broken limb got up and flew away.

Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve

© Andrew Barton Paterson

You never heard tell of the story?
Well, now, I can hardly believe!
Never heard of the honour and glory
Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve?

thought for Thursday

© Jonathan Bohrn

Tomorrow's Thursday again,
swept with the days' meandering flow:
this, that, and the week goes,
hearing time splash through cracks.

Da Gama returns

© Jonathan Bohrn

I have taken refuge
in travelogues,
bare silk-screen images of
evening cityscapes

A poem on divine revelation

This is a day of happiness, sweet peace,
And heavenly sunshine; upon which conven'd
In full assembly fair, once more we view,
And hail with voice expressive of the heart,

A Distance From The Sea

© Weldon Kees

"And when the seven thunders had uttered their voices, I was
about to write: and I heard a voice from heaven saying unto
me, Seal up those things which the seven thunders uttered, and
write them not." --REVELATIONS, x, 4.

Frances

SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams,
But, rising, quits her restless bed,
And walks where some beclouded beams
Of moonlight through the hall are shed.