The poetry of A.B. Patterson

A. B. Patterson was an early Austrlaian poet who wrote on Ausstralian society with a heavy emphasis on a new found sense of nationalism following the federation of states in Australia to form one country in 1901.

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Ideas that have shaped human history as expressed in poetry, speeches, and documents by Alan and Ford.

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This particular Alan Anticle is broadcasting from Ambrose and Patterson, also known as the fanist might personally do press ideas either Shakespeare when he started not expressing poetry speeches with the weekly or more frequently depending on work in rural news. You wrote some programs to address distinguishing the lyrical material. Some programs are directly considering the human physiological, psychological, and ethical report at a low and skeptical view of humanity. It's free for streaming for any way. The latter category includes derivative media productions. One of his forms of oral communication was intended to become a time to deal with largely electronics. R and Yes and the change means the point with your value. Even more so with the literature question of historic language. For this reason, it's a new version of the valley. We still have to do it. English various can also tackle the concentration interest of readers and listeners. That have shaped boom. Both in 1901 affected Patterson's sense of nationalism, as illustrated in his poem The Song of Federation. In this poem, Australia is portrayed as a young woman entering into the world of international society who doubt her maturity to be able to hold her own in that society. He speaks Australia as this young woman showing the prowess, stamina, determination of her people in the Boar War. It reads As the nations sat together grimly waiting, the fierce old nation's battle scarred, had grown grey in their lusting and their hating, ever armed and ever ready keeping guard. Through the tumult and the half stilled clamour of the drums, came a voice crying Lo, a new made nation, to her place in the sisterhood she comes. And she came, she was beautiful as the morning, with the bloom of the roses in her mouth, like a young queen lavishly adorning her charms with the splendour of the south, and the fierce old nations looking at her said nay she were quickly overthrown. Has she strength for the burden laid upon her? Has she power to protect and guard her own? Then she spoke, and her voice was clear and ringing, in the ears of the nations old and grey, saying Hark, and ye shall see my children singing their war songs in countries far away. They are strangers to the tumult of the battle, they are few, but their hearts are very strong. Twas but yesterday they called unto the cattle, but they now sing Australia's marching song. Now I pause there to recite Patterson's interjection of what he calls the song of Australians in action. For the honour of Australia, our mother, side by side with our kin from overseas, we have fought and we have tested one another and enrolled among the brotherhood are we? There was never post of danger, but we sought it in the fighting through the fire and through the flood. There was never price so costly, but we bought it, though we paid for its purchase with our blood. Was there any road too rough for us to travel? Was there any path too far for us to tread? You can track us by the blood drops on the gravel, on the road that we milestone with our dead. And for you, O our young and anxious mother, ere your great gains, keep watching and ward, neither fearing nor despairing any other, we will hold your possessions with the sword. Then poem resumes Then they passed to the place of world long sleeping, the grey clad figures with their dead, to the sound of their women softly weeping, and the dead march moaning at their head and the nations as the grim procession ended, whispered, Child, but ye have seen the price we pay from war may we ever be defended Kneel ye down, new made sister, let us pray. In nineteen sixteen, after the commencement of the First World War, Patterson wrote We're all Australians now, which read Australia, take her pen in hand to write a line to you, to let you understand how proud we are of you. From Shearing Shedd and Cattle Run, from Broom to Hobson's Bay, each native born Australian son stands straighter up to day The man who used to hump his drum on far out Queensland runs, it's fighting side by side with some Tasmanian farmer's son. The fisher boys drop sail and oar to grimly stand the test along the storm swept Turkish shore with the miners from the west. The old state jealousies of yore are dead as pharaohs, we're not state children any more, we're all Australians now. A six starred fleet that used to fly half shyly to the breeze, unknown where older nations ply their trade on foreign seas flies out to meet the morning blue with victory at the prow, for that's the flag the Sydney flew, the wide seas know it now. The metal that a race can show is proved with shot and steel, and now we know what nations know and fear what nations feel The honored grave beneath the crest of Gaber Tepe Hill may hold our bravest and our best, but we have brave men still With all our petty quarrels done, dissentions overthrown, we have through what you boys have done, a history of our own. How old world differences are dead, like weeds beneath the plough for English, Scot and Irish bred they're all Australian now. So now we'll toast the third brigade that led Australia's van, for never shall their glory fade in minds Australian Fight on, fight on unflinchingly, till right and justice reign, fight on, fight on till victory shall send you home again, and with Australia's flag shall fly a spray of wattle bough to symbolise our unity we're all Australians now In the same vein Patterson wrote Australia Today nineteen sixteen which reads They came from the lower levels, deep down in the brilliant mine From the waste where the whirlwind revels whirling the leaves of pine on the western plains where the darling flows and the dust storms wheel and shift The teamsters loosen his yoke and bows and turn his team adrift On the western stations far and wide there's many an empty pen, for the ringers have cast their machines aside and answered the call for men. On the Lucerne flats where the streams run slow and the hunter finds the sea, the women are driving the mowers now, with the children at their knee, and the men have gone as men must go at the call of the rolling drums, for the men have sworn that the Turks shall know when the old battalion comes. Column of companies by the right, steady strong array, with the sun on bayonets gleaming bright, the battalion marched away. They battled the old battalion through the toil of the training camps, sweated and stroved at lectures by the light of the stinking lamps, marching shooting drilling, steady and slow and stern, awkward and strange but willing all their jobs to learn. Learning to use the rifle, learning to use the spade, deeming fatigue a trifle during each long parade, till at last they wielded unto a concrete hole, and there grew in the old battalion a kind of battalion soul Brotherhood never was like this Friendship is not the word, but deep in that body of marching men the soul of a nation stirred, And like one man with a single thought, ready for all that the future brought, the old battalion went, column of companies by the right, steady in strong array, with the sun on the bayonets gleaming, the battalion marched away. How shall we tell of their landing by the hills where the foe were spread, And the track of the old battalion was marked by the Turkish dead With the dash that discipline teaches, Through the hall the shrapnel flew, And the forts were raking the beaches, and the toll of the dead men grew They fixed their grip on the gaunt hill side with a pluck that has won them fame, and the home folks know that the dead men died for the pride of Australia's name Column of companies by the right to the beat of the rolling drums, with honour gained in a stirring fight the old battalion comes. Patterson wrote The Grains of a Desert Sand, reflecting part of his experience in the Middle East campaign of the First World War in Egypt. He reflects upon what a single grain of sand in Egypt may have seen over its long history. It reads Beneath the blue Egyptian skies, with ramp and roll of glide and stay, I saw the pyramids arise, and I shall see them pass away. I watched when Alexander passed, I saw Napoleon's flag unfurled, The greatest and perhaps the last of men whose footsteps shook the world. To each his hour of pride and place, Arab and Persian, Greek and Jew, Muhammad trod upon my face, Darius burned me with his shoe, and yet I am not priest or king, sultan or chief in high command. I am that one unchanging thing, a grain of desert sand. The reference to Alexander the Great's obvious and to Napoleon, as is the reference to the pyramids, the reference to Darius is a reference to the king of Persia who led the Persian assault on Greece that ended in the Battle of Thermopylae. The reference to the Hunter is a reference to the Hunter River in Newcastle that empties into the Pacific Ocean. The reference to the Sydney is the HMAS Sydney that was sunk in the First World War. The references to the battalion or the Third Battalion from Patterson's a reference to the Australian battalion that landed at Gallipoli and was slaughtered in a fairly pointless, ill planned, ill conceived invasion by the then First Lord the Admiralty Winston Churchill as part of the First World War, which has become the basis of Australia's Anzac Day. These issues are addressed in later programmes on the poetry of the First World War. Patterson wrote lyrics but not the tune to Walsing Matilda. The tune was borrowed from an old Scottish ballad. Patterson's ballads were generally lyrical, so lent themselves to music. Some of the terminology of the poem Walsing Matilda may not be known to the present listeners. Matilda was slang for the long stick that itinerant swagman carried over their shoulders, with a large cloth ball at the end of the stick containing their worldly possessions. Walsing simply meant walking or dancing with a jumbuck was slang for a sheep. A billabong was the disconnected and water filled part of rivers or creeks. A tucker bag was the bag in which the swagman carried his food, and a billy was the tin can in which water was boiled over a fire palm reeds. Once a jolly swagman camped by a billion under the shade of a kulabar tree, and he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled. Who'll come a walsing Matilda with me? Down came a jumbuck to drink at the billabong. Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee. And he sang as he shoved that jumbuck in his tucker bag. You'll come a walsing Matilda with me. Walsing Matilda, walsing Matilda. Uprode a squatter mounted on his thoroughbred. Down come the troopers, one, two and three. Who's that jolly jumbuck you've got in your tucker bag? You'll come a waltzing Matilda with me. Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda. Up jumped the swagman and sprang into the billabong. You'll never catch me alive, said he. And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong. You'll come a waltzing Matilda with me. Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda. Patterson also wrote The Wild Colonial Boy, which was written at the end of the Bush Ranger era in New South Wales. The poem romanticizes Bush Rangers and pets them as the victim of the legal system. It's a strange attitude for a lawyer from within the Conservative establishment as Patterson was. Anyway, the poem reads There was a wild colonial boy, Jack Dugan was his name. He was born and raised in Ireland, in a place called Castle Maine. He was his father's only son, his mother's pride and joy, and dearly did his parents love the wild colonial boy. At the early age of sixteen years he left his native home, and to Australia's sunny shores he was inclined to roam. He helped the poor, he robbed the rich, their crops he would destroy. Terror to Australia was the wild colonial boy. For two long years this daring youth ran on his wild career, with a heart that knew no danger, and a soul that knew no fear. He held up the beechwood coach, and he robbed Judge McAlvoy, who trembling gave his gold up to the wild colonial boy. He bade the judge good morning and told him to beware, for he'd never robbed an honest judge who acted on the square. Yet you would rob a mother of her only pride and joy, and breed a race of outlaws, like the wild colonial boy. One morning on the prairie, or Jack Dugan rode along, while listening to the mocking bird as singing out its song, out jumped three troopers fierce and grim, Kelly, Davis, and Fitzroy, who were detailed for to capture him, the wild colonial boy. Surrender now, Jack Duggan. You can see it's three to one. Surrender in our queen's name, for you're a plunderer, son. Jack drew toothed pistols from his belt and glared upon Fitzroy. I'll fight but not surrender, cried the wild colonial boy. He fired a shot at Kelly and brought him to the ground. He fired a shot at Davis too, who fell dead at the sound. But a bullet pierced the brave young heart from the pistol of Fitzroy, and that was how they captured him, the wild colonial boy. One of Patterson's country ballads was The Road to Gundigai which reads The mountain road goes up and down from Gundigai to Chumit Town, and branching off there runs a track across foothills grim and black, across the plains and rangers grey to Sydney City far away. I came by chance one day that I from Chumit rode to Gundigai, and reached about the evening tide The crossing where the roads divide And waiting at the crossing place I saw a maiden fairer face, with eyes of deepest violet blue and cheeks to match the rose in hue The fairest maid Australia knows, are bred among the mountain snows. Then fearing I might go astray, I asked if she could show the way Her voice might whirl a man betwitch, its tone so subtle deep and rich. The track's clear, she made reply, and this goes down to Sydney town, and that one goes to Gundigai. Then slowly looking coy back, she went along the Sydney track, and I for one was well content to go the road the lady went. But round the turn a swain she met, the kiss she gave him haunts me yet. I turned and travelled with a sigh the lonely road to Gundigai. Perhaps Patterson's most famous ballad is the man from Snowy River. It reads There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around that the cult from old regret had got away and had joined the wild bush horses, he was worth a thousand pounds. So all the cracks had gathered to the fray, all the tried and noted riders from stations far and near, 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 whilst the saddle girths would stand, He learnt to ride while droving on the plains. And there was one a stripling on a small and weedy beast, who was something like a race horse under size, with a touch of team or pony, three parts thoroughbred at least, and such as by the mountain horseman prize 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. But still so slight and woody 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, as hills are far too rough for such as you. He waited sad and wistfully, only Clancy stood his friend. I think we ought to let him come, he said. I'll warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, and for both his horse and he are mountain bred. He hails from snowy river, up by Kosyosko's side, where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, when a horse's hooves strike fire like from the flintstone at every stride, and the man that holds his own is good enough, and the snowy river riders on the mountain 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 brow, and the old man gave his orders. Boy, go at them from the jump. No use to try for fancy riding now. And Clancy, you must wield them, try and wield 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 gained 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 rangers ring with stop whip 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 mountains full in view, and they charged beneath the stock whip with 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 stock whips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back from cliff and crag that beetled overhead. And upwards ever upwards the wild horses held their way, while the mountain ash and courageongs 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 summit, even Clancy took a pull, it will 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 stock whip round and gave a cheer, and he raced them down the mountain like a torrent down his bed, while the others stood and watched in very fear. He sent the flintstones 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, and 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 amongst the horses as they climbed the further hill, and the watchers on the mountain standing mute, saw him ply the stockwood fiercely. He was right amongst them still, as he raced across the clearing in pursuit. Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met. In the rangers but a final glimpse reveals, on a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, with the men from snowy river at their heels. And then he rang 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, was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur. But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, for never yet was a mountain horse occur. And down by Kosyosko 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 reed beds sweep and sway To breezes and the rolling plains are wide. The man from Snowy River is a household word today, and the stockmen tell the story of his ride. The last of the ballads from Patterson that I'll read is Clancy of the Overflow I'd written him a letter which I had for want of better knowledge sent to where I met him down the Lochlin years ago. He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him, just on speck, addressed as followed Clancy of the Overflow and an answer came directed in a writing unexpected, and I think the same was written with a thumbnail dipped in tar. 'Twas his shearing mate he wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it Clancy's gone to Queensland Droving, and we don't know where he are. In my wild, erratic fancy, visions came to me of Clancy gone a driving down the Cooper where the western drovers go, and the stock is slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing, for the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know, and the bush has friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him, in the murmur of the breeze and the river on its bars, and he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended, and at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars. I am sitting in my dingy little office where a stingy ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall, and the future air through the open windows floating spreads its foulness over all. And in place of lowering cattle I can hear the fiendish rattle of the tramway and the buses making hurry down the street, and the language uninvited of the gutter children fighting comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet, and the hurrying people daunt me and their pallid faces haunt me as they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous pace, with their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, for townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste. And I somehow rather fancy I'd like to change with Clancy, like to take a turn at driving where the seasons come and go, while he faced the round eternal cash book and the journal. But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy of the Overflow.

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