Banjo, the Bush Balladeer
Banjo Paterson, the well-loved Australian poet, is known chiefly for his 'Waltzing Matilda'. It's our unofficial anthem.
Small children read his poems at school and advertisers know the very real power of his verse. He vividly captured the 'feel' of the Bush, the
vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars
and for city-bound Australians, even those with no childhood memories of camping under the ti-tree or curled up in a sleeping bag beneath a mighty Murray Red Gum, Banjo evokes a deep nostalgia for a way of life that is now, forever, in the past.
Small children read his poems at school and advertisers know the very real power of his verse. He vividly captured the 'feel' of the Bush, the
vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars
and for city-bound Australians, even those with no childhood memories of camping under the ti-tree or curled up in a sleeping bag beneath a mighty Murray Red Gum, Banjo evokes a deep nostalgia for a way of life that is now, forever, in the past.
Three reasons why I love Banjo Paterson
1. Waltzing Matilda of course! Infinitely preferable to God Save the Queen.
2. His Anglo Saxon style. His poetry is commonly alliterative verse, the poems develop an internal rhythm due to the repetition of consonants and vowels, an epic, heroic style reminiscent of Anglo Saxon verse. See the video, The Man from Snowy River, below.
3. His gentle humour. See the Bush Christening below.
2. His Anglo Saxon style. His poetry is commonly alliterative verse, the poems develop an internal rhythm due to the repetition of consonants and vowels, an epic, heroic style reminiscent of Anglo Saxon verse. See the video, The Man from Snowy River, below.
3. His gentle humour. See the Bush Christening below.
Video : Man from Snowy River
Magnificent video of Banjo's poem, complete with stunning views and the round up of wild brumbies by the superb horsemen of the Snowy River
The Man From Snowy River - Banjo's Poem
Banjo Paterson wrote the poem 'The Man From Snowy River'. Its as Australian as you can get. He tells the story of the tough horsemen of Snowy Mountains. Footage is from the movie 'Man From Snowy River' presented by Michael Edgley International & Cambridge Films - perhaps the greatest movie ever made in Australia by Australians. It stars Tom Burlinson, Jack Thompson, Sigrid Thornton and Kirk Douglas (for US distribution purposes & the money men), he did a pretty good job all in all. For those of you who have not seen the movie do yourselves a favor and go get the DVD. You will not regret it.
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Bush Christening
On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.
And his wife used to cry, `If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him.'
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
`What the divil and all is this christenin'?'
He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.
So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened -
`'Tis outrageous,' says he, `to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'
Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the `praste' cried aloud in his haste,
`Come out and be christened, you divil!'
But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
`I've a notion,' says he, `that'll move him.'
`Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy - don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.
`Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name -
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout -
`Take your chance, anyhow, wid `Maginnis'!'
As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled `MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!
And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened `Maginnis'!
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.
And his wife used to cry, `If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him.'
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
`What the divil and all is this christenin'?'
He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.
So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened -
`'Tis outrageous,' says he, `to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'
Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the `praste' cried aloud in his haste,
`Come out and be christened, you divil!'
But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
`I've a notion,' says he, `that'll move him.'
`Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy - don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.
`Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name -
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout -
`Take your chance, anyhow, wid `Maginnis'!'
As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled `MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!
And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened `Maginnis'!
Banjo's Background
Much of Banjo's early life was spent around horses, and his life-long love of horse-racing and polo is reflected in many of his poems. His pseudonym, "The Banjo", was the name of a racehorse his father had owned.He was educated at the prestigious Sydney Grammar and on finishing school, became an articled clerk for a Sydney lawyer.
The first of many ballads he had published in The Bulletin (the top newspaper of the time, and still very influential) was El Mahdi to the Australian Troops, in February 1885. This was the beginning of a long and productive relationship with the newspaper.
Banjo's first book, "The Man from Snowy River" (1895), has sold more copies than any other book of Australian poetry.
Waltzing Matilda
Popular belief has Banjo writing the lyrics in 1895 at the Macpherson family Station in Queensland.Christina Macpherson adapted the tune from one which she "had heard played by a band at the Races in Warnambool" ...almost certainly the Scottish song 'Thou Bonnie Wood of Craigielea'.
Styled in the form of a traditional song with a contrived union of melody and Scottish poetry, Craigielea is typical of many Scottish and Irish 'folk' airs arranged with piano accompaniment for the lesuired class in the 19th century.
An Irish Melody?There are many who say the melody is Irish. Perhaps it's an old tune called 'Go to the Devil and Shake Yourself'. Indeed if the music is played, not as a march, but as a jig in 6/8 time, it's unmistakeably Irish.
German Origins?
Another argument claims Waltzing Matilda refers to a German phrase (auf der walz) for going about the countryside practicing a new trade. (Matilda is Australian for your bluey or blanket/bed roll).
Young apprentices in those days traveled the country working under a master craftsman earning their living as they went - sleeping where they could. It is said to tell the true story of a despondent German migrant who killed himself during the Great Shearers Strike of 1894.
The story of a swagman who steals a sheep and then drowns himself instead of surrendering to the law has never really gained friends in official circles.
Many Australians, however, regard the defiant stand against authority as part and parcel of a past penal colony and sing the praises of Waltzing Matilda with great gusto.
Waltzing Matilda Centre in Winton
Originally called Pelican Waterhole, Winton in the heart of Queensland, is one of Australia's best known towns of the Outback.Up until 10 years ago, Winton was known chiefly as the little town placed under martial law during the Great Shearers' Strike in the 1890s. An estimated 500 shearers had camped just south of town in a show of workers' solidarity.
The Waltzing Matilda Centre in Winton opened in April 1998 as a permanent memorial to Banjo's work.
It includes a display re-creating the ghost who narrates the story of Waltzing Matilda, and many interactive displays and exhibitions.
The Passing of Banjo
In 1939 Banjo was awarded the CBE (Commander of the British Empire). He died in 1941, just short of his 77th birthday, leaving a valuable heritage of enduring myths.His vivid images, written with an obvious love of the bush, still have today a real sense of the townsman's longing.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal --
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.
Clancy of the Overflow
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan years ago;
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just on spec, addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow."
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar);
'Twas his shearing mate who 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 come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are 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 breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plain 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 foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city,
Through the open window floating, spreads it foulness over all.
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street;
And the language uninviting 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 haste,
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 that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal
But I doubt he's suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.
Vale, Banjo
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan years ago;
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just on spec, addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow."
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar);
'Twas his shearing mate who 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 come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are 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 breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plain 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 foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city,
Through the open window floating, spreads it foulness over all.
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street;
And the language uninviting 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 haste,
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 that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal
But I doubt he's suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.
Vale, Banjo
Banjo Links
- Top 20 Banjo Poems
- Paterson is a rather fun poet in his approach to his subject matter and language. He apparently poured a cup of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow into his recipe, and has what New Englanders may find as a Robert Frost flavor
- Music Samplers
- Banjo Paterson's Poems recorded by Wallis and Matilda- an alphabetical list
Poets similar to Banjo
- Robert Service
- Robert Service was a people's poet. They knew that any verse of his would be a lilting thing, clear, clean and power-packed, beating out a story with a dramatic intensity that made the nerves tingle.
- Rudyard Kupling
- For many years Rudyard Kipling has been deeply unfashionable as an imperial apologist. Recently there has been a revival of interest especially with people who can read his work with an open mind.
How about you?
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- sittonbull sittonbull Jan 19, 2009 @ 7:50 pm
- I must've seen, "The Man from Snowy River" 5 or 6 times and don't tire of it. I've also read some of Banjo before as I had a business associate "down under" who was a Patterson aficionado. Needless to say, I like people of his ilk! You have an interesting and prolific lensography and I will be back! Thank you so much for your help in the Squidu forum. Favored, fanned and 5*s of course
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- Stazjia Stazjia Aug 18, 2008 @ 3:52 am
- I'd never heard of Banjo Paterson but his poems are fun, I really enjoyed them. 5*
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