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Banjo

About Me

G'day to all those persons who are visiting this page. Although I have the status of being 'dead', that shouldn't stop me from sharing a bit of myself with you lovely people now should it? I was born at Narambla in NSW on the 17th febuary, 1864.
I am a famous bush poet and my works are still commonly heard among Australians today. You may have heard some of them? 'Waltzing Matilda' and 'The Man From Snowy River'? I was a poet by accident really. In 1885, I started to get some of my poems published in the famous Sydney newspaper, The Bulletin. I wrote under the pseudonym of 'The Banjo' the name of one of my favourite horses and the name obviously stuck real good.
I love Australia, specifically the bush and I am an ardent nationalist. Why should us Aussies suck up to the mother country? I appreciate where we came from but we are different to the British.
I've had many jobs over the times, including jockey, lawyer, soldier and farmer. I was lucky enough to find the love of my life in Alice and together we have 2 wonderful offspring, Grace and Hugh.
I was unfortunate enough to die of a heart attack in 1941, however embarrasingly enough, my legacy lives on and I am on the Australian $10 note.
.. ..

My Interests

I'd like to meet:

Anyone with a love of Australia and/or poetry, anyone else too.

CLACY OF THE OVERFOW

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.

My Blog

Just a bit about me.

A.B. "Banjo" Paterson (1864 - 1941)      Andrew Barton Paterson was born on a sheep station in the Outback of New South Wales.  His parents sent "Barty," as he was known, to S...
Posted by on Fri, 09 Nov 2007 18:45:00 GMT