The railway rattled and roared and swung With jolting and bumping trucks. The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue Of the wild-eyed man in the corner told This terrible tale of the days of old, And the party that ought to have kept the ducks.
'Well, it ain't all joy bein' on the land With an overdraft that'd knock you flat; And the rabbits have pretty well took command; But the hardest thing for a man to stand Is the feller who says 'Well I told you so! You should ha' done this way, don't you know!' — I could lay a bait for a man like that.
'The grasshoppers struck us in ninety-one And what they leave — well, it ain't de luxe. But a growlin' fault-findin' son of a gun Who'd lent some money to stock our run — I said they'd eaten what grass we had — Says he, 'Your management's very bad; You had a right to have kept some ducks!'
'To have kept some ducks! And the place was white! Wherever you went you had to tread On grasshoppers guzzlin' day and night; And then with a swoosh they rose in flight, If you didn't look out for yourself they'd fly Like bullets into your open eye And knock it out of the back of your head.
'There isn't a turkey or goose or swan, Or a duck that quacks, or a hen that clucks, Can make a difference on a run When a grasshopper plague has once begun; 'If you'd finance us,' I says, 'I'd buy Ten thousand emus and have a try; The job,' I says, 'is too big for ducks!
''You must fetch a duck when you come to stay; A great big duck — a Muscovy toff — Ready and fit,' I says, 'for the fray; And if the grasshoppers come our way You turn your duck into the lucerne patch, And I'd be ready to make a match That the grasshoppers eat his feathers off!'
'He came to visit us by and by, And it just so happened one day in spring A kind of cloud came over the sky — A wall of grasshoppers nine miles high, And nine miles thick, and nine hundred wide, Flyin' in regiments, side by side, And eatin' up every living thing.
'All day long, like a shower of rain, You'd hear 'em smackin' against the wall, Tap, tap, tap, on the window pane, And they'd rise and jump at the house again Till their crippled carcasses piled outside. But what did it matter if thousands died — A million wouldn't be missed at all.
'We were drinkin' grasshoppers — so to speak — Till we skimmed their carcasses off the spring; And they fell so thick in the station creek They choked the waterholes all the week. There was scarcely room for a trout to rise, And they'd only take artificial flies — They got so sick of the real thing.
'An Arctic snowstorm was beat to rags When the hoppers rose for their morning flight With the flapping noise like a million flags: And the kitchen chimney was stuffed with bags For they'd fall right into the fire, and fry Till the cook sat down and began to cry — And never a duck or fowl in sight.
'We strolled across to the railroad track — Under a cover beneath some trucks, I sees a feather and hears a quack; I stoops and I pulls the tarpaulin back — Every duck in the place was there, No good to them was the open air. 'Mister,' I says, 'There's your blanky ducks!''
A Bunch of Roses
- by Banjo Paterson1
Roses ruddy and roses white, What are the joys that my heart discloses? Sitting alone in the fading light Memories come to me here tonight With the wonderful scent of the big red roses. Memories come as the daylight fades Down on the hearth where the firelight dozes; Flicker and flutter the lights and shades, And I see the face of a queen of maids Whose memory comes with the scent of roses.
Visions arise of a scent of mirth, And a ball-room belle who superbly poses — A queenly woman of queenly worth, And I am the happiest man on earth With a single flower from a bunch of roses.
Only her memory lives tonight — God in his wisdom her young life closes; Over her grave may the turf be light, Cover her coffin with roses white She was always fond of the big white roses.
Such are the visions that fade away — Man proposes and God disposes; Look in the glass and I see today Only an old man, worn and grey, Bending his head to a bunch of roses.
Poems by Banjo Paterson, Banjo Paterson's poems collection. Banjo Paterson is a classical and famous poet (1864-1941). Share all poems of Banjo Paterson.