My Mate Bill
That's his saddle on the tie-beam,
And them's his spurs up there
On the wall-plate over yonder
You can see they ain't a pair.
For the daddy of all the stockmen
As ever come mustering here
Was killed in the flaming mulga,
A-yarding a bald-faced steer.
They say as he's gone to heaven,
And shook off all worldly cares
But I can't sight Bill in a halo
Set up on three blinded hairs.
In heaven! what next I wonder,
For strike me pink and blue,
If I see whatever in thunder
They'll find for Bill to do.
He'd never make one of them angels,
With faces as white as chalk,
All wool to the toes like hoggets,
And wings like an eagle-hawk.
He couldn't 'arp for apples,
His voice had tones as jarred,
And he'd no more ear than a bald-faced steer,
Or calves in a branding yard.
He could sit on a bucking brumbie
Like a nob in an easy chair,
And chop his name with a greenhide fall
On the flank of a flying steer.
He could show them saints in glory
The way that a fall should drop,
But sit on a throne—not William,
Unless they could make it prop.
He mightn't freeze to the seraphs,
Or chum with the cherubim,
But if ever them seraph johnnies
Get a-poking it like at him
Well! if there's hide in heaven,
And silk for to make a lash,
He'll yard 'em all in the Jasper Lake
In a blinded lightning flash.
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
