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Australia Fair
Australians
all let us rejoice,
For we are young and free;
We’ve golden soil and wealth for toil;
Our home is girt by sea;
Our land abounds in nature’s gifts
Of beauty rich and rare;
In history’s page, let every stage Advance
Australia Fair.
In
joyful strains then let us sing, Advance Australia
Fair.
Beneath
our radiant Southern Cross
We’ll toil with hearts and hands;
To make this Commonwealth of ours
Renowned of all the lands;
For those who’ve come across the seas
We’ve boundless plains to share;
With courage let us all combine
To Advance Australia Fair.
In
joyful strains then let us sing, Advance Australia
Fair.
The
Man from Snowy River
By Banjo Patterson
There
was movement at the station, for the word had passed
around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses, he was worth a
thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near
and far
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 while the saddle-girths
would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And
one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony, three parts thoroughbred
at least,
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
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,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But
still so slight and weedy, 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, Those hills
are far too rough for such as you.'
So he waited sad and wistful, only Clancy stood his
friend,
`I think we ought to let him come,' he said;
`I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the
end, For both his
horse and he are mountain bred.
`He
hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint
stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains 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's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, `Boys, go at them
from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel 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
gain 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 ranges ring
With the stockwhip, 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 mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a 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 stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely
answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their
way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong 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's summit, even Clancy took
a pull,
It well 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 stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent
down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He
sent the flint stones 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, 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 among the horses as they climbed the
further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right
among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain
gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing
yet, With the man from Snowy River
at their heels.
And
he ran 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,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage
fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And
down by Kosciusko, 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 reedbeds sweep and
sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story
of his ride.
Lest We
Forget - 25th April
Australia's Remembrance of Anzac Day
Significance
of Anzac Day
Australian
War Memorial: One of the world's great museums
In
Flanders Fields
In
Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We
are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take
up our quarrel with the foe;
To you, from failing hands, we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Lieutenant-Colonel
John McRae (1915)
Keep the Faith We Shall
Oh!
you who sleep in Flanders Fields,
Sleep sweet - to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died.
We
cherish, too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders Fields.
And
now the Torch and Poppy Red
We wear in honor of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
We'll teach the lesson that ye wrought
In Flanders Fields.
Moina
Michael (1918)
For
the Fallen
With
proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn
the drums thrill: Death August and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They
went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted:
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They
shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They
mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But
where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are
known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As
the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our
darkness,
To the end, to the end they remain.
Laurence
Binyon (1914)
