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Array ( [sid] => 3104 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Banjo [time] => 2002-08-31 18:26:13 [hometext] => [bodytext] =>
Born Andrew Barton Paterson,
In eighteen sixty four,
The eldest son of seven kids,
That lived at Buckinbah,

With a passion for his horses,
And for his fellow man,
With an eye for all things beautiful,
And a pride in his homeland,

Australia for Australians,
He believed that to the core,
But he still went with the British,
When they fought against the boar,

He corresponded for the Bulletin,
He was Rudyard Kiplings friend,
With a need to let his feelings flow,
To the paper from the pen,

It’s strange to think that though he died,
Before I saw the light,
He still has such an influence,
On what I choose to write,

For though I’ve never visited,
Australia’s golden shores,
Banjo has described it ,
In such detail that I’m sure,

If ever I should get the chance,
To stand where Banjo stood,
I’d recognize each tree, each rock,
Each minute piece of wood,

Each sun baked, withered blade of grass,
Each animal or bird,
He could paint such vivid pictures,
Using nothing more than words,

He could cook stories up from nowhere,
So real that you’d believe,
That you were in the middle,
Of the tales that Banjo weaved,

His talent was unbounded,
His subjects varied and diverse,
His politics were strong,
With every thought laid down in verse,

From his childhood days at Illong,
To winning the polo challenge cup,
When he rode the game horse Shifter,
To pick the trophy up,

The nickname that he went by,
You’d think the instrument of course,
But you’d be wrong, he took the name,
From a favourite station horse,

For horses were his passion.
Along with the need to write,
He said himself, he’d never held,
A banjo in his life,

I wish I could have met him,
Perhaps even been his friend,
And thanked him for the pleasure,
He created with his pen,

Sadly Banjo passed away,
In nineteen forty one,
At the age of seventy seven years,
His time on earth was done,

And though I never met him,
He died before my time,
It’s he that has inspired,
So many of my rhymes.

He was more than a talented poet,
Banjo was one of the greats,
I’m sure as he sits there in heaven,
In view of those big pearly gates,

He’ll be busily writing his verses,
For god and the angels to read,
We’ll not see another like Banjo,
He was the last of a very rare breed.

By S.E.Ralph

30-8-2002

Dedicated to A.B. (Banjo) Paterson. (1864 to 1941)
A poet ahead of his time.
[comments] => 2 [counter] => 245 [topic] => 38 [informant] => Steve_Ralph [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Tributes )

Banjo

Contributed by Steve_Ralph on Saturday, 31st August 2002 @ 06:26:13 PM in AEST
Topic: Tributes

Born Andrew Barton Paterson,
In eighteen sixty four,
The eldest son of seven kids,
That lived at Buckinbah,

With a passion for his horses,
And for his fellow man,
With an eye for all things beautiful,
And a pride in his homeland,

Australia for Australians,
He believed that to the core,
But he still went with the British,
When they fought against the boar,

He corresponded for the Bulletin,
He was Rudyard Kiplings friend,
With a need to let his feelings flow,
To the paper from the pen,

It’s strange to think that though he died,
Before I saw the light,
He still has such an influence,
On what I choose to write,

For though I’ve never visited,
Australia’s golden shores,
Banjo has described it ,
In such detail that I’m sure,

If ever I should get the chance,
To stand where Banjo stood,
I’d recognize each tree, each rock,
Each minute piece of wood,

Each sun baked, withered blade of grass,
Each animal or bird,
He could paint such vivid pictures,
Using nothing more than words,

He could cook stories up from nowhere,
So real that you’d believe,
That you were in the middle,
Of the tales that Banjo weaved,

His talent was unbounded,
His subjects varied and diverse,
His politics were strong,
With every thought laid down in verse,

From his childhood days at Illong,
To winning the polo challenge cup,
When he rode the game horse Shifter,
To pick the trophy up,

The nickname that he went by,
You’d think the instrument of course,
But you’d be wrong, he took the name,
From a favourite station horse,

For horses were his passion.
Along with the need to write,
He said himself, he’d never held,
A banjo in his life,

I wish I could have met him,
Perhaps even been his friend,
And thanked him for the pleasure,
He created with his pen,

Sadly Banjo passed away,
In nineteen forty one,
At the age of seventy seven years,
His time on earth was done,

And though I never met him,
He died before my time,
It’s he that has inspired,
So many of my rhymes.

He was more than a talented poet,
Banjo was one of the greats,
I’m sure as he sits there in heaven,
In view of those big pearly gates,

He’ll be busily writing his verses,
For god and the angels to read,
We’ll not see another like Banjo,
He was the last of a very rare breed.

By S.E.Ralph

30-8-2002

Dedicated to A.B. (Banjo) Paterson. (1864 to 1941)
A poet ahead of his time.

Copyright Â© Steve_Ralph ... [ 2002-08-31 18:26:13]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: Banjo (User Rating: 1 )
by DreamWeaver on Wednesday, 20th November 2002 @ 03:09:54 PM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

Excellent write .... you are a great poet.

Re: Banjo (User Rating: 1 )
by Bohemian_with_a_pen on Saturday, 13th November 2004 @ 08:53:03 PM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

wow, this is great.. he was a brilliant poet, i am Australian and he described our beautiful country well. great write.

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