With never a sound of trumpet,With never a flag displayed,The last of the old campaignersLined up for the last parade.Weary they were and battered,Shoeless, and knocked about;From under their ragged forelocksTheir hungry eyes looked out.And they watched as the old commanderRead out, to the cheering men,The Nation's thanks and the ordersTo carry them home again.And the last of the old campaigners,Sinewy, lean, and spare —He spoke for his hungry comrades:'Have we not done our share?'Starving and tired and thirstyWe limped on the blazing plain;And after a long night's picketYou saddled us up again.'We froze on the wind-swept kopjesWhen the frost lay snowy-white.Never a halt in the daytime,Never a rest at night!'We knew when the rifles rattledFrom the hillside bare and brown,And over our weary shouldersWe felt warm blood run down,'As we turned for the stretching gallop,Crushed to the earth with weight;But we carried our riders through it —Carried them p'raps too late.'Steel! We were steel to stand it —We that have lasted through,We that are old campaignersPitiful, poor, and few.'Over the sea you brought us,Over the leagues of foam:Now we have served you fairlyWill you not take us home?'Home to the Hunter River,To the flats where the lucerne grows;Home where the MurrumbidgeeRuns white with the melted snows.'This is a small thing surely!Will not you give commandThat the last of the old campaignersGo back to their native land?'. . . . .They looked at the grim commander,But never a sign he made.'Dismiss!' and the old campaignersMoved off from their last parade.
The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun;The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one!Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good,Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood.They built them forts from bags of sand, they fought from roof and wall,They flashed a message to the south 'Help! or the town must fall!'And down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day,For French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.He made no march along the line; he made no front attackUpon those Magersfontein heights that drove the Scotchmen back;But eastward over pathless plains by open veldt and vley,Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way.The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs,Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns.The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wallRode back in haste: 'He marches east! He threatens Jacobsdal!'Then north he wheeled as wheels the hawk and showed to their dismay,That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.His column was five thousand strong — all mounted men — and guns:There met, beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide Empire's sons;They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers space,And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race!From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian snows,From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sunshine glows;And in the front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had sent:With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went.Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drewBeside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo.From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array,To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank.The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank.The long, dry grass was all ablaze, and fierce the veldt fire runs;He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around the guns!Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and died;We might not halt for man nor beast on that wild, daring ride.Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed the livelong dayOur headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.We reached the drift at fall of night, and camped across the ford.Next day from all the hills around the Dutchman's cannons roared.A narrow pass between the hills, with guns on either side;The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he tried,For if the first attack should fail then every hope was gone:But French looked once, and only once, and then he said, 'Push on!'The gunners plied their guns amain; the hail of shrapnel flew;With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadrons back we threw;And through the pass between the hills we swept in furious fray,And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.Ay, French was through to Kimberley! And ere the day was doneWe saw the Diamond City stand, lit by the evening sun:Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame:Around the town the foemen camped — they knew not that we came;But soon they saw us, rank on rank; they heard our squadrons' tread;In panic fear they left their tents, in hopeless rout they fled;And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain,The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle rein,The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer,The bells rang out a joyous peal to say 'Relief is here!'Ay! we that saw that stirring march are proud that we can sayWe went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run,And no man knows his courage till he stands before a gun.At mixed-up fighting, hand to hand, and clawing men aboutThey reckon Fuzzy-wuzzy is the hottest fighter out.But Fuzzy gives himself away — his style is out of date,He charges like a driven grouse that rushes on its fate;You've nothing in the world to do but pump him full of lead:But when you're fighting Johnny Boer you have to use your head;He don't believe in front attacks or charging at the run,He fights you from a kopje with his little Maxim gun.For when the Lord He made the earth, it seems uncommon clear,He gave the job of Africa to some good engineer,Who started building fortresses on fashions of his own —Lunettes, redoubts, and counterscarps all made of rock and stone.The Boer needs only bring a gun, for ready to his handHe finds these heaven-built fortresses all scattered through the land;And there he sits and winks his eye and wheels his gun about,And we must charge across the plain to hunt the beggar out.It ain't a game that grows on us, there's lots of better funThan charging at old Johnny with his little Maxim gun.On rocks a goat could scarcely climb, steep as the walls of Troy,He wheels a four-point-seven about as easy as a toy;With bullocks yoked and drag-ropes manned, he lifts her up the rocksAnd shifts her every now and then, as cunning as a fox.At night you mark her right ahead, you see her clean and clear,Next day at dawn — 'What, ho! she bumps' — from somewhere in the rear.Or else the keenest-eyed patrol will miss him with the glass —He's lying hidden in the rocks to let the leaders pass;But when the main guard comes along he opens up the fun,There's lots of ammunition for the little Maxim gun.But after all the job is sure, although the job is slow,We have to see the business through, the Boer has got to go.With Nordenfeldt and lyddite shell it's certain, soon or late,We'll hunt him from his kopjes and across the Orange State;And then across those open flats you'll see the beggar run,And we'll be running after with OUR little Maxim gun.
What have the cavalry done?Cantered and trotted about,Routin' the enemy out,Causin' the beggars to run!And we tramped along in the blazin' heat,Over the veldt on our weary feet.Tramp, tramp, trampUnder the blazin' sun,With never the sight of a bloomin' Boer,'Cause they'd hunted 'em long before —That's what the cavalry done!What have the gunners doneBattlin' every day,Battlin' any way.Boers outranged 'em, but what cared they?'Shoot and be damned,' said the R.H.A.!See! when the fight grows hot,Under the rifles or not,Always the order runs,'Fetch up the bloomin' guns!'And you'd see them great gun-horses springTo the 'action front' — and around they'd swing.Find the range with some queer machine'At four thousand with fuse fourteen.Ready! Fire number one!'Handled the battery neat and quick!Stick to it, too! How DID they stick!Never a gunner was seen to run!Never a gunner would leave his gun!Not though his mates dropped all around!Always a gunner would stand his ground.Take the army — the infantry,Mounted rifles, and cavalry,Twice the numbers I'd give away,And I'd fight the lot with the R.H.A.,For they showed us how a corps SHOULD be run,That's what the gunners done!
'Where 'ave you been this week or more,'Aven't seen you about the war?Thought perhaps you was at the rearGuarding the waggons.' 'What, us? No fear!Where have we been? Why, bless my heart,Where have we been since the bloomin' start?Right in the front of the army,Battling day and night!Right in the front of the army,Teaching 'em how to fight!'Every separate man you see,Sapper, gunner, and C.I.V.,Every one of 'em seems to beRight in the front of the army!Most of the troops to the camp had gone,When we met with a cow-gun toiling on;And we said to the boys, as they walked her past,'Well, thank goodness, you're here at last!''Here at last! Why, what d'yer mean?Ain't we just where we've always been?Right in the front of the army,Battling day and night!Right in the front of the army,Teaching 'em how to fight!'Correspondents and vets. in force,Mounted foot and dismounted horse,All of them were, as a matter of course,Right in the front of the army.Old Lord Roberts will have to mindIf ever the enemy get behind;For they'll smash him up with a rear attack,Because his army has got no back!Think of the horrors that might befallAn army without any rear at all!Right in the front of the army,Battling day and night!Right in the front of the army,Teaching 'em how to fight!Swede attaches and German counts,Yeomen (known as De Wet's remounts),All of them were by their own accountsRight in the front of the army!
'Twas in the days of front attack,This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it —That every 'front' had got a back,And French was just the man to turn it.A wounded soldier on the groundWas lying hid behind a hummock;He proved the good old proverb sound —An army travels on its stomach.He lay as flat as any fish,His nose had worn a little furrow;He only had one frantic wish,That like an antbear he could burrow.The bullets whistled into space,The pom-pom gun kept up its braying,The four-point-seven supplied the bass —You'd think the devil's band was playing.A valiant comrade crawling nearObserved his most supine behaviour,And crept towards him, 'Hey! what cheer?Buck up,' said he, 'I've come to save yer.'You get up on my shoulders, mate,And if we live beyond the firing,I'll get the V.C. sure as fate,Because our blokes is all retiring.'It's fifty pounds a year,' says he,'I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky.''No,' says the wounded man, 'not me,I'll not be saved, it's far too risky.'I'm fairly safe behind this mound,I've worn a hole that seems to fit me;But if you lift me off the ground,It's fifty pounds to one they'll hit me.'So back towards the firing lineOur friend crept slowly to the rear oh!Remarking 'What a selfish swine!He might have let me be a hero.'
I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most,I'll take my chance in open fight and die beside my post;But riding round the 'ole day long as target for a Krupp,A-drawing fire from Koppies — well, I'm fair fed up.It's wonderful how few get hit, it's luck that pulls us through;Their rifle fire's no class at all, it misses me and you;But when they sprinkle shells around like water from a cupFrom that there blooming pom-pom gun — well, I'm fed up.We never get a chance to charge, to do a thrust and cut,I'll have to chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut.But after all — What's Mounted Fut? I saw them t'other day,They occupied a Koppie when the Boers had run away.The Cavalry went riding on and seen a score of fights,But there they kept them Mounted Fut three solid days and nights —Three solid starving days and nights with scarce a bite or sup,Well! after that on Mounted Fut I'm fair fed up.And tramping with the Footies ain't as easy as it looks,They scarcely ever see a Boer except in picture books.They do a march of twenty mile that leaves 'em nearly dead,And then they find the bloomin' Boers is twenty miles ahead.Each Footy is as full of fight as any bulldog pup,But walking forty miles to fight — well, I'm fed up!So after all I think that when I leave the CavalryI'll either join the ambulance or else the A.S.C.;They've always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup,But Bully Beef and Biscuits — well! I'm fair fed up!
There's a soldier that's been doing of his shareIn the fighting up and down and round about.He's continually marching here and thereAnd he's fighting, morning in and morning out.The Boer, you see, he generally runs;But sometimes when he hides behind a rock,And we can't make no impression with the guns,Oh, then you'll hear the order, 'Send for Jock!'Yes, it's Jock — Scotch Jock.He's the fellow that can give or take a knock.For he's hairy and he's hard,And his feet are by the yard,And his face is like the face what's on a clock.But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry —'Send for Jock!'The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance,Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead.The Mounted Fut are hampered in advanceBy holding of their helmets on their head.And when the Boer has dug himself a trenchAnd placed his Maxim gun behind a rock,These mounted heroes — pets of Johnny French —They have to sit and wait and send for Jock!Yes, the Jocks — Scotch Jocks,With their music that'd terrify an ox!When the bullets kick the sandYou can hear the sharp command —'Forty-Second! At the double! Charge the rocks!'And the charge is like a floodWhen they've warmed the Highland bloodOf the Jocks!
Halt! Who goes there? The sentry's callRose on the midnight airAbove the noises of the camp,The roll of wheels, the horses' tramp.The challenge echoed over all —Halt! Who goes there?A quaint old figure clothed in white,He bore a staff of pine,An ivy-wreath was on his head.'Advance, oh friend,' the sentry said,Advance, for this is Christmas night,And give the countersign.''No sign nor countersign have I,Through many lands I roamThe whole world over far and wide,To exiles all at Christmastide,From those who love them tenderlyI bring a thought of home.'From English brook and Scottish burn,From cold Canadian snows,From those far lands ye hold most dearI bring you all a greeting here,A frond of a New Zealand fern,A bloom of English rose.'From faithful wife and loving lassI bring a wish divine,For Christmas blessings on your head.''I wish you well,' the sentry said,But here, alas! you may not passWithout the countersign.'He vanished — and the sentry's trampRe-echoed down the line.It was not till the morning lightThe soldiers knew that in the nightOld Santa Claus had come to campWithout the countersign.
AND OTHER VERSES.
By A. B. Paterson.
* "The immediate success of this book of bush ballads is without parallel in Colonial literary annals, nor can any living English or American poet boast so wide a public, always excepting Mr. Rudyard Kipling."
* "These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. Eloquent and ardent verses."
* "Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, and crowding adventure. . . . Stirring and entertaining ballads about great rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs of the horses."
* "At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author of 'Barrack-Room Ballads'."
* Mr. A. Patchett Martin (London): "In my opinion, it is the absolutely un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character of these new bush bards which has given them such immediate popularity, such wide vogue, among all classes of the rising native generation."
* "Australia has produced in Mr. A. B. Paterson a national poet whose bush ballads are as distinctively characteristic of the country as Burns's poetry is characteristic of Scotland."
* "A book like this . . . is worth a dozen of the aspiring, idealistic sort, since it has a deal of rough laughter and a dash of real tears in its composition."
* "These ballads . . . are full of such go that the mere reading of them make the blood tingle. . . . But there are other things in Mr. Paterson's book besides mere racing and chasing, and each piece bears the mark of special local knowledge, feeling, and colour. The poet has also a note of pathos, which is always wholesome."
* "He gallops along with a by no means doubtful music, shouting his vigorous songs as he rides in pursuit of wild bush horses, constraining us to listen and applaud by dint of his manly tones and capital subjects . . . We turn to Mr. Paterson's roaring muse with instantaneous gratitude."
By A. B. Paterson.
* "There is no mistaking the vigour of Mr. Paterson's verse; there is no difficulty in feeling the strong human interest which moves in it."
* "Every way worthy of the man who ranks with the first of Australian poets."
* "At once naturalistic and imaginative, and racy without being slangy, the poems have always a strong human interest of every-day life to keep them going. They make a book which should give an equal pleasure to simple and to fastidious readers."
* "Now and again a deeper theme, like an echo from the older, more experienced land, leads him to more serious singing, and proves that real poetry is, after all, universal. It is a hearty book."
* "Mr. Paterson has powerful and varied sympathies, coupled with a genuine lyrical impulse, and some skill, which makes his attempts always attractive and usually successful."
* "These are all entertaining, their rough and ready wit and virility of expression making them highly acceptable, while the dash of satire gives point to the humour."
* "He catches the bush in its most joyous moments, and writes of it with the simple charm of an unaffected lover."
* "Will be welcome to that too select class at home who follow the Australian endeavour to utter a fresh and genuine poetic voice."
* "Mr. Paterson now proves beyond question that Australia has produced at least one singer who can voice in truest poetry the aspirations and experiences peculiar to the Commonwealth, and who is to be ranked with the foremost living poets of the motherland."
* "Fine, swinging, stirring stuff, that sings as it goes along. The subjects are capital, and some of the refrains haunt one. There is always room for a book of unpretentious, vigorous verse of this sort."
* "These ballads make bright and easy reading; one takes up the book, and, delighted at the rhythm, turns page after page, finding entertainment upon each."
Andrew Barton Paterson was born at Narambla, in New South Wales, on 17 February 1864, but grew up at Buckenbah and Illalong. He became a lawyer but devoted much of his time to writing, and gained popularity especially for his poetry and ballads. His best known poems are The Man from Snowy River (1892) on which a motion picture was loosely based, and Waltzing Matilda (1895) which slowly became an Australian symbol and national song. The poems he wrote for a Sydney newspaper led him into reporting, and he went to South Africa to cover the Boer War. Always a fair man, he had his doubts about the war and was a little too vocal about it for the tastes of some of his readers. During the First World War he served in Egypt as a Major in a Remount Unit, training horses for the war. This fit one of his main interests in life — horses —a preoccupation which is very evident in his poems, and even in his choice of pseudonym —"The Banjo" was a race-horse.
The works for which Paterson is famous were mostly written before the First World War, and are collected in three books of poems, The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses (1895), Rio Grande's Last Race and Other Verses (1902), and Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other Verses (1917). His prose works include An Outback Marriage (1906), and Three Elephant Power and Other Stories (1917), the latter of which is a collection of tall tales and serious (but often humourous) reporting. In fact, above all else it is perhaps Paterson's sense of humour that sets him apart from such balladists as Rudyard Kipling and Robert Service. It should also be noted that Paterson was writing his ballads before either of these became well-known, and there was little, if any, influence from either side. More likely, Paterson was influenced by the Scottish tradition of poetry (Paterson was of Scottish descent) which had been popularized in Australia by Adam Lindsay Gordon and others. Banjo Paterson died of a heart attack on 5 February, 1941.
A. Light, 1995.