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Without these, indeed, you Would find it ere long, As though I should read you The words of a song That lamely would linger When lacking the rune, The voice of the singer, The lilt of the tune. There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died, And they wondered who on earth he could have been. I loudly cried, But right in front they seemed to ride - I cursed them in my sleep. `And there the phantoms on each side Drew in and blocked his leap; "Make room! The watchers in those forests vast Will see, at fall of night, Commercial travellers bounding past And darting out of sight. I watch as the wild black swans fly over With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; And I hear the clang of their leader crying To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, And they fade away in the darkness dying, Where the stars are mustering one by one. With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst -- "Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, The sins of the people are whiter than snow!" today Banjo Paterson is still one of Australia's best-loved poets.this complete collection of his verse shows the bush balladeer at his very best with favourites such as 'A Bush . Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it, But, die in the wilderness! How Gilbert Died Poem by Banjo Paterson Both wrote in other strains, of course, and of other than swagmen and cockies, stock-men and bullock drivers, but bush was always at their heartstrings, and it was of the bush, as they saw it from roadside and saddle that they wrote best. `Dead men on horses long since dead, They clustered on the track; The champions of the days long fled, They moved around with noiseless tread - Bay, chestnut, brown, and black. One of the riders gallops across the Australian $10 note next to a picture of Paterson. "At a pound a hundred it's dashed hard lines To shear such sheep," said the two Devines. Kanzo Makame, the diver, failing to quite understand, Pulled the "haul up" on the life-line, found it was slack in his hand; Then, like a little brown stoic, lay down and died on the sand. To the hut at the Stockman's Ford; Captain Andrew Barton Banjo Paterson (Right) of 2nd Remounts, Australian Imperial Force in Egypt. For years the fertile Western plains Were hid behind your sullen walls, Your cliffs and crags and waterfalls All weatherworn with tropic rains. 'Twas done without reason, for leaving the seasonNo squatter could stand such a rub;For it's useless to squat when the rents are so hotThat one can't save the price of one's grub;And there's not much to choose 'twixt the banks and the JewsOnce a fellow gets put up a tree;No odds what I feel, there's no court of appeal For a broken-down squatter like me.