The All Right ’Un
By Banjo Paterson
He came from ‘further out,’
That land of fear and drought
And dust and gravel.
He got a touch of sun,
And rested at the run
Until his cure was done,
And he could travel.
When spring had decked the plain,
He flitted off again
As flit the swallows.
And from that western land,
When many months were spanned,
A letter came to hand,
Which read as follows:
‘Dear sir, I take my pen
‘In hopes that all their men
‘And you are hearty.
‘You think that I’ve forgot
‘Your kindness, Mr. Scott;
‘Oh, no, dear sir, I’m not
‘That sort of party.
‘You sometimes bet, I know.
‘Well, now you’ll have a show
‘The ‘books’ to frighten.
‘Up here at Wingadee
‘Young Billy Fife and me
‘We’re training Strife, and he
‘Is a all right ’un.
‘Just now we’re running byes,
‘But, sir, first time he tries
‘I’ll send you word of.
‘And running ‘on the crook’
‘Their measures we have took;
‘It is the deadest hook
‘You ever heard of.
‘So when we lets him go,
‘Why then I’ll let you know,
‘And you can have a show
‘To put a mite on.
‘Now, sir, my leave I’ll take,
‘Yours truly, William Blake,
‘P.S. — Make no mistake,
‘He’s a all right ’un.’
* * * *
By next week’s Riverine
I saw my friend had been
A bit too cunning.
I read: ‘The racehorse Strife
And jockey William Fife
‘Disqualified for life —
‘Suspicious running.’
But though they spoilt his game
I reckon all the same
I fairly ought to claim
My friend a white ’un.
For though he wasn’t straight,
His deeds would indicate
His heart at any rate
Was ‘a all right ’un.’
Cotswold Love
By John Drinkwater
Blue skies are over Cotswold
And April snows go by,
The lasses turn their ribbons
For April’s in the sky,
And April is the season
When Sabbath girls are dressed,
From Rodboro’ to Campden,
In all their silken best.
An ankle is a marvel
When first the buds are brown,
And not a lass but knows it
From Stow to Gloucester town.
And not a girl goes walking
Along the Cotswold lanes
But knows men’s eyes in April
Are quicker than their brains.
It’s little that it matters,
So long as you’re alive,
If you’re eighteen in April,
Or rising sixty-five,
When April comes to Amberley
With skies of April blue,
And Cotswold girls are briding
With slyly tilted shoe.
Compiled by Gerald Garrett
.