Banjo Paterson

(17 February 1864 – 5 February 1941 / New South Wales)

poet Banjo Paterson
#51 on top 500 poets

Banjo Paterson Poems

281. "Ave Ceasar" 1/1/2004
282. A Change Of Menu 1/1/2004
283. A Bunch Of Roses 1/1/2004
284. The Man From Snowy River 1/1/2004

Comments about Banjo Paterson

  • Squidward (3/13/2018 5:30:00 AM)

    Im only here because of school and i have no opion on this

    9 person liked.
    		3 person did not like.
  • poop a lot (12/3/2017 6:00:00 PM)

    Great poemsjkkdjfsdfaskldENALMWS, SUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

    8 person liked.
    		3 person did not like.
  • Panmelys Panmelys Panmelys Panmelys (2/10/2015 2:27:00 AM)

    Amazing discovery I've always wondered who Waltzing Mathilda, I like his work and will read more when time permits. Panmelys 205

    17 person liked.
    		20 person did not like.
  • Chuck Norris (10/9/2014 8:00:00 PM)

    This Guy is a sick lad bruh.

    33 person liked.
    		14 person did not like.
  • Mark Paterson (7/5/2010 2:24:00 PM)

    How right he was. Too late now. No heed was taken.

    41 person liked.
    		26 person did not like.
Poem Hunter ›
›
Poems
Best Poem of Banjo Paterson

A Bunch Of Roses

Roses ruddy and roses white,
What are the joys that my heart discloses?
Sitting alone in the fading light
Memories come to me here tonight
With the wonderful scent of the big red roses.
Memories come as the daylight fades
Down on the hearth where the firelight dozes;
Flicker and flutter the lights and shades,
And I see the face of a queen of maids
Whose memory comes with the scent of roses.

Visions arise of a scent of mirth,
And a ball-room belle who superbly poses --
A queenly woman of queenly worth,
And I am the happiest man on earth ...

Read the full of A Bunch Of Roses

Fed Up

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 cup
From that there blooming pom-pom gun -- well, I'm fed up.

Read more »
[Report Error]