Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant

(9 December 1864 – 27 February 1902 / Somerset, England)

Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant Poems

1. Brigalow Mick 4/24/2012
2. Sir Walter (Revised) 4/24/2012
3. The Wooing O' T 4/24/2012
4. Since The Country Carried Sheep 4/24/2012
5. The Day That Is Dead 4/24/2012
6. While Yet We May 4/24/2012
7. The Devoutly Thankful Lover 4/24/2012
8. Corn Medicine 4/24/2012
9. Some Other Somebody 4/24/2012
10. Short Shrift 4/24/2012
11. Envoi 4/24/2012
12. An Enthusiastic Sportsman Enthuses 4/24/2012
13. Too Much Light 4/24/2012
14. At Last 4/24/2012
15. Behind The Bar - A Desecration Of Tennyson 4/24/2012
16. When The Light Is As Darkness 4/24/2012
17. The Nights At Rocky Bar 4/24/2012
18. Paddy Magee 4/24/2012
19. To The Rev. Canon Fisher 4/24/2012
20. At The River-Crossing 4/24/2012
21. A Departing Dirge 4/24/2012
22. Much A Little While 4/24/2012
23. The Reprobate's Reply 4/24/2012
24. Butchered To Make A Dutchman's Holiday 4/24/2012
25. Love Outlasteth All 1/1/2004
26. To A Silent Girl 1/1/2004
27. A-Shelling Peas 1/1/2004
28. Two Gossips 1/1/2004
29. West By North Again 1/1/2004
30. His Masterpiece 1/1/2004
31. A Song 1/1/2004
32. Westward Ho! 1/1/2004
33. Summer Midnight 1/1/2004
34. Night Thought 1/1/2004
35. Who's Riding Old Harlequin Now? 1/1/2004

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Best Poem of Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant

Who's Riding Old Harlequin Now?

They are mustering cattle on Brigalow Vale
Where the stock-horses whinny and stamp,
And where long Andy Ferguson, you may go bail,
Is yet boss on a cutting-out camp.
Half the duffers I met would not know a fat steer
From a blessed old Alderney cow.
Whilst they're mustering there I am wondering here -
Who is riding brown Harlequin now?

Are the pikers as wild and the scrubs just as dense
In the brigalow country as when
There was never a homestead and never a fence
Between Brigalow Vale and The Glen?
Do they yard the big micks 'neath the light ...

Read the full of Who's Riding Old Harlequin Now?

His Masterpiece

Never before was daughter of Eve endow'd with a face so fair,
There be none of God's holy angels with a beauty half so rare
As thine, nor dreamer has ever dreamed the loveliness you wear.
There's a gleam in your golden tress, Lieb! a light in your melting eye!
There is witchery in your smile, Lieb! and a magic in your sigh
That may lure the strong ones to your shrine to worship and - to die.
And I - when you whispered softly, Lleb - perchance would have worshipped, too,
Had bowed to the s

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