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. To A Silent Girl 1/1/2004
26. Love Outlasteth All 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

Westward Ho!

There's a damper in the ashes, tea and sugar in the bags,
There's whips of feed and shelter on the sandridge for the nags,
There's gidya wood about us and water close at hand,
And just one bottle left yet of the good Glenlivet brand.

There are chops upon the embers, which same are close-up done,
From as fine a four-tooth wether as there is on Crossbred's run;
'Twas a proverb on the Darling, the truth of which I hold:
"That mutton's aye the sweetest which was never bought nor sold."

Out of fifty thousand wethers surely Crossbred shouldn't miss
A sheep or so to...

Read the full of Westward Ho!

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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