Waltzing Story

In my english class, we had to turn the famous Waltzing Matilda song/poem into a short story. My friends did such great stories, I almost feel silly putting mine up here. But here it is. I did it from the stockman's point of view. It's a version I edited slightly.

The stockman watched in disgust as the jumbuck, one of his sheep, was forced into a tucker bag by a filthy looking swagman. But he was too scared to take matters into his own hands. So he left the swagman singing a foriegn tuneand off he went to find the police. That swagman would be arrested for stealing one of the stockman’s sheep. By the time the stockman got to town on his thoroughbred, the jumbuck would surely be dead, but he would still ensure justice was served. He went to the police and explained what had happened. Three troopers were sent to find the swagman and arrest him. So the stockman began riding back with the troopers following. They got to the farm and rode along the dusty trail towards the Coolabah tree where the jumbuck had been taken. And there was the swagman, watching and waiting for his billy to boil. Not only had the swagman stolen a young sheep but he was also trespassing on private property! He would surely not get away with this. The swagman saw the oncoming horses and their riders, and jumped up.

“Who’s that jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker bag?!” called out the angry stockman. The troopers rode down towards the billabong where the swagman was camped. They surrounded him and got off their horses to arrest him. The stockman smiled, knowing that the swagman would get what was coming to him. But the swagman was more stubborn then the stockman had thought.

“You’ll never take me alive!” cried he and the stockman watched in amazement as the traveller jumped into the billabong and let himself drown. The troopers tried to pull him out but they themselves were to afraid to get their uniforms wet. The stockman went down to the abandoned tucker bag and pulled out the frightened but very much alive jumbuck. The stockman couldn’t believe his luck. The troopers left the swagman’s body in the billabong and left on their horses. They began discussing how the chief would know of their bravery as they protected the stockman when the swagman went crazy, and how he ended up falling in the billabong. How they tried desperately to drag the swagman out but he was too panicked, and drowned before they could save him.

The stockman ignored them and led his sheep to the rest of the flock. The next day, he went back down to the billabong to clean up the mess the swagman had left. But as he picked up the now cold billy, he heard the swagman’s voice singing that creepy foreign tune.
"you'll come a waltzing matilda with me..."
The swagman didn't know who matilda was and he didn't wanna find out. He dropped the billy and ran, not wanting to confront an angry ghost. To this day, no-one has gone back to that billabong.

The Man From Snowy River

We are going to be looking at this poem for english at school, so I thought I'd put it up here and talk a little about it.It's a very long poem.

The Man From Snowy River

By A. B. 'Banjo' Paterson

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around

That the colt from Old Regret had got away,

And had joined the wild bush horses --- he was worth a thousand pound,

So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.

All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far

Had mustered at the homestead overnight,

For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,

And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,

The old man with his hair as white as snow;

But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up ---

He would go wherever horse and man could go.

And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,

No better horseman ever held the reins;

For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,

He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,

He was something like a racehorse undersized,

With a touch of Timor pony --- three parts thoroughbred at least --

And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.

He was hard and tough and wiry --- just the sort that won't say die ---

There was courage in his quick impatient tread;

And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,

And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,

And the old man said, "That horse will never do

For a long and tiring gallop --- lad, you'd better stop away,

Those hills are far too rough for such as you".

So he waited sad and wistful --- only Clancy stood his friend --

"I think we ought to let him come," he said;

"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,

For both his horse and he are mountain bred".

"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,

Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,

Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,

The man that holds his own is good enough.

And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,

Where the river runs those giant hills between;

I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,

But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen".

So he went --- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump ---

They raced away towards the mountain's brow,

And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,

No use to try for fancy riding now.

And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.

Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,

For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,

If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them --- he was racing on the wing

Where the best and boldest riders take their place,

And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring

With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.

Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,

But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,

And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,

And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black

Resounded to the thunder of their tread,

And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back

From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.

And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,

Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;

And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,

No man can hold them down the other side".

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,

It well might make the boldest hold their breath,

The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full

Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.

But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,

And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,

And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,

While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,

He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,

And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat ---

It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.

Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,

Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;

And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,

At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,

And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,

Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,

As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.

Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met

In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals

On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,

With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.

He followed like a bloodhound on their track,

Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,

And alone and unassisted brought them back.

But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,

He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;

But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,

For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise

Their torn and rugged battlements on high,

Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze

At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,

And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway

To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,

The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,

And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

Well, I enjoyed this poem more then I thought I would. I actually quite liked it. I think it uses great technique and has a really good rythm once you get it flowing. This poem is also a great example of the famous saying, 'never judge a book by it's cover'.

The desricption is very well done in this poem, I can imagine the man riding his horse down the steep hill, yelling with delight. I could imagine all of it in my head.

I think I'll enjoy learning about this poem in english, and I am making a note to have a look at some more of banjo's work in the future.