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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=344016" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>My Mate Bill</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">That's his saddle on the tie-beam,<br>And them's his spurs up there<br>On the wall-plate over yonder<br>You can see they ain't a pair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For the daddy of all the stockmen<br> As ever come mustering here<br>Was killed in the flaming mulga,<br>A-yarding a bald-faced steer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They say as he's gone to heaven,<br>And shook off all worldly cares<br>But I can't sight Bill in a halo<br>Set up on three blinded hairs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In heaven! what next I wonder,<br>For strike me pink and blue,<br>If I see whatever in thunder<br>They'll find for Bill to do.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He'd never make one of them angels,<br>With faces as white as chalk,<br>All wool to the toes like hoggets,<br>And wings like an eagle-hawk.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He couldn't 'arp for apples,<br>His voice had tones as jarred,<br>And he'd no more ear than a bald-faced steer,<br>Or calves in a branding yard.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He could sit on a bucking brumbie<br>Like a nob in an easy chair,<br>And chop his name with a greenhide fall<br>On the flank of a flying steer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He could show them saints in glory<br>The way that a fall should drop,<br>But sit on a throne—not William,<br>Unless they could make it prop.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He mightn't freeze to the seraphs,<br>Or chum with the cherubim,<br>But if ever them seraph johnnies<br>Get a-poking it like at him</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well! if there's hide in heaven,<br>And silk for to make a lash,<br>He'll yard 'em all in the Jasper Lake<br>In a blinded lightning flash.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If the heavenly hosts get boxed now,<br>As mobs most always will,<br>Who'll cut 'em out like William,<br>Or draft on a camp like Bill?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">An 'orseman would find it awkward<br>At first with a push that flew,<br>But blame my cats if I know what else<br>They'll find for Bill to do.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's hard if there ain't no cattle,<br>And perhaps they'll let him sleep,<br>And wake him up at the judgment<br>To draft those goats and sheep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's playing it low on William,<br>But perhaps he'll buckle to,<br>To show them high-toned seraphs<br>What a Mulga man can do.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If they saddles a big-boned angel,<br>With a turn of speed, of course,<br>As can spiel like a four-year brumbie,<br>And prop like an old camp horse,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And puts Bill up with a snaffle,<br>A four or five inch spur,<br>And eighteen foot of greenhide<br>To chop the blinded fur</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He'll yard them blamed Angoras<br>In a way that it's safe to swear<br>Will make them tony seraphs<br>Sit back on their thrones and stare.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Andrew+Barton+Paterson">Andrew Barton Paterson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=344016" data-title="My Mate Bill de Andrew Barton Paterson" data-description="That's his saddle on the tie-beam,
And them's his spurs up there
On the wall-plate over yonder
You can see they ain't a pair.

For the daddy of all the stockmen
 As ever come mustering here
Was killed in the flaming mulga,
A-yarding a bald-faced s..."></div>
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