Clancy Of The Overflow - By Banjo Paterson...
This Was One Of The Banjo Patterson Poems That My Grandmother used to make me Recite Word For Word.
I Went To Waverly Cemetary Oneday last year Looking for his Grave Site, but I had no Luck, and as No one is interested In the History Of This Country or It's People, there Obviously Wasn't Any Signage, or actually anyone there that could help me on my Quest That Day..... Disappointing. Absolutely Noone Seemed to know.
I'm Going to Go To The Auction Next Saturday Of Another Piece Of Heritage Given To Developers.... The Old Psychiatric Hospital Next To Darlinghurst Courthouse was Recently Pulled Down and All That Is Left Is The Old Residence Of The Director General (If That Is The Right Title....) Of St Vincents Hospital Back In it's Hey Day When It Was 2 - 3 Times The Size Of What It Is Now. So This 2 Storey Colonial Residence Which Is The Gardens Of The Psychiatric Part Has A Block Of Units Towering Over It. I Don't Know If I'd Want To live There now.
The Reason I Mention this Is, Is Because Banjo Patterson Was A Regular Guest.....
Clancy Of The Overflow........
I had written him a letter which I had,
for want of better Knowledge,
sent to where I met him
down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him,
so I sent the letter to him,
Just `on spec',
addressed as follows,
`Clancy, of The Overflow'.
& an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(& I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it,
& verbatim I will quote it:
`Clancy's gone to Queensland droving,
& we don't know where he are.'
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of ClancyGone a-droving
`down the Cooper' where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing,
Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
& the bush hath friends to meet him,
& their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes & the river on its bars,
& he sees the vision splendid
of the sunlit plains extended,
& at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office,
where a stingyRay of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
& the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
Through the open window floating,
spreads its foulness over all
& in place of lowing cattle,
I can hear the fiendish rattle of the tramways & the 'buses making hurry down the street,
& the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully & faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.
& the hurrying people daunt me,
& their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush & nervous haste,
With their eager eyes & greedy,
& their stunted forms & weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow,
they have no time to waste.
& I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come & go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal
--But I doubt he'd suit the office,
Clancy, of `The Overflow'
