Australia, (1864-1941)
The Maori Pig Market
- In distant New Zealand, whose tresses of gold
- The billows are ceaselessly combing,
- Away in a village all tranquil and old
- I came on a market where porkers were sold –
- A market for pigs in the gloaming.
- And Maoris in plenty in picturesque rig
- The lands of their forefathers roaming,
- Were weighing their swine, whether little or big,
- For purchasers paid by the weight of the pig –
- The weight of the pig in the gloaming.
- And one mighty chieftain, I grieve to relate,
- The while that his porker was foaming
- And squealing like fifty — that Maori sedate,
- He leant on the pig just to add to its weight –
- He leant on the pig in the gloaming.
- Alas! for the buyer, an Irishman stout –
- O’Grady, I think, his cognomen –
- Perceived all his doings, and, giving a shout,
- With the butt of his whip laid him carefully out
- By the side of his pig in the gloaming.
- A terrible scrimmage did straightway begin,
- And I thought it was time to be homing,
- For Maoris and Irish were fighting like sin
- ‘Midst war-cries of “Pakeha!” “Batherashin!”
- As I fled from the spot in the gloaming.
A Change of Menu
- Now the new chum loaded his three-nought-three,
- It’s a small-bore gun, but his hopes were big.
- “I am fed to the teeth with old ewe,” said he,
- “And I might be able to shoot a pig.”
- And he trusted more to his nose than ear
- To give him warning when pigs were near.
- Out of his lair in the lignum dark.
- Where the wild duck nests and the bilbie digs,
- With a whoof and a snort and a kind of bark
- There rose the father of all the pigs:
- And a tiger would have walked wide of him
- As he stropped his tusks on a leaning limb.
- Then the new chum’s three-nought-three gave tongue
- Like a popgun fired in an opera bouffe:
- But a pig that was old when the world was young
- Is near as possible bullet-proof.
- (The more you shoot him the less he dies,
- Unless you catch him between the eyes.)
- So the new chum saw it was up to him
- To become extinct if he stopped to shoot;
- So he made a leap for a gidgee limb
- While the tusker narrowly missed his boot.
- Then he found a fork, where he swayed in air
- As he gripped the boughs like a native bear.
- The pig sat silent and gaunt and grim
- To wait and wait till his foe should fall:
- For night and day were the same to him,
- And home was any old place at all.
- “I must wait,” said he, “till this sportsman drops;
- I could use his boots for a pair of strops.”
- The crows that watch from the distant blue
- Came down to see what it all might mean;
- An eaglehawk and a cockatoo
- Bestowed their patronage on the scene.
- Till a far-off boundary rider said
- “I must have a look — there is something dead.”
- Now the new chum sits at his Christmas fare
- Of a dried-up chop from a tough old ewe.
- Says he, “It’s better than native bear
- And nearly as tender as kangaroo.
- An emu’s egg I can masticate,
- But pork,” says he, “is the thing I hate.”
About the Poet:
Andrew Barton Paterson, Australia, (1864-1941), was a bush poet, journalist and author. He was popularly known as “Banjo” Paterson from his pen name, “The Banjo.” His swinging rhythms captured the atmosphere of the land, life, and humor of Australia’s people.
Paterson wrote many ballads and poems about Australian life, focusing particularly on the rural and outback areas, including the district around Binalong, New South Wales where he spent much of his childhood. Paterson’s more notable poems include “Waltzing Matilda”, “The Man from Snowy River” and “Clancy of the Overflow”. [DES-04/18]
Additional information:
- Andrew Barton “Banjo” Paterson at the Australian Poetry Library
- Paterson, Andrew Barton “Banjo” at the Australian Dictionary of Biography
- “Banjo” Paterson: is he still the bard of the bush? – The Guardian