Three Poets views on Morant

Ok, probably more than anyone wants to hear, but here are poems written about Morant from poets who knew him. First A.B.Paterson, writer of Man From Snowy River and Waltzing Matilda and used him as the model for "Jim Carew".

JIM CAREW

by Andrew Barton Paterson (the Banjo)

Born of a thoroughbred English race,
Well proportioned and closely knit,
Neat, slim figure and handsome face,
Always ready and always fit,
Hardy and wiry of limb and thew,
That was the ne'er-do-well Jim Carew.
One of the sons of the good old land —
Many a year since his like was known;
Never a game but he took command,
Never a sport but he held his own;
Gained at his college a triple blue —
Good as they make them was Jim Carew.
Came to grief — was it card or horse?
Nobody asked and nobody cared;
Ship him away to the bush of course,
Ne'er-do-well fellows are easily spared;
Only of women a sorrowing few
Wept at parting from Jim Carew.

Gentleman Jiim on the cattle-camp,
Sitting his horse with an easy grace;
But the reckless living has left its stamp
In the deep drawn linies of that handsome face,
And the harder look in those eyes of blue:
Prompt at a quarrel is Jim Carew.

Billy the Lasher was out for gore —
Twelve-stone navvy with chest of hair —
When he opened out with a hungry roar
On a ten-stone man, it was hardly fair;
But his wife was wise if his face she knew
By the time you were done with him, Jim Carew.
Gentleman Jim in the stockmen's hut
Works with them, toils with them, side by side;
As to his past — well, his lips are shut.
"Gentleman once," say his mates with pride,
And the wildest Cornstalk can ne'er outdo
In feats of recklessness Jim Carew.

What should he live for? A dull despair!
Drink is his master and drags him down,
Water of Lethe that drowns all care.
Gentleman Jiim has a lot to drown,
And he reigns as king with a drunken crew,
Sinking to misery, Jim Carew.

Such is the end of the ne'er-do-well —
Jimmy the Boozer, all down at heel;
But he straightens up when he's asked to tell
His name and race, and a flash of steel
Still lightens up in those eyes of blue —
"I am, or — no, I was — Jim Carew."

And William Henry Ogilvie, famous Australian poet who was his friend.

HARRY MORANT

by William Henry Ogilvie

Harry Morant was a friend I had
In the years long passed away,
A chivalrous, wild and reckless lad,
A knight born out of his day.

Full of romance and void of fears,
With a love of the world’s applause,
He should have been one of the cavaliers
Who fought in King Charles’s cause.

He loved a girl, and he loved a horse,
And he never let down a friend,
And reckless he was, but he rode his course
With courage up to the end.

“Breaker Morant” was the name he earned,
For no bucking horse could throw
This Englishman who had lived and learned
As much as the bushmen know.

Many a mile have we crossed together,
Out where the great plains lie,
To the clink of bit and the creak of leather –
Harry Morant and I.

Time and again we would challenge Fate
With some wild and reckless “dare”,
Shoving some green colt over a gate
As though with a neck to spare.

At times in a wilder mood than most
We would face them at naked wire,
Trusting the sight of a gidyea post
Would lift them a half-foot higher.

And once we galloped a steeplechase
For a bet – ’twas a short half-mile
While one jump only, the stiffest place
In a fence of the old bush style.

A barrier built of blue-gum rails
As thick as a big man’s thigh,
And mortised into the posts – no nails –
Unbreakable, four foot high.

Since both our horses were young and green
And had never jumped or raced,
Were we men who had tired of this earthly scene
We could scarce have been better placed.

“Off” cried “The Breaker”, and off we went
And he stole a length of lead,
Over the neck of the grey I bent
And we charged the fence full speed.

The brown horse slowed and tried to swerve,
But his rider with master hand
And flaming courage and iron nerve
Made him lift and leap and land.

He rapped it hard with every foot
And was nearly down on his nose;
Then I spurred the grey and followed suit
And, praise to the gods – he rose!

He carried a splinter with both his knees
And a hind-leg left some skin,
But we caught them up at the wilga trees
Sitting down for the short run-in.

They grey was game and he carried on
But the brown had a bit to spare;
The post was passed, my pound was gone,
And a laugh was all my share.

“The Breaker” is sleeping in some far place
Where the Boer War heroes lie,
And we’ll meet no more in a steeplechase –
Harry Morant and I.

And the bard himself, The Breaker, in his last poem from prison about himself and the war.

Butchered to make a Dutchman's Holiday

by Harry Harbord Morant (The Breaker)

In prison cell I sadly sit,
A dammed crestfallen chappie,
And own to you I feel a bit--
A little bit—unhappy.

It really ain’t the place nor time
To reel off rhyming diction ;
But yet we’ll write a final rhyme
While waiting crucifixion.

No matter what end they decide
Quick-lime? or boiling oil? sir
We’ll do our best when crucified
To finish off in style, sir !

But we bequeath a parting tip
For sound advice of such men
Who come across in transport ship
To polish off the Dutchmen.

If you encounter any Boers
You really must not loot ‘em,
And, if you wish to leave these shores,
For pity’s sake, don’t shoot ‘em.

And if you’d earn a D.S.O.,
Why every British sinner
Should know the proper way to go
Is: Ask the Boer to dinner.

Let’s toss a bumper down our throat
Before we pass to heaven,
And toast: “The trim-set petticoat
We leave behind in Devon.”

Butchered version:
In prison cell I sadly sit,
A d_d crest-fallen chappie!
And own to you I feel a bit-
A little bit - unhappy!

It really ain't the place nor time
To reel off rhyming diction -
But yet we'll write a final rhyme
Whilst waiting cru-ci-fixion!

No matter what "end" they decide -
Quick-lime or "b'iling ile," sir?
We'll do our best when crucified
To finish off in style, sir!

But we bequeath a parting tip
For sound advice of such men,
Who come across in transport ship
To polish off the Dutchmen!

If you encounter any Boers
You really must not loot 'em!
And if you wish to leave these shores,
For pity's sake, DON'T SHOOT 'EM!!

And if you'd earn a D.S.O.,
Why every British sinner
Should know the proper way to go
Is: "ASK THE BOER TO DINNER!"

Let's toss a bumper down our throat, -
Before we pass to Heaven,
And toast: "The trim-set petticoat
We leave behind in Devon."

Notes
At its end the manuscript is described -
The Last Rhyme and Testament of Tony Lumpkin -
First published in The Bulletin, 19 April 1902.
Sometimes published under the alternate title --"In a prison cell I sadly sit"

the D.S.O. refers to a British medal The Distinguished Service Order. It is a middle ranking medal somewhere in importance lower than the VC but higher than a campaign medal. It is not necessarily a combat medal.