Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant

(9 December 1864 – 27 February 1902 / Somerset, England)

Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant Poems

1. The Day That Is Dead 4/24/2012
2. While Yet We May 4/24/2012
3. The Devoutly Thankful Lover 4/24/2012
4. Corn Medicine 4/24/2012
5. Some Other Somebody 4/24/2012
6. Short Shrift 4/24/2012
7. Envoi 4/24/2012
8. An Enthusiastic Sportsman Enthuses 4/24/2012
9. Too Much Light 4/24/2012
10. At Last 4/24/2012
11. Behind The Bar - A Desecration Of Tennyson 4/24/2012
12. Sir Walter (Revised) 4/24/2012
13. The Wooing O' T 4/24/2012
14. Since The Country Carried Sheep 4/24/2012
15. Brigalow Mick 4/24/2012
16. The Nights At Rocky Bar 4/24/2012
17. Paddy Magee 4/24/2012
18. To The Rev. Canon Fisher 4/24/2012
19. At The River-Crossing 4/24/2012
20. A Departing Dirge 4/24/2012
21. Much A Little While 4/24/2012
22. When The Light Is As Darkness 4/24/2012
23. The Reprobate's Reply 4/24/2012
24. Butchered To Make A Dutchman's Holiday 4/24/2012
25. Love Outlasteth All 1/1/2004
26. To A Silent Girl 1/1/2004
27. A-Shelling Peas 1/1/2004
28. Two Gossips 1/1/2004
29. West By North Again 1/1/2004
30. Westward Ho! 1/1/2004
31. Summer Midnight 1/1/2004
32. Night Thought 1/1/2004
33. His Masterpiece 1/1/2004
34. A Song 1/1/2004
35. Who's Riding Old Harlequin Now? 1/1/2004
Best Poem of Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant

Who's Riding Old Harlequin Now?

They are mustering cattle on Brigalow Vale
Where the stock-horses whinny and stamp,
And where long Andy Ferguson, you may go bail,
Is yet boss on a cutting-out camp.
Half the duffers I met would not know a fat steer
From a blessed old Alderney cow.
Whilst they're mustering there I am wondering here -
Who is riding brown Harlequin now?

Are the pikers as wild and the scrubs just as dense
In the brigalow country as when
There was never a homestead and never a fence
Between Brigalow Vale and The Glen?
Do they yard the big micks 'neath the light ...

Read the full of Who's Riding Old Harlequin Now?

To A Silent Girl

When the sklll'd fashioner of female faces
Designed your mask, he wrought with cunning fist,
And made a mouth expressly to be kiss'd -
Not for shrill utterance nor pert grimaces.

The curved, ripe lips-above the rounded chin -
He dyed the hue of summer's reddest rose,
Then placed a smile upon them to disclose
A glimpse of white and even pearls within.

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