The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast So gallantly making his way to the east, Says he, "From the tents may I never more roam again If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. Down in the world where men toil and spin Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her; Only the dead men her smiles can win In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water. `He's down! (Banjo) Paterson A. It was splendid; He gained on them yards every bound, Stretching out like a greyhound extended, His girth laid right down on the ground. But Gilbert walked from the open door In a confident style and rash; He heard at his side the rifles roar, And he heard the bullets crash. " T.Y.S.O.N. I Bought a Record and Tape called "Pioneers" by "Wallis and Matilda" a tribute to A.B. by Banjo Paterson, From book: Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other . That I did for himI paid my shilling and I cast my vote.MACBREATH: Thou art the best of all the shilling voters.Prithee, be near me on election dayTo see me smite Macpuff, and now we shan'tBe long,(Ghost of Thompson appears. he's down!' Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can;All our mates in the paddock are dead.Let us wave our farewells to Glen Eva's sweet dellsAnd the hills where your lordship was bred;Together to roam from our drought-stricken homeIt seems hard that such things have to be,And its hard on a "hogs" when he's nought for a bossBut a broken-down squatter like me!For the banks are all broken, they say,And the merchants are all up a tree.When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court,What chance for a squatter like me.No more shall we muster the river for fats,Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain,Or rip through the scrub by the light of the moon,Or see the old stockyard again.Leave the slip-panels down, it won't matter much now,There are none but the crows left to see,Perching gaunt in yon pine, as though longing to dineOn a broken-down squatter like me.When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst,And the cattle were dying in scores,Though down on my luck, I kept up my pluck,Thinking justice might temper the laws.But the farce has been played, and the Government aidAin't extended to squatters, old son;When my dollars were spent they doubled the rent,And resumed the best half of the run. he's holding his lead of 'em well; Hark to him clouting the timber! Banjo Paterson. Unnumbered I told them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright? (Ghost disappears. today Banjo Paterson is still one of. By the Lord, he's got most of 'em beat -- Ho! . But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark -- A restless sleeper aye. He looked to left and looked to right, As though men rode beside; And Rio Grande, with foam-flecks white, Raced at his jumps in headlong flight And cleared them in his stride. To the front -- and then stay there - was ever The root of the Mameluke creed. Did thou catch the last?SECOND HEAD: Aye, marry did I, and the one before,But this has got me beat. The waving of grasses, The song of the river That sings as it passes For ever and ever, The hobble-chains rattle, The calling of birds, The lowing of cattle Must blend with the words. Some of his best-known poems are 'Clancy of the Overflow' and 'Waltzing Matilda.'. He's hurrying, too! The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, A light-hearted antelope "out on the ramp", Then stopped, looked around, got the "lay of the ground", And made a beeline back again to the camp. Video PDF When I'm Gone But they're watching all the ranges till there's not a bird could fly, And I'm fairly worn to pieces with the strife, So I'm taking no more trouble, but I'm going home to die, 'Tis the only way I see to save my life. Top 10 iconic Banjo Paterson bush ballads, The Brindabellas: Miles Franklins mountain country, Questions raised about Western Australia as site of oldest signs of life, Australian Geographic Society Expeditions, Entries now open for the Australian Geographic Nature Photographer of the Year competition, Environmentalists, Conservationists and Scientists. And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, Oh, wonderful night. How far did you come last night?" Shel Silverstein (223 poem . For he rode at dusk with his comrade Dunn. Where are the children that strove and grew In the old homestead in days gone by? Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. Sit down and ride for your life now! And many voices such as these Are joyful sounds for those to tell, Who know the Bush and love it well, With all its hidden mysteries. And took to drink, and by some good chance Was killed -- thrown out of a stolen trap. Without these, indeed, you Would find it ere long, As though I should read you The words of a song That lamely would linger When lacking the rune, The voice of the singer, The lilt of the tune. His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. Unnumbered I hold them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright? O my friend stout-hearted, What does it matter for rain or shine, For the hopes deferred and the grain departed? How go the votes?Enter first voterFIRST VOTER: May it please my Lord,The cherry-pickers' vote is two to oneTowards Macpuff: and all our voters sayThe ghost of Thompson sits in every booth,And talks of pledges.MACBREATH: What a polished liar!And yet the dead can vote! From 1903 to 1906 he was editor of the Evening News, in Sydney, and subsequently editor of the Town and Country Journal for a couple of years. J. Dennis. A B Banjo Paterson Follow. Fourth Man "I am an editor, bold and free. They're off and away with a rattle, Like dogs from the leashes let slip, And right at the back of the battle He followed them under the whip. They started, and the big black steed Came flashing past the stand; All single-handed in the lead He strode along at racing speed, The mighty Rio Grande. I slate his show from the floats to flies, Because the beggar won't advertise. (Ghost of Thompson appears to him suddenly. Owner say'st thou?The owner does the paying, and the talk;Hears the tale afterwards when it gets beatAnd sucks it in as hungry babes suck milk.Look you how ride the books in motor carsWhile owners go on foot, or ride in trams,Crushed with the vulgar herd and doomed to hearFrom mouths of striplings that their horse was stiff,When they themselves are broke from backing it.SCENE IIIEnter an Owner and a JockeyOWNER: 'Tis a good horse. Well, now, I can hardly believe! Another search for Leichhardt's tomb, Though fifty years have fled Since Leichhardt vanished in the gloom, Our one Illustrious Dead! So I'll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again, Tis yourself that knows a good 'un; and, of course, You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy's plain If you're ever asked the breeding of the horse! They bred him out back on the "Never", His mother was Mameluke breed. This never will do. Better it is that they ne'er came back -- Changes and chances are quickly rung; Now the old homestead is gone to rack, Green is the grass on the well-worn track Down by the gate where the roses clung. By subscribing you become an AG Society member, helping us to raise funds for conservation and adventure projects. See also: Poems by all poets about death and All poems by Banjo Paterson The Angel's Kiss Analysis of this poem An angel stood beside the bed Where lay the living and the dead. Yet it sometimes happens by some strange crook That a ledger-keeper will 'take his hook' With a couple of hundred thousand 'quid', And no one can tell how the thing was did!" We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, If he takes home our sins, it'll burst up the Synagogue!" He 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. . Young Andrew spent his formative years living at a station called "Buckenbah' in the western . "And there's nothing in the district that can race him for a step, He could canter while they're going at their top: He's the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep, A five-foot fence -- he'd clear it in a hop! Enter a Messenger. Ride! The way is won! For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears In deserts with never a famine to follow by, The Israelite horde went roaming abroad Like so many sundowners "out on the wallaby". Captain Andrew Barton Banjo Paterson (Right) of 2nd Remounts, Australian Imperial Force in Egypt. But on lonely nights we should hear them calling, We should hear their steps on the pathways falling, We should loathe the life with a hate appalling In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain In the silent park a scent of clover, And the distant roar of the town is dead, And I hear once more, as the swans fly over, Their far-off clamour from overhead. Between the mountains and the sea Like Israelites with staff in hand, The people waited restlessly: They looked towards the mountains old And saw the sunsets come and go With gorgeous golden afterglow, That made the West a fairyland, And marvelled what that West might be Of which such wondrous tales were told. Not on the jaundiced choiceOf folks who daily run their half a mileJust after breakfast, when the steamer hootsHer warning to the laggard, not on theseRelied Macbreath, for if these rustics' choiceHad fall'n on Thompson, I should still have claimedA conference. And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. . Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide, Drifting along with a languid motion, Lapping the reed-beds on either side, Wending their way to the North Ocean. Andrew Barton "Banjo" His parents were immigrants to New South Wales, Australia, in 1850. Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny, But, really, a young un should know. And one man on a big grey steed Rode up and waved his hand; Said he, We help a friend in need, And we have come to give a lead To you and Rio Grande. I dreamt last night I rode this race That I today must ride, And cantering down to take my place I saw full many an old friends face Come stealing to my side. So I go my way with a stately tread While my patients sleep with the dreamless dead." It's food for conjecture, to judge from the picture By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. And his wife got round, and an oath he passed, So long as he or one of his breed Could raise a coin, though it took their last, The Swagman never should want a feed. May the days to come be as rich in blessing As the days we spent in the auld lang syne. Ure Smith. One, in the town where all cares are rife, Weary with troubles that cramp and kill, Fain would be done with the restless strife, Fain would go back to the old bush life, Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill. The trooper knew that his man would slide Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance; And with half a start on the mountain side Ryan would lead him a merry dance. With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb They lead the old billy-goat off to his doom: On every hand a reverend band, Prophets and preachers and elders stand And the oldest rabbi, with a tear in his eye, Delivers a sermon to all standing by. Poets. Don't tell me he can ride. And away in another court I lurk While a junior barrister does your work; And I ask my fee with a courtly grace, Although I never came near the case. About us stretches wealth of land, A boundless wealth of virgin soil As yet unfruitful and untilled! He rolled and he weltered and wallowed -- You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet; They finished all bunched, and he followed All lathered and dripping with sweat. The Two Devines It was shearing time at the Myall Lake, And then rose the sound through the livelong day Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make An early poem by Banjo Paterson's grandmother (In Memoriam) does not augur well: Grief laid her hand upon a stately head / And streams of silver were around it shed . And up in the heavens the brown lark sings The songs the strange wild land has taught her; Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings -- And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water. How neatly we beguiledThe guileless Thompson. Never shakeThy gory locks at me. Best Poets. First published in The Sydney Morning Herald on February 6, 1941. Till King Billy, of the Mooki, chieftain of the flour-bag head, Told him, Sposn snake bite pfeller, pfeller mostly drop down dead; Sposn snake bite old goanna, then you watch a while you see, Old goanna cure himself with eating little pfeller tree. Thats the cure, said William Johnson, point me out this plant sublime, But King Billy, feeling lazy, said hed go another time. Listen awhile till I show you round. Fall! "Come from your prison, Bourke,We Irishmen have done our work,God has been with us, and old Ireland is free. In very short order they got plenty word of him. Fearful that the contribution might be identified as the work of the pamphleteer, he signed it the Banjo. It was published, and a note came asking him to call. . And Kate Carew, when her father died, She kept the horse and she kept him well; The pride of the district far and wide, He lived in style at the bush hotel. Paterson's . "A land where dull Despair is king O'er scentless flowers and songless bird!" I back Pardon!" "At a pound a hundred it's dashed hard lines To shear such sheep," said the two Devines. And surely the thoroughbred horses Will rise up again and begin Fresh faces on far-away courses, And p'raps they might let me slip in. Spoken too low for the trooper's ear, Why should she care if he heard or not? Alas! Mr. Paterson was a prolific writer of light topical verse. With gladness we thought of the morrow, We counted our wages with glee, A simile homely to borrow -- "There was plenty of milk in our tea." Born and bred on the mountain side, He could race through scrub like a kangaroo; The girl herself on his back might ride, And The Swagman would carry her safely through. Andrew Barton Paterson was born on the 17th February 1864 in the township of Narambla, New South Wales. LEGAL INNOVATION | Tu Agente Digitalizador; LEGAL3 | Gestin Definitiva de Despachos; LEGAL GOV | Gestin Avanzada Sector Pblico Had anyone heard of him?" But they settled it among 'em, for the story got about, 'Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course, That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out For the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse! Maya Angelou (52 poem) 4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014. how we rattled it down! And how he did come! . He turned to an Acolyte who was making his bacca light, A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. For folks may widen their mental range, But priest and parson, thay never change." Roll up to the Hall!! Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny, The horses in those days were stout, They had to run well to win money; I don't see such horses about. Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true That close at hand he kept; He pointed straight at the voice, and drew, But never a flash outleapt, For the water ran from the rifle breech -- It was drenched while the outlaws slept. We were objects of mirth and derision To folks in the lawn and the stand, Anf the yells of the clever division Of "Any price Pardon!" Oh, poor Andy went to rest in proper style. Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough? `For I must ride the dead men's race, And follow their command; 'Twere worse than death, the foul disgrace If I should fear to take my place To-day on Rio Grande.' It was fifty miles to their father's hut, And the dawn was bright when they rode away; At the fall of night, when the shed was shut And the men had rest from the toilsome day, To the shed once more through the darkening pines On their weary steeds came the two Devines. It would look rather well the race-card on 'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things, "Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon, Blue halo, white body and wings." Remember, no matter how far you may roam That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens, Their talent stupendous for "getting back home". Favourite Poems of Banjo Paterson (1994) In the Droving Days compiled by Margaret Olds (1994) Under Sunny Skies (1994) Banjo's Animal Tales (1994) The Works of 'Banjo' Paterson (1996) The Best of Banjo Paterson compiled by Bruce Elder (1996) And aren't they just going a pace? O ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder For a while to join in your westward flight, With the stars above and the dim earth under, Trough the cooling air of the glorious night. Breathless, Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank, Saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes, green and rank; Saw him, happy and contented, lick his lips, as off he crept, While the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept. `And then I woke, and for a space All nerveless did I seem; For I have ridden many a race, But never one at such a pace As in that fearful dream. As we swept along on our pinions winging, We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing, Or the distant note of a torrent singing, Or the far-off flash of a station light. The watchers in those forests vast Will see, at fall of night, Commercial travellers bounding past And darting out of sight. Banjo Paterson, original name Andrew Barton Paterson, (born February 17, 1864, Narrambla, New South Wales, Australiadied February 5, 1941, Sydney), Australian poet and journalist noted for his composition of the internationally famous song " Waltzing Matilda ." . For faster horses might well be found On racing tracks, or a plain's extent, But few, if any, on broken ground Could see the way that The Swagman went. Hunt him over the plain, And drive back the brute to the desert again. But it chanced next day, when the stunted pines Were swayed and stirred by the dawn-wind's breath, That a message came for the two Devines That their father lay at the point of death. And sometimes columns of print appear About a mine, and it makes it clear That the same is all that one's heart could wish -- A dozen ounces to every dish. Some of the chaps said you couldn't, an' I says just like this a' one side: Mark me, I says, that's a tradesman -- the saddle is where he was bred. Banjo published this mischievous tale of a young lad who doesnt want to be christened and ends up being named after a whisky in The Bulletin in 1893. (Banjo) Paterson. You want to know If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew; Of course he should have, as stories go, But the worst of it is this story's true: And in real life it's a certain rule, Whatever poets and authors say Of high-toned robbers and all their school, These horsethief fellows aren't built that way. And then we swooped down on Menindie To run for the President's Cup; Oh! It will bring me fame and fortune! He looked to left, and looked to right, As though men rode beside; And Rio Grande, with foam-flecks white, Raced at his jumps in headlong flight And cleared them in his stride. He never flinched, he faced it game, He struck it with his chest, And every stone burst out in flame And Rio Grande and I became Phantoms among the rest. So Abraham ran, like a man did he go for him, But the goat made it clear each time he drew near That he had what the racing men call "too much toe" for him. Jan 2011. you all Must each bring a stone -- Great sport will be shown; Enormous Attractions! And the lavin's of the grub! and he who sings In accents hopeful, clear, and strong, The glories which that future brings Shall sing, indeed, a wondrous song. As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee -- Oh! The landscapes and wildlife of the Brindabellas, west of our national capital, provided inspiration for renowned Australian writer Miles Franklin. Kanzo Makame, the diver -- knowing full well what it meant -- Fatalist, gambler, and stoic, smiled a broad smile of content, Flattened in mainsail and foresail, and off to the Islands they went. The verse which made Patersons name a household word in Australia stirred deeply the imagination of the native born in days gone by, for it was he who for the first time gave the Australian ballad characteristically Australian expression. This is the place where they all were bred; Some of the rafters are standing still; Now they are scattered and lost and dead, Every one from the old nest fled, Out of the shadow of Kiley's Hill. Is Thompson out?VOTER: My lord, his name is mud. Never heard of the honour and glory Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve? "Dress no have got and no helmet -- diver go shore on the spree; Plenty wind come and break rudder -- lugger get blown out to sea: Take me to Japanee Consul, he help a poor Japanee!" Old Australian Ways 157. And over the tumult and louder Rang "Any price Pardon, I lay!" They gained ten good lengths on him quickly He dropped right away from the pack; I tell you it made me feel sickly To see the blue jacket fall back. (That "pal" as I've heard, is an elegant word, Derived from the Persian "Palaykhur" or "Pallaghur"), As the scapegoat strains and tugs at the reins The Rabbi yells rapidly, "Let her go, Gallagher!" He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark, And his horse's warning neigh, And he says to his mate, "There are hawks abroad, And it's time that we went away." The Man From Snowy River There was mo He came for the third heat light-hearted, A-jumping and dancing about; The others were done ere they started Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out. Then right through the ruck he was sailing -- I knew that the battle was won -- The son of Haphazard was failing, The Yattendon filly was done; He cut down The Don and The Dancer, He raced clean away from the mare -- He's in front! And the scientific person hurried off with utmost speed, Tested Johnsons drug and found it was a deadly poison-weed; Half a tumbler killed an emu, half a spoonful killed a goat, All the snakes on earth were harmless to that awful antidote. A B Banjo Paterson 1864-1941 Ranked #79 in the top 500 poets Andrew Barton Paterson was born on the 17th February 1864 in the township of Narambla, New South Wales. The remains will be cremated to-day at the Northern Suburbs Crematorium. You have to be sure of your man Ere you wake up that nest-ful of hornets -- the little brown men of Japan. They had rung the sheds of the east and west, Had beaten the cracks of the Walgett side, And the Cooma shearers had given them best -- When they saw them shear, they were satisfied. He seemed to inherit their wiry Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive -- As hard as a flint and as fiery Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. AUSTRALIANS LOVE THAT Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson (1864-1941) found romance in the tough and wiry characters of bush. * Oh, the steeple was a caution! And the priest would join the laughter: "Oh," said he, "I put him in, For there's five-and-twenty sovereigns to be won. He hasn't much fear of a fall. Ah! Our money all gone and our credit, Our horse couldn't gallop a yard; And then people thought that we did it It really was terribly hard. But he weighed in, nine stone seven, then he laughed and disappeared, Like a banshee (which is Spanish for an elf), And old Hogan muttered sagely, "If it wasn't for the beard They'd be thinking it was Andy Regan's self!" Dead men on horses long since dead, They clustered on the track; The champions of the days long fled, They moved around with noiseless tread Bay, chestnut, brown, and black. ''Three to One, Bar One!' A Change of Menu. This was the way of it, don't you know -- Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep, And never a trooper, high or low, Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep! that's a sweet township -- a shindy To them is board, lodging, and sup. So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate And admitted Andy Regan -- and a horse! These are the risks of the pearling -- these are the ways of Japan; "Plenty more Japanee diver plenty more little brown man!". His Father, Andrew a Scottish farmer from Lanarkshire. To the hut at the Stockman's Ford; and he had fled! Oh, good, that's the style -- come away! 'Ten to One, Golumpus. Lay on Macpuff,And damned be he who first cries Hold, enough! Make room for Rio Grande! Hes down! The Last Parade 153. . The Favourite drifts,And not a single wager has been laidAbout Golumpus. Nay, rather death!Death before picnic! Banjo Paterson. Banjo Paterson. But the loss means ruin too you, maybe, But nevertheless I must have my fee! Then signs to his pal "for to let the brute go". "On," was the battle cry,"Conquer this day or die,Sons of Hibernia, fight for Liberty!Show neither fear nor dread,Strike at the foeman's head,Cut down horse, foot, and artillery! And the poor of Kiley's Crossing drank the health at Christmastide Of the chestnut and his rider dressed in green. Follow fast.Exeunt PuntersSCENE IIThe same. Be that as it may, as each year passed away, a scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) And left there -- to die as his fancy dictated. So the Dutch let him go; but they watched him, as off from the Islands he ran, Doubting him much -- but what would you? From the southern slopes to the western pines They were noted men, were the two Devines. And I know full well that the strangers' faces Would meet us now is our dearest places; For our day is dead and has left no traces But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night. Reviewed by Michael Byrne Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson was born on the 17th February, 1864 at Narambla, near Orange in New South Wales. The waving of grasses, The song of the river That sings as it passes For ever and ever, The hobble-chains' rattle, The calling of birds, The lowing of cattle Must blend with the words. Him -- with the pants and the eyeglass and all. today Banjo Paterson is still one of Australia's best-loved poets.this complete collection of his verse shows the bush balladeer at his very best with favourites such as 'A Bush . But hold! So away at speed through the whispering pines Down the bridle-track rode the two Devines. Bookmakers call: 'Seven to Four on the Field! Boss must be gone off his head to be sending out steeplechase crack Out over fences like these with an object like that on his back. And if they have racing hereafter, (And who is to say they will not?) . Thinkest thou that both are dead?Re-enter PuntersPUNTER: Good morrow, Gentlemen. (The ghost of Thompson disappears, and Macbreath revives himselfwith a great effort. 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'. With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, The people came back from the desert in dread. He had sold them both to the black police For the sake of the big reward. The Jockey's PunterHas he put up the stuff, or does he waitTo get a better price. For I must ride the dead mens race, And follow their command; Twere worse than death, the foul disgrace If I should fear to take my place Today on Rio Grande. He mounted, and a jest he threw, With never sign of gloom; But all who heard the story knew That Jack Macpherson, brave and true, Was going to his doom. What meant he by his prateOf Fav'rite and outsider and the like?Forsooth he told us nothing. "Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say, For it's close upon my death I am tonight. But daring men from Britain's shore, The fearless bulldog breed, Renew the fearful task once more, Determined to succeed. He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo, And many a mile of the silent plain That lonely rider behind him threw Before they settled to sleep again. Well, well, 'tis sudden!These are the uses of the politician,A few brief sittings and another contest;He hardly gets to know th' billiard tablesBefore he's out . (To Punter): Aye marry Sir, I think well of the Favourite.PUNTER: And yet I have a billiard marker's wordThat in this race to-day they back Golumpus,And when they bet, they tell me, they will knockThe Favourite for a string of German Sausage.SHORTINBRAS: Aye, marry, they would tell thee, I've no doubt,It is the way of owners that they tellTo billiard markers and the men on tramsJust when they mean to bet. Now this was what Macpherson told While waiting in the stand; A reckless rider, over-bold, The only man with hands to hold The rushing Rio Grande. For the strength of man is an insect's strength In the face of that mighty plain and river, And the life of a man is a moment's length To the life of the stream that will run for ever.