Poem by Andrew Barton Paterson

A Song of the Pen

Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, 
Not for the people’s praise; 
Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, 
Claiming us all our days, 
Claiming our best endeavour -- body and heart and brain 
Given with no reserve -- 
Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain: 
Still, we are proud to serve. 

Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try, 
Gathering grain or chaff; 
One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high, 
One, that a child may laugh. 

Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place, 
Freely she doth accord 
Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace, 
Work is its own reward!

1. There’s Another Blessed Horse Fell Down
2. “Shouting” for a Camel
3. The Hypnotist
4. On Kiley's Run
5. Shearing at Castlereagh

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