Poem by Andrew Barton Paterson

The Last Trump

”You led the trump,” the old man said 
With fury in his eye, 
”And yet you hope my girl to wed! 
Young man! your hopes of love are fled, 
’Twere better she should die! 
”My sweet young daughter sitting there, 
So innocent and plump! 
You don’t suppose that she would care 
To wed an outlawed man who’d dare 
To lead the thirteenth trump! 

”If you had drawn their leading spade 
It meant a certain win! 
But no! By Pembroke’s mighty shade 
The thirteenth trump you went and played 
And let their diamonds in! 

”My girl, return at my command 
His presents in a lump! 
Return his ring! For, understand, 
No man is fit to hold your hand 
Who leads a thirteenth trump! 

”But hold! Give every man his due 
And every dog his day. 
Speak up and say what made you do 
This dreadful thing -- that is, if you 
Have anything to say!” 

He spoke. ”I meant at first,” said he, 
”To give their spades a bump, 
Or lead the hearts; but then you see 
I thought against us there might be, 
Perhaps, a fourteenth trump!” 

They buried him at dawn of day 
Beside a ruined stump: 
And there he sleeps the hours away 
And waits for Gabriel to play 
The last -- the fourteenth trump.

1. The Wargeilah Handicap
2. There’s Another Blessed Horse Fell Down
3. Shearing at Castlereagh
4. Swinging the Lead
5. The Maori’s Wool

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