> Martyn Wyndham-Read > Songs > Irish Lords

Irish Lords

[ Roud - ; Mudcat 78902 ; Charles Henry Sauter, music Maryn Wyndham-Read]

Irish Lords is a sheep and cattle station near the town of Ivanhoe in the west of New South Wales.

Irish Lords is a poem by South Australian Charles Henry Sauter (1864-1944), printed uncredited in The Bulletin, 7 December 1901, p.30, and published in 1912 in his book Irish Lords and Other Verses, p.55.

Martyn Wyndham-Read sang Irish Lords in 1992 on his Fellside album Mussels on a Tree. This track was also included in 1996 on his anthology Undiscovered Australia. He noted:

Originally a poem written in Australia round about circa 1860 and sent to me in an old book of collected poems by Mary Ball of Melbourne, a good friend. Acclaimed at the time as one of the finest poems to be written in the said continent. I have written the tune. The Author and I collaborated by telepathy.

This video shows Martyn Wyndham-Read at The Bridge Folk Club on 3 March 2025:

Lyrics

Charles Henry Sauter’s poem Irish Lords

The clover burr was two feet high, and the billabongs were full;
The brolgas danced a minuet, and the world seemed made of wool;
The nights were never wearisome, and the days were never slow
When first we came to Irish Lords, on the road to Ivanhoe.

The rime was on the barley-grass as we passed the homestead rails;
A Darling jackass piped us in, with his trills and turns and scales;
And youth and health and carelessness sat on the saddle bow—
And Mary lived at Irish Lords, on the road to Ivanhoe.

On every hand was loveliness, and the Fates were fair and kind;
We drank the very wine of life, and we never looked behind;
And Mary! Mary, everywhere, went flitting to and fro,
When first we came to Irish Lords, on the road to Ivanhoe.

The window of her dainty bower, where the golden banksia grew,
Stared like a dead man’s glazing eye, and the roof had fallen through.
No violets in her garden bed. And her voice—Hushed, long ago!
When last we camped at Irish Lords, on the road to Ivanhoe.

Martyn Wyndham-Read sings Irish Lords

The barley grass was two feet high, the billabongs were full;
The brolgas danced a minuet, the world seemed made of wool;
The nights were never wearisome, the days were never slow
When first I went to Irish Lords, on the road to Ivanhoe.

The frost was on the barley grass as we passed the homestead rails;
A Darling jackass piped us in, with his turns and trills and scales;
Youth and health and happiness, sat on the saddle bow—
And Mary lived at Irish Lords, on the road to Ivanhoe.

And everywhere was happiness, the Fates were fair and kind;
We drank the very wine of life, we never looked behind;
And Mary! Mary, everywhere, was flitting to and fro,
When first we went to Irish Lords, on the road to Ivanhoe.

The window on a leafy byre, where the golden banksia grew,
Stared like a dead man’s glassy eye, for the roof had fallen through,
No flowers in her garden-bed, and her voice—Stilled long ago!
When last I went to Irish Lords, on the road to Ivanhoe.