\ShPreface This title includes 22 poems from the six different poets listed in the Chapters below. \IPlease select the first chapter to go to the start of the title. Alternatively, select any Chapter link to go to that Poet.\i 2009-05-30T09:28:33+10:00 false 199 15 2009-06-08T22:52:15+10:00 \ShPreface This title includes 21 poems from the six different poets listed in the Chapters below. \IPlease select the first chapter to go to the start of the title. Alternatively, select any Chapter link to go to that Poet.\i 2009-06-01T03:47:02+10:00 false 202 15 2009-06-08T22:52:46+10:00 \ShPreface This Australian poet was born in 1839 near Milton, New South Wales, and began publishing verse in Sydney journals in 1859. He published his first volume of verse in 1862. His verse brought critical success, but no real income, and his life ended in despondency, alcoholism and ill health, in 1882. However, his 1880 third volume of poems, \ISongs from the Mountains\i, was a popular success, and broke contemporary sales records for Australian verse. Listed below are the 15 different Henry Kendall poems. Clicking on any link will take you directly to that poem. \B <a name=“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b <a href=#“poem1”>Bell-Birds (Kendall poem)</a> <a href=#“poem2”>September in Australia</a> <a href=#“poem3”>The Warrigal (Kendall poem)</a> <a href=#“poem4”>On the Paroo</a> <a href=#“poem5”>The Wild Kangaroo</a> <a href=#“poem6”>The Barcoo (Kendall poem)</a> <a href=#“poem7”>Bill the bullock driver</a> <a href=#“poem8”>Billy Vickers</a> <a href=#“poem9”>Jim the Splitter</a> <a href=#“poem10”>Leichhardt (Kendall poem)</a> <a href=#“poem11”>The Australian Emigrant</a> <a href=#“poem12”>Camped by the Creek</a> <a href=#“poem13”>How the Melbourne Cup Was Won</a> <a href=#“poem14”>On a Street</a> <a href=#“poem15”>Sydney Harbour (Kendall poem)</a> <a name=“poem1”>Bell-Birds (Kendall poem)</a>\b By channels of coolness the echoes are calling, And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling; It lives in the mountain, where moss and the sedges Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges; Through brakes of the cedar and sycamore bowers Struggles the light that is love to the flowers. And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing, The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing. The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of day-time, They sing in September their songs of the May-time. When shadows wax strong and the thunder-bolts hurtle, They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle; When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together They start up like fairies that follow fair weather, And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden. October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses, Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses; Loiters knee-deep in the grasses to listen, Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten. Then is the time when the water-moons splendid Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the morning. Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers Are the voices of bell-birds to thirsty far-comers. When fiery December sets foot in the forest, And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest, Pent in the ridges for ever and ever. The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river, With ring and with ripple, like runnels whose torrents Are toned by the pebbles and leaves in the currents. Often I sit, looking back to a childhood Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood, Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of passion - Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest rafters; So I might keep in the city and alleys The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys, Charming to slumber the pain of my losses With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses. \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem2”>September in Australia</a>\b Grey Winter hath gone, like a wearisome guest, And, behold, for repayment, September comes in with the wind of the West And the Spring in her raiment! The ways of the frost have been filled of the flowers, While the forest discovers Wild wings, with the halo of hyaline hours, And the music of lovers. September, the maid with the swift, silver feet! She glides, and she graces The valleys of coolness, the slopes of the heat, With her blossomy traces; Sweet month, with a mouth that is made of a rose, She lightens and lingers In spots where the harp of the evening glows, Attuned by her fingers. The stream from its home in the hollow hill slips In a darling old fashion; And the day goeth down with a song on its lips, Whose key-note is passion. Far out in the fierce, bitter front of the sea I stand, and remember Dead things that were brothers and sisters of thee, Resplendent September! The West, when it blows at the fall of the noon And beats on the beaches, Is filled with a tender and tremulous tune That touches and teaches; The stories of Youth, of the burden of Time, And the death of Devotion, Come back with the wind, and are themes of the rhyme In the waves of the ocean. We, having a secret to others unknown, In the cool mountain-mosses, May whisper together, September, alone Of our loves and our losses! One word for her beauty, and one for the grace She gave to the hours; And then we may kiss her, and suffer her face To sleep with the flowers. High places that knew of the gold and the white On the forehead of Morning Now darken and quake, and the steps of the Night Are heavy with warning. Her voice in the distance is lofty and loud Through the echoing gorges; She hath hidden her eyes in a mantle of cloud, And her feet in the surges. On the tops of the hills, on the turreted cones - Chief temples of thunder - The gale, like a ghost, in the middle watch moans, Gliding over and under. The sea, flying white through the rack and the rain, Leapeth wild at the forelands; And the plover, whose cry is like passion with pain, Complains in the moorlands. Oh, season of changes - of shadow and shine - September the splendid! My song hath no music to mingle with thine, And its burden is ended; But thou, being born of the winds and the sun, By mountain, by river, Mayst lighten and listen, and loiter and run, With thy voices for ever! \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem3”>The Warrigal (Kendall poem)</a>\b The warrigal's lair is pent in bare, Black rocks at the gorge's mouth; It is set in ways where Summer strays With the sprites of flame and drouth; But when the heights are touched with lights Of hoar-frost, sleet, and shine, His bed is made of the dead grass-blade And the leaves of the windy pine. Through forest boles the storm-wind rolls, Vext of the sea-driv'n rain; And, up in the clift, through many a rift, The voices of torrents complain. The sad marsh-fowl and the lonely owl Are heard in the fog-wreaths grey, When the warrigal wakes, and listens, and takes To the woods that shelter the prey. In the gully-deeps the blind creek sleeps, And the silver, showery moon Glides over the hills, and floats, and fills, And dreams in the dark lagoon; While halting hard by the station yard, Aghast at the hut-flame nigh, The warrigal yells - and flats and fells Are loud with his dismal cry. On the topmost peak of mountains bleak The south wind sobs, and strays Through moaning pine and turpentine, And the rippling runnel ways; And strong streams flow, and great mists go, Where the warrigal starts to hear The watch-dog's bark break sharp in the dark, And flees like a phantom of fear. The swift rains beat, and the thunders fleet On the wings of the fiery gale, And down in the glen of pool and fen, The wild gums whistle and wail, As over the plains and past the chains Of waterholes glimmering deep, The warrigal flies from the shepherd's cries, And the clamour of dogs and sheep. He roves through the lands of sultry sands, He hunts in the iron range, Untamed as surge of the far sea verge, And fierce and fickle and strange. The white man's track and the haunts of the black He shuns, and shudders to see; For his joy he tastes in lonely wastes Where his mates are torrent and tree. \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem4”>On the Paroo</a>\b \I(The name of a watercourse, often dry, which in flood-time reaches the river Darling.\i) As when the strong stream of a wintering sea Rolls round our coast, with bodeful breaks of storm, And swift salt rain, and bitter wind that saith Wild things and woeful of the White South Land Alone with God and silence in the cold - As when this cometh, men from dripping doors Look forth, and shudder for the mariners Abroad, so we for absent brothers looked In days of drought, and when the flying floods Swept boundless; roaring down the bald, black plains Beyond the farthest spur of western hills. For where the Barwon cuts a rotten land, Or lies unshaken, like a great blind creek, Between hot mouldering banks, it came to this, All in a time of short and thirsty sighs, That thirty rainless months had left the pools And grass as dry as ashes: then it was Our kinsmen started for the lone Paroo, From point to point, with patient strivings, sheer Across the horrors of the windless downs, Blue gleaming like a sea of molten steel. But never drought had broke them: never flood Had quenched them: they with mighty youth and health, And thews and sinews knotted like the trees - \IThey\i, like the children of the native woods, Could stem the strenuous waters, or outlive The crimson days and dull, dead nights of thirst Like camels: yet of what avail was strength Alone to them - though it was like the rocks On stormy mountains - in the bloody time When fierce sleep caught them in the camps at rest, And violent darkness gripped the life in them And whelmed them, as an eagle unawares Is whelmed and slaughtered in a sudden snare. All murdered by the blacks; smit while they lay In silver dreams, and with the far, faint fall Of many waters breaking on their sleep! Yea, in the tracts unknown of any man Save savages - the dim-discovered ways Of footless silence or unhappy winds - The wild men came upon them, like a fire Of desert thunder; and the fine, firm lips That touched a mother's lips a year before, And hands that knew a dearer hand than life, Were hewn - a sacrifice before the stars, And left with hooting owls and blowing clouds, And falling leaves and solitary wings! Aye, you may see their graves - you who have toiled And tripped and thirsted, like these men of ours; For, verily, I say that \Inot\i so deep Their bones are that the scattered drift and dust Of gusty days will never leave them bare. O dear, dead, bleaching bones! I know of those Who have the wild, strong will to go and sit Outside all things with you, and keep the ways Aloof from bats, and snakes, and trampling feet That smite your peace and theirs - who have the heart, Without the lusty limbs, to face the fire And moonless midnights, and to be, indeed, For very sorrow, like a moaning wind In wintry forests with perpetual rain. Because of this - because of sisters left With desperate purpose and dishevelled hair, And broken breath, and sweetness quenched in tears - Because of swifter silver for the head, And furrows for the face - because of these That should have come with age, that come with pain - O Master! Father! sitting where our eyes Are tired of looking, say for once are we - Are \Iwe\i to set our lips with weary smiles Before the bitterness of Life and Death, And call it honey, while we bear away A taste like wormwood? Turn thyself, and sing - Sing, Son of Sorrow! Is there any gain For breaking of the loins, for melting eyes, And knees as weak as water? - any peace, Or hope for casual breath and labouring lips, For clapping of the palms, and sharper sighs Than frost; or any light to come for those Who stand and mumble in the alien streets With heads as grey as Winter? - any balm For pleading women, and the love that knows Of nothing left to love? They sleep a sleep Unknown of dreams, these darling friends of ours. And we who taste the core of many tales Of tribulation - we whose lives are salt With tears indeed - we therefore hide our eyes And weep in secret, lest our grief should risk The rest that hath no hurt from daily racks Of fiery clouds and immemorial rains. \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem5”>The Wild Kangaroo</a>\b The rain-clouds have gone to the deep - The East like a furnace doth glow; And the day-spring is flooding the steep, And sheening the landscape below. Oh, ye who are gifted with souls That delight in the music of birds, Come forth where the scattered mist rolls, And listen to eloquent words! Oh, ye who are fond of the sport, And would travel yon wilderness through, Gather - each to his place - for a life-stirring chase, In the wake of the wild Kangaroo! Gather - each to his place - For a life-stirring chase In the wake of the wild Kangaroo! Beyond the wide rents of the fog, The trees are illumined with gold; And the bark of the shepherd's brave dog Shoots away from the sheltering fold. Down the depths of yon rock-border'd glade, A torrent goes foaming along; And the blind-owls retire into shade, And the bell-bird beginneth its song. By the side of that yawning abyss, Where the vapours are hurrying to, We will merrily pass, looking down to the grass For the tracks of the wild Kangaroo! We will merrily pass, Looking down to the grass For the tracks of the wild Kangaroo. Ho, brothers, away to the woods; Euroka hath clambered the hill; But the morning there seldom intrudes, Where the night-shadows slumber on still. We will roam o'er these forest-lands wild, And thread the dark masses of vines, Where the winds, like the voice of a child, Are singing aloft in the pines. We must keep down the glee of our hounds; We must \Isteal\i through the glittering dew; And the breezes shall sleep as we cautiously creep To the haunts of the wild Kangaroo. And the breezes shall sleep, As we cautiously creep To the haunts of the wild Kangaroo. When we pass through a stillness like death The swamp fowl and timorous quail, Like the leaves in a hurricane's breath, Will start from their nests in the vale; And the forester,* snuffing the air, Will bound from his covert so dark, While we follow along in the rear, As arrows speed on to their mark! Then the swift hounds shall bring him to bay, And we'll send forth a hearty halloo, As we gather them all to be in at the fall - At the death of the wild Kangaroo! As we gather them all To be in at the fall - At the death of the wild Kangaroo! The kangaroo* \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem6”>The Barcoo (Kendall poem)</a>\b (The Squatters' Song) From the runs of the Narran, wide-dotted with sheep, And loud with the lowing of cattle, We speed for a land where the strange forests sleep And the hidden creeks bubble and brattle! Now call on the horses, and leave the blind courses And sources of rivers that all of us know; For, crossing the ridges, and passing the ledges, And running up gorges, we'll come to the verges Of gullies where waters eternally flow. Oh! the herds they will rush down the spurs of the hill To feed on the grasses so cool and so sweet; And I think that my life with delight will stand still When we halt with the pleasant Barcoo at our feet. Good-bye to the Barwon, and brigalow scrubs, Adieu to the Culgoa ranges, But look for the mulga and salt-bitten shrubs, Though the face of the forest-land changes. The leagues we may travel down beds of hot gravel, And clay-crusted reaches where moisture hath been, While searching for waters, may vex us and thwart us, Yet who would be quailing, or fainting, or failing? Not you, who are men of the Narran, I ween! When we leave the dry channels away to the south, And reach the far plains we are journeying to, We will cry, though our lips may be glued with the drouth, Hip, hip, and hurrah for the pleasant Barcoo! \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem7”>Bill the bullock driver</a>\b The leaders of millions, the lords of the lands, Who sway the wide world with their will And shake the great globe with the strength of their hands, Flash past us - unnoticed by Bill. The elders of science who measure the spheres And weigh the vast bulk of the sun - Who see the grand lights beyond aeons of years, Are less than a bullock to \Ione\i. The singers that sweeten all time with their song - Pure voices that make us forget Humanity's drama of marvellous wrong - To Bill are as mysteries yet. By thunders of battle and nations uphurled, Bill's sympathies never were stirred: The helmsmen who stand at the wheel of the world By him are unknown and unheard. What trouble has Bill for the ruin of lands, Or the quarrels of temple and throne, So long as the whip that he holds in his hands And the team that he drives are his own? As straight and as sound as a slab without crack, Our Bill is a king in his way; Though he camps by the side of a shingle track, And sleeps on the bed of his dray. A whip-lash to him is as dear as a rose Would be to a delicate maid; He carries his darlings wherever he goes, In a pocket-book tattered and frayed. The joy of a bard when he happens to write A song like the song of his dream Is nothing at all to our hero's delight In the pluck and the strength of his team. For the kings of the earth, for the faces august Of princes, the millions may shout; To Bill, as he lumbers along in the dust, A bullock's the grandest thing out. His four-footed friends are the friends of his choice - No lover is Bill of your dames; But the cattle that turn at the sound of his voice Have the sweetest of features and names. A father's chief joy is a favourite son, When he reaches some eminent goal, But the pride of Bill's heart is the hairy-legged one That pulls with a will at the pole. His dray is no living, responsible thing, But he gives it the gender of life; And, seeing his fancy is free in the wing, It suits him as well as a wife. He thrives like an Arab. Between the two wheels Is his bedroom, where, lying up-curled, He thinks for himself, like a sultan, and feels That his home is the best in the world. For, even though cattle, like subjects, will break At times from the yoke and the band, Bill knows how to act when his rule is at stake, And is therefore a lord of the land. Of course he must dream; but be sure that his dreams, If happy, must compass, alas! Fat bullocks at feed by improbable streams, Knee-deep in improbable grass. No poet is Bill, for the visions of night To him are as visions of day; And the pipe that in sleep he endeavours to light Is the pipe that he smokes on the dray. To the mighty, magnificent temples of God, In the hearts of the dominant hills, Bill's eyes are as blind as the fire-blackened clod That burns far away from the rills. Through beautiful, bountiful forests that screen A marvel of blossoms from heat - Whose lights are the mellow and golden and green - Bill walks with irreverent feet. The manifold splendours of mountain and wood By Bill like nonentities slip; He loves the black myrtle because it is good As a handle to lash to his whip. And thus through the world, with a swing in his tread, Our hero self-satisfied goes; With his cabbage-tree hat on the back of his head, And the string of it under his nose. Poor bullocky Bill! In the circles select Of the scholars he hasn't a place; But he walks like a \Iman\i, with his forehead erect, And he looks at God's day in the face. For, rough as he seems, he would shudder to wrong A dog with the loss of a hair; And the angels of shine and superlative song See his heart and the deity there. Few know him, indeed; but the beauty that glows In the forest is loveliness still; And Providence helping the life of the rose Is a Friend and a Father to Bill. \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem8”>Billy Vickers</a>\b No song is this of leaf and bird, And gracious waters flowing; I'm sick at heart, for I have heard Big Billy Vickers "blowing". He'd never take a leading place In chambers legislative: This booby with the vacant face - This hoddy-doddy native! Indeed, I'm forced to say aside, To you, O reader, solely, He only wants the horns and hide To be a bullock wholly. But, like all noodles, he is vain; And when his tongue is wagging, I feel inclined to copy Cain, And "drop" him for his bragging. He, being Bush-bred, stands, of course, Six feet his dirty socks in; His lingo is confined to horse And plough, and pig and oxen. Two years ago he'd less to say Within his little circuit; But now he has, besides a dray, A team of twelve to work it. No wonder is it that he feels Inclined to clack and rattle About his bullocks and his wheels - He owns a dozen cattle. In short, to be exact and blunt, In his own estimation He's "out and out" the head and front Top-sawyer of creation! For, mark me, he can "sit a buck" For hours and hours together; And never horse has had the luck To pitch him from the leather. If ever he should have a "spill" Upon the grass or gravel, Be sure of this, the saddle will With Billy Vickers travel. At punching oxen you may guess There's nothing out can "camp" him: He has, in fact, the slouch and dress Which bullock-driver stamp him. I do not mean to give offence, But I have vainly striven To ferret out the difference 'Twixt driver and the driven. Of course, the statements herein made In every other stanza Are Billy's own; and I'm afraid They're stark extravaganza. I feel constrained to treat as trash His noisy fiddle-faddle About his doings with the lash, His feats upon the saddle. But grant he "knows his way about", Or grant that he is silly, There cannot be the slightest doubt Of Billy's faith in Billy. Of all the doings of the day His ignorance is utter; But he can quote the price of hay, The current rate of butter. His notions of our leading men Are mixed and misty very: He knows a cochin-china hen - He never speaks of Berry. As you'll assume, he hasn't heard Of Madame Patti's singing; But I will stake my solemn word He knows what maize is bringing. Surrounded by majestic peaks, By lordly mountain ranges, Where highest voice of thunder speaks His aspect never changes. The grand Pacific there beyond His dirty hut is glowing: He only sees a big salt pond, O'er which his grain is going. The sea that covers half the sphere, With all its stately speeches, Is held by Bill to be a mere Broad highway for his peaches. Through Nature's splendid temples he Plods, under mountains hoary; But he has not the eyes to see Their grandeur and their glory. A bullock in a biped's boot, I iterate, is Billy! He crushes with a careless foot The touching water-lily. I've said enough - I'll let him go! If he could read these verses, He'd pepper me for hours, I know, With his peculiar curses. But this is sure, he'll never change His manners loud and flashy, Nor learn with neatness to arrange His clothing, cheap and trashy. Like other louts, he'll jog along, And swig at shanty liquors, And chew and spit. Here ends the song Of Mr. Billy Vickers. \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem9”>Jim the Splitter</a>\b The bard who is singing of Wollombi Jim Is hardly just now in the requisite trim To sit on his Pegasus fairly; Besides, he is bluntly informed by the Muse That Jim is a subject no singer should choose; For Jim is poetical rarely. But being full up of the myths that are Greek - Of the classic, and noble, and nude, and antique, Which means not a rag but the pelt on; This poet intends to give Daphne the slip, For the sake of a hero in moleskin and kip, With a jumper and snake-buckle belt on. No party is Jim of the Pericles type - He is modern right up from the toe to the pipe; And being no reader or roamer, He hasn't Euripides much in the head; And let it be carefully, tenderly said, He never has analysed Homer. He can roar out a song of the twopenny kind; But, knowing the beggar so well, I'm inclined To believe that a "par" about Kelly, The rascal who skulked under shadow of curse, Is more in his line than the happiest verse On the glittering pages of Shelley. You mustn't, however, adjudge him in haste, Because a red robber is more to his taste Than Ruskin, Rossetti, or Dante! You see, he was bred in a bangalow wood, And bangalow pith was the principal food His mother served out in her shanty. His knowledge is this - he can tell in the dark What timber will split by the feel of the bark; And rough as his manner of speech is, His wits to the fore he can readily bring In passing off ash as the genuine thing When scarce in the forest the beech is. In girthing a tree that he sells in the round, He assumes, as a rule, that the body is sound, And measures, forgetting to bark it! He may be a ninny, but still the old dog Can plug to perfection the pipe of a log And palm it away on the market. He splits a fair shingle, but holds to the rule Of his father's, and, haply, his grandfather's school; Which means that he never has blundered, When tying his shingles, by slinging in more Than the recognized number of ninety and four To the bundle he sells for a hundred! When asked by the market for ironbark red, It always occurs to the Wollombi head To do a "mahogany" swindle. In forests where never the ironbark grew, When Jim is at work, it would flabbergast you To see how the ironbarks dwindle. He can stick to the saddle, can Wollombi Jim, And when a buckjumper dispenses with him, The leather goes off with the rider. And, as to a team, over gully and hill He can travel with twelve on the breadth of a quill And boss the unlucky offsider. He shines at his best at the tiller of saw, On the top of the pit, where his whisper is law To the gentleman working below him. When the pair of them pause in a circle of dust, Like a monarch he poses - exalted, august - There's nothing this planet can show him! For a man is a \Iman\i who can sharpen and set, And \Ihe\i is the only thing masculine yet According to sawyer and splitter - Or rather according to Wollombi Jim; And nothing will tempt me to differ from him, For Jim is a bit of a hitter. But, being full up, we'll allow him to rip, Along with his lingo, his saw, and his whip - He isn't the classical notion. And, after a night in his humpy, you see, A person of orthodox habits would be Refreshed by a dip in the ocean. To tot him right up from the heel to the head, He isn't the Grecian of whom we have read - His face is a trifle too shady. The nymph in green valleys of Thessaly dim Would never "jack up" her old lover for him, For she has the tastes of a lady. So much for our hero! A statuesque foot Would suffer by wearing that heavy-nailed boot - Its owner is hardly Achilles. However, he's happy! He cuts a great "fig" In the land where a coat is no part of the rig - In the country of damper and billies. \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem10”>Leichhardt (Kendall poem)</a>\b Lordly harp, by lordly master wakened from majestic sleep, Yet shall speak and yet shall sing the words which make the fathers weep! Voice surpassing human voices - high, unearthly harmony - Yet shall tell the tale of hero, in exalted years to be! In the ranges, by the rivers, on the uplands, down the dells, Where the sound of wind and wave is, where the mountain anthem swells, Yet shall float the song of lustre, sweet with tears and fair with flame, Shining with a theme of beauty, holy with our Leichhardt's name! Name of him who faced for science thirsty tracts of bitter glow, Lurid lands that no one knows of - two-and-thirty years ago. Born by hills of hard grey weather, far beyond the northern seas, German mountains were his sponsors, and his mates were German trees; Grandeur of the old-world forests passed into his radiant soul, With the song of stormy crescents where the mighty waters roll. Thus he came to be a brother of the river and the wood - Thus the leaf, the bird, the blossom, grew a gracious sisterhood; Nature led him to her children, in a space of light divine: Kneeling down, he said - "My mother, let me be as one of thine!" So she took him - thence she loved him - lodged him in her home of dreams, Taught him what the trees were saying, schooled him in the speech of streams. For her sake he crossed the waters - loving her, he left the place Hallowed by his father's ashes, and his human mother's face - Passed the seas and entered temples domed by skies of deathless beam, Walled about by hills majestic, stately spires and peaks supreme! Here he found a larger beauty - here the lovely lights were new On the slopes of many flowers, down the gold-green dells of dew. In the great august cathedral of his holy lady, he Daily worshipped at her altars, nightly bent the reverent knee - Heard the hymns of night and morning, learned the psalm of solitudes; Knew that God was very near him - felt His presence in the woods! But the starry angel, Science, from the home of glittering wings, Came one day and talked to Nature by melodious mountain springs: "Let thy son be mine," she pleaded; "lend him for a space," she said, "So that he may earn the laurels I have woven for his head!" And the lady, Nature, listened; and she took her loyal son From the banks of moss and myrtle - led him to the Shining One! Filled his lordly soul with gladness - told him of a spacious zone Eye of man had never looked at, human foot had never known. Then the angel, Science, beckoned, and he knelt and whispered low - "I will follow where you lead me" - two-and-thirty years ago. On the tracts of thirst and furnace - on the dumb, blind, burning plain, Where the red earth gapes for moisture, and the wan leaves hiss for rain, In a land of dry, fierce thunder, did he ever pause and dream Of the cool green German valley and the singing German stream? When the sun was as a menace, glaring from a sky of brass, Did he ever rest, in visions, on a lap of German grass? Past the waste of thorny terrors, did he reach a sphere of rills, In a region yet untravelled, ringed by fair untrodden hills? Was the spot where last he rested pleasant as an old-world lea? Did the sweet winds come and lull him with the music of the sea? Let us dream so - let us hope so! Haply in a cool green glade, Far beyond the zone of furnace, Leichhardt's sacred shell was laid! Haply in some leafy valley, underneath blue, gracious skies, In the sound of mountain water, the heroic traveller lies! Down a dell of dewy myrtle, where the light is soft and green, And a month like English April sits, an immemorial queen, Let us think that he is resting - think that by a radiant grave Ever come the songs of forest, and the voices of the wave! \IThus\i we want our sons to find him - find him under floral bowers, Sleeping by the trees he loved so, covered with his darling flowers! \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem11”>The Australian Emigrant</a>\b [\INote: in this context, the title refers to those migrating to Australia, not those emigrating from Australia.\i] How dazzling the sunbeams awoke on the spray, When Australia first rose in the distance away, As welcome to us on the deck of the bark, As the dove to the vision of those in the ark! What fairylike fancies appear'd to the view As nearer and nearer the haven we drew! What castles were built and rebuilt in the brain, To totter and crumble to nothing again! We had roam'd o'er the ocean - had travers'd a path, Where the tempest surrounded and shriek'd in its wrath: Alike we had roll'd in the hurricane's breath, And slumber'd on waters as silent as death: We had watch'd the Day breaking each morn on the main, And had seen it sink down in the billows again; For week after week, till dishearten'd we thought An age would elapse ere we enter'd the port. How often while ploughing the 'watery waste', Our thoughts - from the Future have turn'd to the Past; How often our bosoms have heav'd with regret; For faces and scenes we could never forget: For we'd seen as the shadows o'er-curtain'd our minds The cliffs of old England receding behind; And had turned in our tears from the view of the shore, The land of our childhood, to see it no more. But when that red morning awoke from its sleep, To show us this land like a cloud on the deep; And when the warm sunbeams imparted their glow, To the heavens above and the ocean below; The hearts ' had been aching then revell'd with joy, And a pleasure was tasted exempt from alloy; The souls ' had been heavy grew happy and light And all was forgotten in present delight. 'Tis true - of the hopes that were verdant that day There is more than the half of them withered away: 'Tis true that emotions of temper'd regret, Still live for the country we'll never forget; But yet we are happy, since learning to love The scenes that surround us - the skies are above, We find ourselves bound, as it were by a spell, In the clime we've adopted contented to dwell. \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem12”>Camped by the Creek</a>\b "All day a strong sun has been drinking The ponds in the Wattletree Glen; And now as they're puddles, I'm thinking We were wise to head hitherwards, men! The country is heavy to nor'ard, But Lord, how you rattled along! Jack's chestnut's best leg was put for'ard, And the bay from the start galloped strong; But for bottom, I'd stake my existence, There's none of the lot like the mare; For look! she has come the whole distance With never the 'turn of a hair'. "But now let us stop, for the 'super' Will want us to-morrow by noon; And as he can swear like a trooper, We can't be a minute too soon. Here, Dick, you can hobble the filly And chestnut, but don't take a week; And, Jack, hurry off with the billy And fill it. We'll camp by the creek." So spoke the old stockman, and quickly We made ourselves snug for the night; The smoke-wreaths above us curled thickly, For our pipes were the first thing a-light! As we sat round a fire that only A well-seasoned bushman can make, Far forests grew silent and lonely, Though the paw was astir in the brake, But not till our supper was ended, And not till old Bill was asleep, Did wild things by wonder attended In shot of our camping-ground creep. Scared eyes from thick tuft and tree-hollow Gleamed out thro' the forest-boles stark; And ever a hurry would follow Of fugitive feet in the dark. While Dick and I yarned and talked over Old times that had gone like the sun, The wail of the desolate plover Came up from the swamps in the run. And sniffing our supper, elated, From his den the red dingo crawled out; But skulked in the darkness, and waited, Like a cunning but cowardly scout. Thereafter came sleep that soon falls on A man who has ridden all day; And when midnight had deepened the palls on The hills, we were snoring away. But ere we dozed off, the wild noises Of forest, of fen, and of stream, Grew strange, and were one with the voices That died with a sweet semi-dream. And the tones of the waterfall, blended With the song of the wind on the shore, Became a soft psalm that ascended, Grew far, and we heard it no more. \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem13”>How the Melbourne Cup Was Won</a>\b In the beams of a beautiful day, Made soft by a breeze from the sea, The horses were started away, The fleet-footed thirty and three; Where beauty, with shining attire, Shed more than a noon on the land, Like spirits of thunder and fire They flashed by the fence and the stand. And the mouths of pale thousands were hushed When Somnus, a marvel of strength, Past Bowes like a sudden wind rushed, And led the bay colt by a length; But a chestnut came galloping through, And, down where the river-tide steals, O'Brien, on brave Waterloo, Dashed up to the big horse's heels. But Cracknell still kept to the fore, And first by the water bend wheeled, When a cry from the stand, and a roar Ran over green furlongs of field; Far out by the back of the course - A demon of muscle and pluck - Flashed onward the favourite horse, With his hoofs flaming clear of the ruck. But the wonderful Queenslander came, And the thundering leaders were three; And a ring, and a roll of acclaim, Went out, like a surge of the sea: "An Epigram! Epigram wins!" - "The Colt of the Derby" - "The bay!" But back where the crescent begins The favourite melted away. And the marvel that came from the North, With another, was heavily thrown; And here at the turning flashed forth To the front a surprising unknown; By shed and by paddock and gate The strange, the magnificent black, Led Darebin a length in the straight, With thirty and one at his back. But the Derby colt tired at the rails, And Ivory's marvellous bay Passed Burton, O'Brien, and Hales, As fleet as a flash of the day. But Gough on the African star Came clear in the front of his "field", Hard followed by Morrison's Czar And the blood unaccustomed to yield. Yes, first from the turn to the end, With a boy on him paler than ghost, The horse that had hardly a friend Shot flashing like fire by the post. When Graham was "riding" 'twas late For his friends to applaud on the stands, The black, through the bend and "the straight", Had the race of the year in his hands. In a clamour of calls and acclaim, He landed the money - the horse With the beautiful African name, That rang to the back of the course. Hurrah for the Hercules race, And the terror that came from his stall, With the bright, the intelligent face, To show the road home to them all! \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem14”>On a Street</a>\b I dread that street - its haggard face I have not seen for eight long years; A mother's curse is on the place, (There's blood, my reader, in her tears). No child of man shall ever track, Through filthy dust, the singer's feet - A fierce old memory drags me back; I hate its name - I dread that street. Upon the lap of green, sweet lands, Whose months are like your English Mays, I try to hide in Lethe's sands The bitter, old Bohemian days. But sorrow speaks in singing leaf, And trouble talketh in the tide; The skirts of a stupendous grief Are trailing ever at my side. I will not say who suffered there, 'Tis best the name aloof to keep, Because the world is very fair - Its light should sing the dark to sleep. But, let me whisper, in that street A woman, faint through want of bread, Has often pawned the quilt and sheet And wept upon a barren bed. How gladly would I change my theme, Or cease the song and steal away, But on the hill and by the stream A ghost is with me night and day! A dreadful darkness, full of wild, Chaotic visions, comes to me: I seem to hear a dying child, Its mother's face I seem to see. Here, surely, on this bank of bloom, My verse with shine would ever flow; But ah! it comes - the rented room, With man and wife who suffered so! From flower and leaf there is no hint - I only see a sharp distress - A lady in a faded print, A careworn writer for the press. I only hear the brutal curse Of landlord clamouring for his pay; And yonder is the pauper's hearse That comes to take a child away. Apart, and with the half-grey head Of sudden age, again I see The father writing by the dead To earn the undertaker's fee. No tear at all is asked for him - A drunkard well deserves his life; But voice will quiver, eyes grow dim, For her, the patient, pure young wife, The gentle girl of better days, As timid as a mountain fawn, Who used to choose untrodden ways, And place at night her rags in pawn. She could not face the lighted square, Or show the street her poor, thin dress; In one close chamber, bleak and bare, She hid her burden of distress. Her happy schoolmates used to drive, On gaudy wheels, the town about; The meat that keeps a dog alive She often had to go without. I tell you, this is not a tale Conceived by me, but bitter truth; Bohemia knows it, pinched and pale, Beside the pyre of burnt-out youth: These eyes of mine have often seen The sweet girl-wife, in winters rude, Steal out at night, through courts unclean, To hunt about for chips of wood. Have I no word at all for him Who used down fetid lanes to slink, And squat in tap-room corners grim, And drown his thoughts in dregs of drink? This much I'll say, that when the flame Of reason reassumed its force, The hell the Christian fears to name, Was heaven to his fierce remorse. Just think of him - beneath the ban, And steeped in sorrow to the neck, Without a friend - a feeble man, In failing health - a human wreck. With all his sense and scholarship, How could he face his fading wife? The devil never lifted whip With thongs like those that scourged his life. But He in whom the dying thief Upon the Cross did place his trust, Forgets the sin and feels the grief, And lifts the sufferer from the dust. And now, because I have a dream, The man and woman found the light; A glory burns upon the stream, With gold and green the woods are bright. But still I hate that haggard street, Its filthy courts, its alleys wild; In dreams of it I always meet The phantom of a wailing child. The name of it begets distress - Ah, song, be silent! show no more The lady in the perished dress, The scholar on the tap-room floor. \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem15”>Sydney Harbour (Kendall poem)</a>\b Where Hornby, like a mighty fallen star, Burns through the darkness with a splendid ring Of tenfold light, and where the awful face Of Sydney's northern headland stares all night O'er dark, determined waters from the east, From year to year a wild, Titanic voice Of fierce aggressive sea shoots up and makes, - When storm sails high through drifts of driving sleet, And in the days when limpid waters glass December's sunny hair and forest face, - A roaring down by immemorial caves, A thunder in the everlasting hills. But calm and lucid as an English lake, Beloved by beams and wooed by wind and wing, Shut in from tempest-trampled wastes of wave, And sheltered from white wraths of surge by walls - Grand ramparts founded by the hand of God, The lordly Harbour gleams. Yea, like a shield Of marvellous gold dropped in his fiery flight By some lost angel in the elder days, When Satan faced and fought Omnipotence, It shines amongst fair, flowering hills, and flows By dells of glimmering greenness manifold. And all day long, when soft-eyed Spring comes round With gracious gifts of bird and leaf and grass - And through the noon, when sumptuous Summer sleeps By yellowing runnels under beetling cliffs, This royal water blossoms far and wide With ships from all the corners of the world. And while sweet Autumn with her gipsy face Stands in the gardens, splashed from heel to thigh With spinning vine-blood - yea, and when the mild, Wan face of our Australian Winter looks Across the congregated southern fens, Then low, melodious, shell-like songs are heard Beneath proud hulls and pompous clouds of sail, By yellow beaches under lisping leaves And hidden nooks to Youth and Beauty dear, And where the ear may catch the counter-voice Of Ocean travelling over far, blue tracts. Moreover, when the moon is gazing down Upon her lovely reflex in the wave, (What time she, sitting in the zenith, makes A silver silence over stirless woods), Then, where its echoes start at sudden bells, And where its waters gleam with flying lights, The haven lies, in all its beauty clad, More lovely even than the golden lakes The poet saw, while dreaming splendid dreams Which showed his soul the far Hesperides. \BHenry Kendall\b \B Back to <a href=#“Kendall”>HENRY KENDALL LIST OF POEMS</a>\b 2009-06-01T04:46:51+10:00 false 203 15 2009-06-02T06:57:19+10:00 \ShPreface Henry Lawson was born in rural New South Wales in 1867, moved to Sydney and later travelled to both Britain and New Zealand. He lapsed into alcoholism in his later years, and was given a state funeral when he died in 1922, as befitted a man seen by many as Australia's national poet. The poems selected here give a feel for the Australia that many Australians still believe in, though like America's Wild West, it has been gone for the best part of a hundred years. Lawson’s poems are spread over three separate titles – this one, and also \BHENRY LAWSON POEMS -- PART II\b and \BHENRY LAWSON POEMS -- PART III\b. The poems are in alphabetical order, with 13 poems in this \BPART I\b title. Clicking on any link below will take you directly to that poem. PART II goes from \BThe Ballard of the Drover\b to the \BNever-Never Land\b. PART III goes from the \BThe Old Bark School\b to \BWide Spaces\b. \B <a name=“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b <a href=#“poem1”>Andy's Gone With Cattle</a> <a href=#“poem2”>Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers</a> <a href=#“poem3”>Ben Duggan</a> <a href=#“poem4”>Cameron's Heart</a> <a href=#“poem5”>Eurunderee (Lawson poem)</a> <a href=#“poem6”>Faces in the Street</a> <a href=#“poem7”>Freedom on the Wallaby</a> <a href=#“poem8”>Jack Dunn of Nevertire</a> <a href=#“poem9”>Middleton's Rouseabout</a> <a href=#“poem10”>Out Back (Lawson poem)</a> <a href=#“poem11”>Past Carin'</a> <a href=#“poem12”>Reedy River</a> <a href=#“poem13”>Saint Peter (Lawson poem)</a> \B <a name=“poem1”>Andy's Gone With Cattle</a>\b Our Andy's gone to battle now - Our hearts are out of order With drought he's gone to battle now Across the Queensland border. He's left us in dejection now; Our hearts with him are roving. It's dull on this selection now, Since Andy went a-droving. Who now shall wear the cheerful face In times when things are slackest? And who shall whistle round the place When Fortune frowns her blackest? Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now When he comes round us snarling? His tongue is growing hotter now Since Andy crossed the Darling. Oh, may the showers in torrents fall, And all the tanks run over; And may the grass grow green and tall In pathways of the drover; And may good angels send the rain On desert stretches sandy; And when the summer comes again God grant 'twill bring us Andy. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b \B <a name=“poem2”>Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers</a>\b While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse The gambling and the drink which are your country's greatest curse, While you glorify the bully and take the spieler's part - You're a clever southern writer, scarce inferior to Bret Harte. If you sing of waving grasses when the plains are dry as bricks, And discover shining rivers where there's only mud and sticks; If you picture 'mighty forests' where the mulga spoils the view - You're superior to Kendall*, and ahead of Gordon* too. If you swear there's not a country like the land that gave you birth, And its sons are just the noblest and most glorious chaps on earth; If in every girl a Venus your poetic eye discerns, You are gracefully referred to as the 'young Australian Burns'. But if you should find that bushmen - spite of all the poets say - Are just common brother-sinners, and you're quite as good as they - You're a drunkard, and a liar, and a cynic, and a sneak, Your grammar's simply awful and your intellect is weak. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b \B <a name=“poem3”>Ben Duggan</a>\b Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began, And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man; Jack Denver's wife bowed down her head - her daughter's grief was wild, And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child. But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far, To raise the longest funeral ever seen on Talbragar. By station home And shearing shed Ben Duggan cried, 'Jack Denver's dead! Roll up at Talbragar!' He borrowed horses here and there, and rode all Christmas Eve, And scarcely paused a moment's time the mournful news to leave; He rode by lonely huts and farms, and when the day was done He turned his panting horse's head and rode to Ross's Run. No bushman in a single day had ridden half so far Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar. By diggers' camps Ben Duggan sped - At each he cried, 'Jack Denver's dead! Roll up at Talbragar!' That night he passed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge, And roused the bullock-drivers camped at Belinfante's Bridge; And as he climbed the ridge again the moon shone on the rise; The soft white moonbeams glistened in the tears that filled his eyes; He dashed the rebel drops away - for blinding things they are - But 'twas his best and truest friend who died on Talbragar. At Blackman's Run Before the dawn, Ben Duggan cried, 'Poor Denver's gone! Roll up at Talbragar!' At all the shanties round the place they'd heard his horse's tramp, He took the track to Wilson's Luck, and told the diggers' camp; But in the gorge by Deadman's Gap the mountain shades were black, And there a newly-fallen tree was lying on the track - He saw too late, and then he heard the swift hoof's sudden jar, And big Ben Duggan ne'er again rode home to Talbragar. 'The wretch is drunk, And Denver's dead - A burning shame!' the people said Next day at Talbragar. For thirty miles round Talbragar the boys rolled up in strength, And Denver had a funeral a good long mile in length; Round Denver's grave that Christmas day rough bushmen's eyes were dim - The western bushmen knew the way to bury dead like him; But some returning homeward found, by light of moon and star, Ben Duggan dying in the rocks, five miles from Talbragar. They knelt around, He raised his head And faintly gasped, 'Jack Denver's dead, Roll up at Talbragar!' But one short hour before he died he woke to understand, They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was 'grand'; And then there came into his eyes a strange victorious light, He smiled on them in triumph, and his great soul took its flight. And still the careless bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar. And far and wide When Duggan died, The bushmen of the western side Rode in to Talbragar. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b \B <a name=“poem4”>Cameron's Heart</a>\b The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came, With recommendations, he told me, from friends and a parson 'at hame'; He read me his recommendations - he called them a part of his plant - The first one was signed by an Elder, the other by Cameron's aunt. The meenister called him 'ungodly - a stray frae the fauld o' the Lord', And his aunt set him down as a spendthrift, 'a rebel at hame and abroad'. He got drunk now and then and he gambled (such heroes are often the same); That's all they could say in connection with Alister Cameron's name. He was straight and he stuck to his country and spoke with respect of his kirk; He did his full share of the cooking, and more than his share of the work. And many a poor devil then, when his strength and his money were spent, Was sure of a lecture - and tucker, and a shakedown in Cameron's tent. He shunned all the girls in the camp, and they said he was proof to the dart - That nothing but whisky and gaming had ever a place in his heart; He carried a packet about him, well hid, but I saw it at last, And - well, 'tis a very old story - the story of Cameron's past: A ring and a sprig o' white heather, a letter or two and a curl, A bit of a worn silver chain, and the portrait of Cameron's girl. It chanced in the first of the Sixties that Ally and I and McKean Were sinking a shaft on Mundoorin, near Fosberry's puddle-machine. The bucket we used was a big one, and rather a weight when 'twas full, Though Alister wound it up easy, for he had the strength of a bull. He hinted at heart-disease often, but, setting his fancy apart, I always believed there was nothing the matter with Cameron's heart. One day I was working below - I was filling the bucket with clay, When Alister cried, 'Pack it on, mon! we ought to be bottomed to-day.' He wound, and the bucket rose steady and swift to the surface until It reached the first log on the top, where it suddenly stopped, and hung still. I knew what was up in a moment when Cameron shouted to me: 'Climb up for your life by the footholes. I'LL STICK TAE TH' HAUN'LE - OR DEE!' And those were the last words he uttered. He groaned, for I heard him quite plain - There's nothing so awful as that when it's wrung from a workman in pain. The strength of despair was upon me; I started, and scarcely drew breath, But climbed to the top for my life in the fear of a terrible death. And there, with his waist on the handle, I saw the dead form of my mate, And over the shaft hung the bucket, suspended by Cameron's weight. I wonder did Alister think of the scenes in the distance so dim, When Death at the windlass that morning took cruel advantage of him? He knew if the bucket rushed down it would murder or cripple his mate - His hand on the iron was closed with a grip that was stronger than Fate; He thought of my danger, not his, when he felt in his bosom the smart, And stuck to the handle in spite of the Finger of Death on his heart. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b \B <a name=“poem5”>Eurunderee (Lawson poem)</a>\b There are scenes in the distance where beauty is not, On the desolate flats where gaunt appletrees rot. Where the brooding old ridge rises up to the breeze From his dark lonely gullies of stringy-bark trees, There are voice-haunted gaps, ever sullen and strange, But Eurunderee lies like a gem in the range. Still I see in my fancy the dark-green and blue Of the box-covered hills where the five-corners grew; And the rugged old sheoaks that sighed in the bend O'er the lily-decked pools where the dark ridges end, And the scrub-covered spurs running down from the Peak To the deep grassy banks of Eurunderee Creek. On the knolls where the vineyards and fruit-gardens are There's a beauty that even the drought cannot mar; For I noticed it oft, in the days that are lost, As I trod on the siding where lingered the frost, When the shadows of night from the gullies were gone And the hills in the background were flushed by the dawn. I was there in late years, but there's many a change Where the Cudgegong River flows down through the range, For the curse of the town with the railroad had come, And the goldfields were dead. And the girl and the chum And the old home were gone, yet the oaks seemed to speak Of the hazy old days on Eurunderee Creek. And I stood by that creek, ere the sunset grew cold, When the leaves of the sheoaks are traced on the gold, And I thought of old things, and I thought of old folks, Till I sighed in my heart to the sigh of the oaks; For the years waste away like the waters that leak Through the pebbles and sand of Eurunderee Creek. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b \B <a name=“poem6”>Faces in the Street</a>\b They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown; For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet My window-sill is level with the faces in the street - Drifting past, drifting past, To the beat of weary feet - While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street. And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair, To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care; I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street - Drifting on, drifting on, To the scrape of restless feet; I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street. In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by, Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet, Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street - Flowing in, flowing in, To the beat of hurried feet - Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street. The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight, Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late; But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street - Grinding body, grinding soul, Yielding scarce enough to eat - Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street. And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town, Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street, Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat - Drifting round, drifting round, To the tread of listless feet - Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street. And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away, And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day, Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat, Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street - Ebbing out, ebbing out, To the drag of tired feet, While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street. And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end, For while the short 'large hours' toward the longer 'small hours' trend, With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat, Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street - Sinking down, sinking down, Battered wreck by tempests beat - A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street. But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes, For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums, Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet, And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street - Rotting out, rotting out, For the lack of air and meat - In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street. I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor? Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat, When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street, The wrong things and the bad things And the sad things that we meet In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street. I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still, And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill; But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet, They haunted me - the shadows of those faces in the street, Flitting by, flitting by, Flitting by with noiseless feet, And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street. Once I cried: 'Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure, Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.' And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city's street, And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet, Coming near, coming near, To a drum's dull distant beat, And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street. Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall, The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all, And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat, And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street. Pouring on, pouring on, To a drum's loud threatening beat, And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street. And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course, The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse, But not until a city feels Red Revolution's feet Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street - The dreadful everlasting strife For scarcely clothes and meat In that pent track of living death - the city's cruel street. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b \B <a name=“poem7”>Freedom on the Wallaby</a>\b Australia's a big country An' Freedom's humping bluey, An' Freedom's on the wallaby Oh! don't you hear 'er cooey? She's just begun to boomerang, She'll knock the tyrants silly, She's going to light another fire And boil another billy. Our fathers toiled for bitter bread While loafers thrived beside 'em, But food to eat and clothes to wear, Their native land denied 'em. An' so they left their native land In spite of their devotion, An' so they came, or if they stole, Were sent across the ocean. Then Freedom couldn't stand the glare Of Royalty's regalia, She left the loafers where they were, An' come out to Australia. But now across the mighty main The chains have come to bind her, She little thought to see again The wrongs she left behind her. Our parents toiled to make a home. Hard grubbin' 'twas an' clearin', They wasn't crowded much with lords When they was pioneerin'. But now that we have made the land A garden full of promise, Old Greed must crook 'is dirty hand And come to take it from us. So we must fly a rebel flag, As others did before us, And we must sing a rebel song And join in rebel chorus. We'll make the tyrants feel the sting O' those that they would throttle; They needn't say the fault is ours If blood should stain the wattle! \BHenry Lawson\b. \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b \B <a name=“poem8”>Jack Dunn of Nevertire</a>\b It chanced upon the very day we'd got the shearing done, A buggy brought a stranger to the West-o'-Sunday Run; He had a round and jolly face, and he was sleek and stout, He drove right up between the huts and called the super out. We chaps were smoking after tea, and heard the swell enquire For one as travelled by the name of 'Dunn of Nevertire'. Jack Dunn of Nevertire, Poor Dunn of Nevertire; There wasn't one of us but knew Jack Dunn of Nevertire. 'Jack Dunn of Nevertire,' he said; 'I was a mate of his; And now it's twenty years since I set eyes upon his phiz. There is no whiter man than Jack - no straighter south the line, There is no hand in all the land I'd sooner grip in mine; To help a mate in trouble Jack would go through flood and fire. Great Scott! and don't you know the name of Dunn of Nevertire? Big Dunn of Nevertire, Long Jack from Nevertire; He stuck to me through thick and thin, Jack Dunn of Nevertire. 'I did a wild and foolish thing while Jack and I were mates, And I disgraced my guv'nor's name, an' wished to try the States. My lamps were turned to Yankee Land, for I'd some people there, And I was right when someone sent the money for my fare; I thought 'twas Dad until I took the trouble to enquire, And found that he who sent the stuff was Dunn of Nevertire, Jack Dunn of Nevertire, Soft Dunn of Nevertire; He'd won some money on a race - Jack Dunn of Nevertire. 'Now I've returned, by Liverpool, a swell of Yankee brand, To reckon, guess, and kalkilate, 'n' wake my native land; There is no better land, I swear, in all the wide world round - I smelt the bush a month before we touched King George's Sound! And now I've come to settle down, the top of my desire Is just to meet a mate o' mine called 'Dunn of Nevertire'. Was raised at Nevertire - The town of Nevertire; He humped his bluey by the name of 'Dunn of Nevertire'. 'I've heard he's poor, and if he is, a proud old fool is he; But, spite of that, I'll find a way to fix the old gum-tree. I've bought a station in the North - the best that could be had; I want a man to pick the stock - I want a super bad; I want no bully-brute to boss - no crawling, sneaking liar - My station super's name shall be 'Jack Dunn of Nevertire'! Straight Dunn of Nevertire, Old Dunn of Nevertire; I guess he's known up Queensland way - Jack Dunn of Nevertire.' The super said, while to his face a strange expression came: 'I THINK I've seen the man you want, I THINK I know the name; Had he a jolly kind of face, a free and careless way, Grey eyes that always seem'd to smile, and hair just turning grey - Clean-shaved, except a light moustache, long-limbed, an' tough as wire?' 'THAT'S HIM! THAT'S DUNN!' the stranger roared, 'Jack Dunn of Nevertire! John Dunn of Nevertire, Jack D. from Nevertire, They said I'd find him here, the cuss! - Jack Dunn of Nevertire. 'I'd know his walk,' the stranger cried, 'though sobered, I'll allow.' 'I doubt it much,' the boss replied, 'he don't walk that way now.' 'Perhaps he don't!' the stranger said, 'for years were hard on Jack; But, if he were a mile away, I swear I'd know his back.' 'I doubt it much,' the super said, and sadly puffed his briar, 'I guess he wears a pair of wings - Jack Dunn of Nevertire; Jack Dunn of Nevertire, Brave Dunn of Nevertire, He caught a fever nursing me, Jack Dunn of Nevertire.' We took the stranger round to where a gum-tree stood alone, And in the grass beside the trunk he saw a granite stone; The names of Dunn and Nevertire were plainly written there - 'I'm all broke up,' the stranger said, in sorrow and despair, 'I guess he has a wider run, the man that I require; He's got a river-frontage now, Jack Dunn of Nevertire; Straight Dunn of Nevertire, White Jack from Nevertire, I guess Saint Peter knew the name of 'Dunn of Nevertire'.' \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b \B <a name=“poem9”>Middleton's Rouseabout</a>\b Tall and freckled and sandy, Face of a country lout; This was the picture of Andy, Middleton's Rouseabout. Type of a coming nation, In the land of cattle and sheep, Worked on Middleton's station, 'Pound a week and his keep.' On Middleton's wide dominions Plied the stockwhip and shears; Hadn't any opinions, Hadn't any 'idears'. Swiftly the years went over, Liquor and drought prevailed; Middleton went as a drover, After his station had failed. Type of a careless nation, Men who are soon played out, Middleton was: - and his station Was bought by the Rouseabout. Flourishing beard and sandy, Tall and robust and stout; This is the picture of Andy, Middleton's Rouseabout. Now on his own dominions Works with his overseers; Hasn't any opinions, Hasn't any 'idears'. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b \B <a name=“poem10”>Out Back (Lawson poem)</a>\b The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought, The cheque was spent that the shearer earned, and the sheds were all cut out; The publican's words were short and few, and the publican's looks were black - And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back. \IFor time means tucker, and tramp you must, where the scrubs and plains are wide, With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide; All day long in the dust and heat - when summer is on the track - With stinted stomachs and blistered feet, they carry their swags Out Back.\i He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot, With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not. The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack, But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back. He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more, And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore; But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack - The traveller never got hands in wool, though he tramped for a year Out Back. In stifling noons when his back was wrung by its load, and the air seemed dead, And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead, Or in times of flood, when plains were seas, and the scrubs were cold and black, He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back. And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim; He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him. As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track, With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back. It chanced one day, when the north wind blew in his face like a furnace-breath, He left the track for a tank he knew - 'twas a shorter cut to death; For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack, And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back. A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile; He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while. The tanks are full and the grass is high in the mulga off the track, Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie by his mouldering swag Out Back. \IFor time means tucker, and tramp they must, where the plains and scrubs are wide, With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide; All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track With stinted stomachs and blistered feet must carry their swags Out Back.\i \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b \B <a name=“poem11”>Past Carin'</a>\b Now up and down the siding brown The great black crows are flyin', And down below the spur, I know, Another 'milker's' dyin'; The crops have withered from the ground, The tank's clay bed is glarin', But from my heart no tear nor sound, For I have gone past carin' - Past worryin' or carin', Past feelin' aught or carin'; But from my heart no tear nor sound, For I have gone past carin'. Through Death and Trouble, turn about, Through hopeless desolation, Through flood and fever, fire and drought, And slavery and starvation; Through childbirth, sickness, hurt, and blight, And nervousness an' scarin', Through bein' left alone at night, I've got to be past carin'. Past botherin' or carin', Past feelin' and past carin'; Through city cheats and neighbours' spite, I've come to be past carin'. Our first child took, in days like these, A cruel week in dyin', All day upon her father's knees, Or on my poor breast lyin'; The tears we shed - the prayers we said Were awful, wild - despairin'! I've pulled three through, and buried two Since then - and I'm past carin'. I've grown to be past carin', Past worryin' and wearin'; I've pulled three through and buried two Since then, and I'm past carin'. 'Twas ten years first, then came the worst, All for a dusty clearin', I thought, I thought my heart would burst When first my man went shearin'; He's drovin' in the great North-west, I don't know how he's farin'; For I, the one that loved him best, Have grown to be past carin'. I've grown to be past carin' Past lookin' for or carin'; The girl that waited long ago, Has lived to be past carin'. My eyes are dry, I cannot cry, I've got no heart for breakin', But where it was in days gone by, A dull and empty achin'. My last boy ran away from me, I know my temper's wearin', But now I only wish to be Beyond all signs of carin'. Past wearyin' or carin', Past feelin' and despairin'; And now I only wish to be Beyond all signs of carin'. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b \B <a name=“poem12”>Reedy River</a>\b Ten miles down Reedy River A pool of water lies, And all the year it mirrors The changes in the skies, And in that pool's broad bosom Is room for all the stars; Its bed of sand has drifted O'er countless rocky bars. Around the lower edges There waves a bed of reeds, Where water-rats are hidden And where the wild-duck breeds; And grassy slopes rise gently To ridges long and low, Where groves of wattle flourish And native bluebells grow. Beneath the granite ridges The eye may just discern Where Rocky Creek emerges From deep green banks of fern; And standing tall between them, The drooping sheoaks cool The hard, blue-tinted waters Before they reach the pool. Ten miles down Reedy River One Sunday afternoon, I rode with Mary Campbell To that broad, bright lagoon; We left our horses grazing Till shadows climbed the peak, And strolled beneath the sheoaks On the banks of Rocky Creek. Then home along the river That night we rode a race, And the moonlight lent a glory To Mary Campbell's face; And I pleaded for my future All through that moonlight ride, Until our weary horses Drew closer side by side. Ten miles from Ryan's Crossing And five miles below the peak, I built a little homestead On the banks of Rocky Creek; I cleared the land and fenced it And ploughed the rich red loam, And my first crop was golden When I brought my Mary home. Now still down Reedy River The grassy sheoaks sigh, And the waterholes still mirror The pictures in the sky; The golden sand is drifting Across the rocky bars; And over all forever Go sun and moon and stars. But of the hut I builded There are no traces now. And many rains have levelled The furrows of my plough; The glad bright days have vanished For sombre branches wave Their wattle blossoms golden Above my Mary's grave. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b \B <a name=“poem13”>Saint Peter (Lawson poem)</a>\b Now, I think there is a likeness 'Twixt St Peter's life and mine For he did a lot of trampin' Long ago in Palestine. He was "union" when the workers First began to organize, And - I'm glad that old St Peter Keeps the gate of Paradise. When the ancient agitator And his brothers carried swags, I've no doubt he very often Tramped with empty tucker-bags; And I'm glad he's Heaven's picket, For I hate explainin' things, And he'll think a union ticket Just as good as Whitely King's. When I reach the great head-station - Which is somewhere "off the track" - I won't want to talk with angels Who have never been Out Back ; They might bother me with offers Of a banjo - meanin' well - And a pair of wings to fly with, When I only want a spell. I'll just ask for old St Peter, And I think, when he appears, I will only have to tell him That I carried swag for years. "I've been on the track," I'll tell him, "An' I done the best I could," He will understand me better Than the other angels would. He won't try to get a chorus Out of lungs that's worn to rags, Or to graft the wings on shoulders Stiff with humpin' tucker-bags. But I'll rest about the station Where a work-bell never rings, Till they blow the final trumpet And the Great Judge sees to things. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonI”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART I</a>\b 2009-06-01T08:45:39+10:00 false 205 15 2009-06-02T07:07:08+10:00 \ShPreface Henry Lawson was born in rural New South Wales in 1867, moved to Sydney and later travelled to both Britain and New Zealand. He lapsed into alcoholism in his later years, and was given a state funeral when he died in 1922, as befitted a man seen by many as Australia's national poet. The poems selected here give a feel for the Australia that many Australians still believe in, though like America's Wild West, it has been gone for the best part of a hundred years. Lawson’s poems are spread over three separate titles – this one, and also \BHENRY LAWSON POEMS -- PART I\b and \BHENRY LAWSON POEMS -- PART III\b. The poems are in alphabetical order, with 12 poems in this \BPART II\b title. Clicking on any link below will take you directly to that poem. \BPART I\b goes from \BAndy’s Gone With Cattle\b to \BSaint Peter\b. \BPART III\b goes from the \BThe Old Bark School\b to \BWide Spaces\b. \B <a name=“LawsonII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART II</a>\b <a href=#“poem1”>The Ballad of the Drover</a> <a href=#“poem2”>The Blue Mountains</a> <a href=#“poem3”>The City Bushman</a> <a href=#“poem4”>The Fight at Eureka Stockade</a> <a href=#“poem5”>The Fire at Ross's Farm</a> <a href=#“poem6”>The Flour Bin</a> <a href=#“poem7”>The Free-Selector's Daughter</a> <a href=#“poem8”>The Glass on the Bar</a> <a href=#“poem9”>The Great Grey Plain</a> <a href=#“poem10”>The Grog-an'-Grumble Steeplechase</a> <a href=#“poem11”>The Lights of Cobb and Co</a> <a href=#“poem12”>The Never-Never Land</a> \B <a name=“poem1”>The Ballad of the Drover</a>\b Across the stony ridges, Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover, Comes riding home again. And well his stock-horse bears him, And light of heart is he, And stoutly his old pack-horse Is trotting by his knee. Up Queensland way with cattle He travelled regions vast; And many months have vanished Since home-folk saw him last. He hums a song of someone He hopes to marry soon; And hobble-chains and camp-ware Keep jingling to the tune. Beyond the hazy dado Against the lower skies And yon blue line of ranges The homestead station lies. And thitherward the drover Jogs through the lazy noon, While hobble-chains and camp-ware Are jingling to a tune. An hour has filled the heavens With storm-clouds inky black; At times the lightning trickles Around the drover's track; But Harry pushes onward, His horses' strength he tries, In hope to reach the river Before the flood shall rise. The thunder from above him Goes rolling o'er the plain; And down on thirsty pastures In torrents falls the rain. And every creek and gully Sends forth its little flood, Till the river runs a banker, All stained with yellow mud. Now Harry speaks to Rover, The best dog on the plains, And to his hardy horses, And strokes their shaggy manes; 'We've breasted bigger rivers When floods were at their height Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home to-night!' The thunder growls a warning, The ghastly lightnings gleam, As the drover turns his horses To swim the fatal stream. But, oh! the flood runs stronger Than e'er it ran before; The saddle-horse is failing, And only half-way o'er! When flashes next the lightning, The flood's grey breast is blank, And a cattle dog and pack-horse Are struggling up the bank. But in the lonely homestead The girl will wait in vain - He'll never pass the stations In charge of stock again. The faithful dog a moment Sits panting on the bank, And then swims through the current To where his master sank. And round and round in circles He fights with failing strength, Till, borne down by the waters, The old dog sinks at length. Across the flooded lowlands And slopes of sodden loam The pack-horse struggles onward, To take dumb tidings home. And mud-stained, wet, and weary, Through ranges dark goes he; While hobble-chains and tinware Are sounding eerily. The floods are in the ocean, The stream is clear again, And now a verdant carpet Is stretched across the plain. But someone's eyes are saddened, And someone's heart still bleeds In sorrow for the drover Who sleeps among the reeds. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART II</a>\b \B <a name=“poem2”>The Blue Mountains</a>\b Above the ashes straight and tall, Through ferns with moisture dripping, I climb beneath the sandstone wall, My feet on mosses slipping. Like ramparts round the valley's edge The tinted cliffs are standing. With many a broken wall and ledge, And many a rocky landing. And round about their rugged feet Deep ferny dells are hidden In shadowed depths, whence dust and heat Are banished and forbidden. The stream that, crooning to itself, Comes down a tireless rover, Flows calmly to the rocky shelf, And there leaps bravely over. Now pouring down, now lost in spray When mountain breezes sally, The water strikes the rock midway, And leaps into the valley. Now in the west the colours change, The blue with crimson blending; Behind the far Dividing Range, The sun is fast descending. And mellowed day comes o'er the place, And softens ragged edges; The rising moon's great placid face Looks gravely o'er the ledges. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonII”> HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART II</a>\b \B <a name=“poem3”>The City Bushman</a>\b It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went, For you sought the greener patches and you travelled like a gent; And you curse the trams and buses and the turmoil and the push, Though you know the squalid city needn't keep you from the bush; But we lately heard you singing of the "plains where shade is not", And you mentioned it was dusty - "all was dry and all was hot". True, the bush "hath moods and changes" - and the bushman hath 'em, too, For he's not a poet's dummy - he's a man, the same as you; But his back is growing rounder - slaving for the absentee - And his toiling wife is thinner than a country wife should be. For we noticed that the faces of the folks we chanced to meet Should have made a greater contrast to the faces in the street; And, in short, we think the bushman's being driven to the wall, And it's doubtful if his spirit will be "loyal through it all". Though the bush has been romantic and it's nice to sing about, There's a lot of patriotism that the land could do without - Sort of \IBritish Workman\i nonsense that shall perish in the scorn Of the drover who is driven and the shearer who is shorn, Of the struggling western farmers who have little time for rest, And are ruined on selections in the sheep-infested West; Droving songs are very pretty, but they merit little thanks From the people of a country in possession of the Banks. No, the "rise and fall of seasons" suits the rise and fall of rhyme, But we know that western seasons do not run on schedule time; For the drought will go on drying while there's anything to dry, Then it rains until you'd fancy it would bleach the sunny sky - Then it pelters out of reason, till the downpour day and night Nearly sweeps the population to the Great Australian Bight. It is up in Northern Queensland that the seasons do their best, But it's doubtful if you ever saw a season in the West; There are years without an autumn or a winter or a spring, There are broiling Junes, and summers when it rains like anything. In the bush my ears were opened to the singing of the bird, But the "carol of the magpie" was a thing I never heard. Once the beggar roused my slumbers in a shanty, it is true, But I only heard him asking, "Who the blanky blank are you?" And the bell-bird in the ranges - well, his "silver chime" is harsh When it's heard beside the solo of the curlew in the marsh. No, the bushman isn't always "trapping brumbies in the night", Nor is he for ever riding when "the morn is fresh and bright", And he isn't always singing in the humpies on the run - And the camp-fire's "cheery blazes" are a trifle overdone; We have grumbled with the bushmen round the fire on rainy days, When the smoke would blind a bullock and there wasn't any blaze, Save the blazes of our language, for we cursed the fire in turn Till the atmosphere was heated and the wood began to burn. Then we had to wring our blueys which were rotting in the swags, And we saw the sugar leaking through the bottoms of the bags, And we couldn't raise a chorus, for the toothache and the cramp, While we spent the hours of darkness draining puddles round the camp. Would you like to change with Clancy - go a-droving? tell us true, For we rather think that Clancy would be glad to change with you, And be something in the city; but 'twould give your muse a shock To be losing time and money through the foot-rot in the flock, And you wouldn't mind the beauties underneath the starry dome If you had a wife and children and a lot of bills at home. Did you ever guard the cattle when the night was inky-black, And it rained, and icy water trickled gently down your back Till your saddle-weary backbone started aching at the roots And you almost felt the croaking of the bull-frog in your boots - Did you shiver in the saddle, curse the restless stock and cough Till a squatter's blanky dummy cantered up to warn you off? Did you fight the drought and pleuro when the "seasons" were asleep, Felling sheoaks all the morning for a flock of starving sheep, Drinking mud instead of water - climbing trees and lopping boughs For the broken-hearted bullocks and the dry and dusty cows? Do you think the bush was better in the "good old droving days", When the squatter ruled supremely as the king of western ways, When you got a slip of paper for the little you could earn, But were forced to take provisions from the station in return - When you couldn't keep a chicken at your humpy on the run, For the squatter wouldn't let you - and your work was never done; When you had to leave the missus in a lonely hut forlorn While you "rose up Willy Riley" - in the days ere you were born? Ah! we read about the drovers and the shearers and the like Till we wonder why such happy and romantic fellows strike. Don't you fancy that the poets ought to give the bush a rest Ere they raise a just rebellion in the over-written West? Where the simple-minded bushman gets a meal and bed and rum Just by riding round reporting phantom flocks that never come; There the scalper - never troubled by the "war-whoop of the push" - Has a quiet little billet - breeding rabbits in the bush; There the idle shanty-keeper never fails to make a draw, And the dummy gets his tucker through provisions in the law; There the labour-agitator - when the shearers rise in might - Makes his money sacrificing all his substance for The Right; Where the squatter makes his fortune, and "the seasons rise and fall", And the poor and honest bushman has to suffer for it all; Where the drovers and the shearers and the bushmen and the rest Never reach that Eldorado of the poets of the West. So you think the bush is purer and that life is better there, But it doesn't seem to pay you like the "squalid street and square". Pray inform us, City Bushman, where you read, in prose or verse, Of the awful "city urchin who would greet you with a curse". There are golden hearts in gutters, though their owners lack the fat, And I'll back a teamster's offspring to outswear a city brat. Do you think we're never jolly where the trams and buses rage? Did you hear the gods in chorus when "Ri-tooral" held the stage? Did you catch a ring of sorrow in the city urchin's voice When he yelled for Billy Elton, when he thumped the floor for Royce? Do the bushmen, down on pleasure, miss the everlasting stars When they drink and flirt and so on in the glow of private bars? You've a down on "trams and buses", or the "roar" of 'em, you said, And the "filthy, dirty attic", where you never toiled for bread. (And about that self-same attic - Lord! wherever have you been? For the struggling needlewoman mostly keeps her attic clean.) But you'll find it very jolly with the cuff-and-collar push, And the city seems to suit you, while you rave about the bush. You'll admit that Up-the Country, more especially in drought, Isn't quite the Eldorado that the poets rave about, Yet at times we long to gallop where the reckless bushman rides In the wake of startled brumbies that are flying for their hides, Long to feel the saddle tremble once again between our knees And to hear the stockwhips rattle just like rifles in the trees! Long to feel the bridle-leather tugging strongly in the hand - And to feel once more a little like a native of the land! And the ring of bitter feeling in the jingling of our rhymes Isn't suited to the country nor the spirit of the times. Let us go together droving, and returning, if we live, Try to understand each other while we reckon up the div. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART II</a>\b \B <a name=“poem4”>The Fight at Eureka Stockade</a>\b "Was I at Eureka?" His figure was drawn to a youthful height, And a flood of proud recollections made the fire in his grey eyes bright; With pleasure they lighted and glisten'd, tho' the digger was grizzled and old, And we gathered about him and listen'd while the tale of Eureka he told. "Ah, those were the days," said the digger, "twas a glorious life that we led, When fortunes were dug up and lost in a day in the whirl of the years that are dead. But there's many a veteran now in the land - old knights of the pick and the spade, Who could tell you in language far stronger than mine 'bout the fight at Eureka Stockade. "We were all of us young on the diggings in days when the nation had birth - Light-hearted, and careless, and happy, and the flower of all nations on earth; But we would have been peaceful an' quiet if the law had but let us alone; And the fight - let them call it a riot - was due to no fault of our own. "The creed of our rulers was narrow - they ruled with a merciless hand, For the mark of the cursed broad arrow was deep in the heart of the land. They treated us worse than the negroes were treated in slavery's day - And justice was not for the diggers, as shown by the Bently affray. "P'r'aps Bently was wrong. If he wasn't the bloodthirsty villain they said, He was one of the jackals that gather where the carcass of labour is laid. 'Twas b'lieved that he murdered a digger, and they let him off scot-free as well, And the beacon o' battle was lighted on the night that we burnt his hotel. "You may talk as you like, but the facts are the same (as you've often been told), And how could we pay when the license cost more than the worth of the gold? We heard in the sunlight the clanking o' chains in the hillocks of clay, And our mates, they were rounded like cattle an' handcuffed an' driven away. "The troopers were most of them new-chums, with many a gentleman's son; And ridin' on horseback was easy, and hunting the diggers was fun. Why, many poor devils who came from the vessel in rags and down-heeled, Were copped, if they hadn't their license, before they set foot on the field. "But they roused the hot blood that was in us, and the cry came to roll up at last; And I tell you that something had got to be done when the diggers rolled up in the past. Yet they say that in spite o' the talkin' it all might have ended in smoke, But just at the point o' the crisis, the voice of a quiet man spoke. " 'We have said all our say and it's useless, you must fight or be slaves!' said the voice; " 'If it's fight, and you're wanting a leader, I will lead to the end - take your choice!' I looked, it was Pete! Peter Lalor! who stood with his face to the skies, But his figure seemed nobler and taller, and brighter the light of his eyes. "The blood to his forehead was rushin' as hot as the words from his mouth; He had come from the wrongs of the old land to see those same wrongs in the South; The wrongs that had followed our flight from the land where the life of the worker was spoiled. Still tyranny followed! no wonder the blood of the Irishman boiled. "And true to his promise, they found him - the mates who are vanished or dead, Who gathered for justice around him with the flag of the diggers o'erhead. When the people are cold and unb'lieving, when the hands of the tyrants are strong, You must sacrifice life for the people before they'll come down on the wrong. "I'd a mate on the diggings, a lad, curly-headed, an' blue-eyed, an' white, And the diggers said I was his father, an', well, p'r'aps the diggers were right. I forbade him to stir from the tent, made him swear on the book he'd obey, But he followed me in, in the darkness, and - was - shot - on Eureka that day. " 'Down, down with the tyrant an' bully,' these were the last words from his mouth As he caught up a broken pick-handle and struck for the Flag of the South An' let it in sorrow be written - the worst of this terrible strife, 'Twas under the 'Banner of Britain' came the bullet that ended his life. "I struck then! I struck then for vengeance! When I saw him lie dead in the dirt, And the blood that came oozing like water had darkened the red of his shirt, I caught up the weapon he dropped an' I struck with the strength of my hate, Until I fell wounded an' senseless, half-dead by the side of 'my mate'. "Surprised in the grey o' the morning half-armed, and the Barricade bad, A battle o' twenty-five minutes was long 'gainst the odds that they had, But the light o' the morning was deadened an' the smoke drifted far o'er the town An' the clay o' Eureka was reddened ere the flag o' the diggers came down. "But it rose in the hands of the people an' high in the breezes it tost, And our mates only died for a cause that was won by the battle they lost. When the people are selfish and narrow, when the hands of the tyrants are strong, You must sacrifice life for the public before they come down on a wrong. "It is thirty-six years this December - (December the first) since we made The first stand 'gainst the wrongs of old countries that day in Eureka Stockade, But the lies and the follies and shams of the North have all landed since then An' it's pretty near time that you lifted the flag of Eureka again. "You boast of your progress an' thump empty thunder from out of your drums, While two of your 'marvellous cities' are reeking with alleys an' slums. An' the landsharks, an' robbers, an' idlers an' -! Yes, I had best draw it mild But whenever I think o' Eureka my talking is apt to run wild. "Even now in my tent when I'm dreaming I'll spring from my bunk, strike a light, And feel for my boots an' revolver, for the diggers' march past in the night. An' the faces an' forms of old mates an' old comrades go driftin' along, With a band in the front of 'em playing the tune of an old battle song." \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART II</a>\b \B <a name=“poem5”>The Fire at Ross's Farm</a>\b The squatter saw his pastures wide Decrease, as one by one The farmers moving to the west Selected on his run; Selectors took the water up And all the black soil round; The best grass-land the squatter had Was spoilt by Ross's Ground. Now many schemes to shift old Ross Had racked the squatter's brains, But Sandy had the stubborn blood Of Scotland in his veins; He held the land and fenced it in, He cleared and ploughed the soil, And year by year a richer crop Repaid him for his toil. Between the homes for many years The devil left his tracks: The squatter pounded Ross's stock, And Sandy pounded Black's. A well upon the lower run Was filled with earth and logs, And Black laid baits about the farm To poison Ross's dogs. It was, indeed, a deadly feud Of class and creed and race; But, yet, there was a Romeo And a Juliet in the case; And more than once across the flats, Beneath the Southern Cross, Young Robert Black was seen to ride With pretty Jenny Ross. One Christmas time, when months of drought Had parched the western creeks, The bush-fires started in the north And travelled south for weeks. At night along the river-side The scene was grand and strange - The hill-fires looked like lighted streets Of cities in the range. The cattle-tracks between the trees Were like long dusky aisles, And on a sudden breeze the fire Would sweep along for miles; Like sounds of distant musketry It crackled through the brakes, And o'er the flat of silver grass It hissed like angry snakes. It leapt across the flowing streams And raced o'er pastures broad; It climbed the trees and lit the boughs And through the scrubs it roared. The bees fell stifled in the smoke Or perished in their hives, And with the stock the kangaroos Went flying for their lives. The sun had set on Christmas Eve, When, through the scrub-lands wide, Young Robert Black came riding home As only natives ride. He galloped to the homestead door And gave the first alarm: 'The fire is past the granite spur, 'And close to Ross's farm.' 'Now, father, send the men at once, They won't be wanted here; Poor Ross's wheat is all he has To pull him through the year.' 'Then let it burn,' the squatter said; 'I'd like to see it done - I'd bless the fire if it would clear Selectors from the run. 'Go if you will,' the squatter said, 'You shall not take the men - Go out and join your precious friends, And don't come here again.' 'I won't come back,' young Robert cried, And, reckless in his ire, He sharply turned his horse's head And galloped towards the fire. And there, for three long weary hours, Half-blind with smoke and heat, Old Ross and Robert fought the flames That neared the ripened wheat. The farmer's hand was nerved by fears Of danger and of loss; And Robert fought the stubborn foe For the love of Jenny Ross. But serpent-like the curves and lines Slipped past them, and between, Until they reached the bound'ry where The old coach-road had been. 'The track is now our only hope, There we must stand,' cried Ross, 'For nought on earth can stop the fire If once it gets across.' Then came a cruel gust of wind, And, with a fiendish rush, The flames leapt o'er the narrow path And lit the fence of brush. 'The crop must burn!' the farmer cried, 'We cannot save it now,' And down upon the blackened ground He dashed the ragged bough. But wildly, in a rush of hope, His heart began to beat, For o'er the crackling fire he heard The sound of horses' feet. 'Here's help at last,' young Robert cried, And even as he spoke The squatter with a dozen men Came racing through the smoke. Down on the ground the stockmen jumped And bared each brawny arm, They tore green branches from the trees And fought for Ross's farm; And when before the gallant band The beaten flames gave way, Two grimy hands in friendship joined - And it was Christmas Day. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART II</a>\b \B <a name=“poem6”>The Flour Bin</a>\b The flats are green as ever, The creeks go rippling through; The Mudgee hills are showing Their deepest shade of blue. Those mountains in the distance, That ever held a charm, Are fairer than a picture As seen from Cox's farm. On a German farm by Mudgee, That took long years to win, On the wide-bricked verandah There stands a flour bin; And the dear old German lady - Though the bakers' carts run out - Still keeps a fifty in it, Against a time of drought. It was my father made it, It stands as good as new, And of the others like it, There still remain a few. God grant when drought will strike us, The young will take a pull, And the old folk their strength anew To keep those flour bins full. By Lawson's Hill near Mudgee, On old Eurunderee - The place they call New Pipeclay, Where the diggers used to be - On a dreary old selection, Where times were dry and thin, In a slab and shingle kitchen There stood a flour bin. 'Twas poorer with the cattle, 'Twas rust and smut in wheat, 'Twas blight in eyes and orchards, And coarse salt beef to eat. Oh, how our mothers struggled, Till eyes and brain were dull, Oh, how our fathers slaved and toiled To keep those flour bins full. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART II</a>\b \B <a name=“poem7”>The Free-Selector's Daughter</a>\b I met her on the Lachlan Side - A darling girl I thought her, And ere I left I swore I'd win The free-selector's daughter. I milked her father's cows a month, I brought the wood and water, I mended all the broken fence, Before I won the daughter. I listened to her father's yarns, I did just what I 'oughter', And what you'll have to do to win A free-selector's daughter. I broke my pipe and burnt my twist, And washed my mouth with water; I had a shave before I kissed The free-selector's daughter. Then, rising in the frosty morn, I brought the cows for Mary, And when I'd milked a bucketful I took it to the dairy. I poured the milk into the dish While Mary held the strainer, I summoned heart to speak my wish, And, oh! her blush grew plainer. I told her I must leave the place, I said that I would miss her; At first she turned away her face, And then she let me kiss her. I put the bucket on the ground, And in my arms I caught her: I'd give the world to hold again That free-selector's daughter! \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART II</a>\b \B <a name=“poem8”>The Glass on the Bar</a>\b Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn, And one of them called for the drinks with a grin; They'd only returned from a trip to the North, And, eager to greet them, the landlord came forth. He absently poured out a glass of Three Star. And set down that drink with the rest on the bar. 'There, that is for Harry,' he said, 'and it's queer, 'Tis the very same glass that he drank from last year; His name's on the glass, you can read it like print, He scratched it himself with an old piece of flint; I remember his drink - it was always Three Star' - And the landlord looked out through the door of the bar. He looked at the horses, and counted but three: 'You were always together - where's Harry?' cried he. Oh, sadly they looked at the glass as they said, 'You may put it away, for our old mate is dead;' But one, gazing out o'er the ridges afar, Said, 'We owe him a shout - leave the glass on the bar.' They thought of the far-away grave on the plain, They thought of the comrade who came not again, They lifted their glasses, and sadly they said: 'We drink to the name of the mate who is dead.' And the sunlight streamed in, and a light like a star Seemed to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar. And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen, It stands by the clock, ever polished and clean; And often the strangers will read as they pass The name of a bushman engraved on the glass; And though on the shelf but a dozen there are, That glass never stands with the rest on the bar. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS – PART II</a>\b \B <a name=“poem9”>The Great Grey Plain</a>\b Out West, where the stars are brightest, Where the scorching north wind blows, And the bones of the dead gleam whitest, And the sun on a desert glows - Yet within the selfish kingdom Where man starves man for gain, Where white men tramp for existence - Wide lies the Great Grey Plain. No break in its awful horizon, No blur in the dazzling haze, Save where by the bordering timber The fierce, white heat-waves blaze, And out where the tank-heap rises Or looms when the sunlights wane, Till it seems like a distant mountain Low down on the Great Grey Plain. No sign of a stream or fountain, No spring on its dry, hot breast, No shade from the blazing noontide Where a weary man might rest. Whole years go by when the glowing Sky never clouds for rain - Only the shrubs of the desert Grow on the Great Grey Plain. From the camp, while the rich man's dreaming, Come the 'traveller' and his mate, In the ghastly dawnlight seeming Like a swagman's ghost out late; And the horseman blurs in the distance, While still the stars remain, A low, faint dust-cloud haunting His track on the Great Grey Plain. And all day long from before them The mirage smokes away - That daylight ghost of an ocean Creeps close behind all day With an evil, snake-like motion, As the waves of a madman's brain: 'Tis a phantom NOT like water Out there on the Great Grey Plain. There's a run on the Western limit Where a man lives like a beast, And a shanty in the mulga That stretches to the East; And the hopeless men who carry Their swags and tramp in pain - The footmen must not tarry Out there on the Great Grey Plain. Out West, where the stars are brightest, Where the scorching north wind blows, And the bones of the dead seem whitest, And the sun on a desert glows - Out back in the hungry distance That brave hearts dare in vain - Where beggars tramp for existence - There lies the Great Grey Plain. 'Tis a desert not more barren Than the Great Grey Plain of years, Where a fierce fire burns the hearts of men - Dries up the fount of tears: Where the victims of a greed insane Are crushed in a hell-born strife - Where the souls of a race are murdered On the Great Grey Plain of Life! \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART II</a>\b \B <a name=“poem10”>The Grog-an'-Grumble Steeplechase</a>\b 'Twixt the coastline and the border lay the town of Grog-an'-Grumble (Just two pubs beside a racecourse in a wilderness of sludge) An' they say the local meeting was a drunken rough-and-tumble, Which was ended pretty often by an inquest on the judge. Yes 'tis said the city talent very often caught a tartar In the Grog-an'-Grumble sportsman, 'n' retired with broken heads, For the fortune, life, and safety of the Grog-an'-Grumble starter Mostly hung upon the finish of the local thoroughbreds. Pat M'Durmer was the owner of a horse they called the Screamer, Which he called "the quickest shtepper 'twixt the Darling and the sea", But I think it's very doubtful if a Banshee-haunted dreamer Ever saw a more outrageous piece of equine scenery; For his points were most decided, from his end to his beginning, He had eyes of different colour, and his legs they wasn't mates. Pat M'Durmer said he always came "widin a flip av winnin'", An' his sire had come from England, 'n' his dam was from the States. Friends would argue with M'Durmer, and they said he was in error To put up his horse The Screamer, for he'd lose in any case, And they said a city racer by the name of Holy Terror Was regarded as the winner of the coming steeplechase; Pat said he had the knowledge to come in when it was raining, And irrevelantly mentioned that he knew the time of day, So he rose in their opinion. It was noticed that the training Of the Screamer was conducted in a dark, mysterious way. Well, the day arrived in glory; 'twas a day of jubilation With careless-hearted bushmen quite a hundred miles around, An' the rum 'n' beer 'n' whisky came in waggons from the station, An' the Holy Terror talent were the first upon the ground. Judge M'Ard - with whose opinion it was scarcely safe to wrestle - Took his dangerous position on the bark-and-sapling stand: He was what the local Stiggins used to speak of as a "wessel Of wrath", and he'd a bludgeon that he carried in his hand. "Off ye go!" the starter shouted, as down fell a stupid jockey - Off they started in disorder - left the jockey where he lay - And they fell and rolled and galloped down the crooked course and rocky, Till the pumping of The Screamer could be heard a mile away. But he kept his legs and galloped; he was used to rugged courses, And he lumbered down the gully till the ridge began to quake: And he ploughed along the sidling, raising earth till other horses An' their riders, too, were blinded by the dust-cloud in his wake. From the ruck he'd struggle slowly - they were much surprised to find him Close abeam of Holy Terror as along the flat they tore - Even higher still and denser rose the cloud of dust behind him, While in more divided splinters flew the shattered rails before. "Terror!" "Dead heat!" they were shouting - "Terror!" but The Screamer hung out Nose to nose with Holy Terror as across the creek they swung, An' M'Durmer shouted loudly, "Put yer tongue out! put yer tongue out!" An ' the Screamer put his tongue out, and he won by half-a-tongue. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART II</a>\b \B <a name=“poem11”>The Lights of Cobb and Co</a>\b Fire lighted; on the table a meal for sleepy men; A lantern in the stable; a jingle now and then; The mail-coach looming darkly by the light of moon and star; The growl of sleepy voices; a candle in the bar; A stumble in the passage of folk with wits abroad; A swear-word from a bedroom - a shout of 'All aboard!' 'Tchk tchk! Git-up!' 'Hold fast there!' and down the range we go; Five hundred miles of scattered camps will watch for Cobb and Co. Old coaching towns already decaying for their sins; Uncounted "Half-Way Houses", and scores of "Ten-Mile Inns"; The riders from the stations by lonely granite peaks; The black-boy for the shepherds on sheep and cattle creeks; The roaring camps of Gulgong, and many a "Digger's Rest"; The diggers on the Lachlan; the huts of farther west; Some twenty thousand exiles who sailed for weal or woe - The bravest hears of twenty lands will wait for Cobb and Co. The morning star has vanished, the frost and fog are gone, In one of those grand mornings which but on mountains dawn; A flask of friendly whisky - each other's hopes we share - And throw our top-coats open to drink the mountain air. The roads are rare to travel, and life seems all complete; The grind of wheels on gravel, the trot of horses' feet, The trot, trot, trot and canter, as down the spur we go - The green sweeps to horizons blue that call for Cobb and Co. We take a bright girl actress through western dusts and damps, To bear the home-world message, and sing for sinful camps, To stir our hearts and break them, wild hearts that hope and ache - (Ah! when she thinks again of these her own must nearly break!) Five miles this side the gold-field, a loud triumphant shout: Five hundred cheering diggers have snatched the horses out: That cheer for her, and cheer for home, and cheer for Cobb and Co. Three lamps above the ridges and gorges dark and deep, A flash on sandstone cuttings where sheer the sidlings sweep, A flash on shrouded waggons, on water ghastly white; Weird bush and scattered remnants of "rushes in the night"; Across the swollen river a flash beyond the ford: Ride hard to warn the driver! He's drunk or mad, good Lord! But on the bank to westward a broad and cheerful glow - New camps extend across the plains new routes for Cobb and Co. Swift scramble up the sidling where teams climb inch by inch; Pause, bird-like, on the summit - then breakneck down the pinch; By clear, ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks run high, Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against the sky; Past haunted half-way houses - where convicts make the bricks - Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five and six; Through stringy-bark and blue-gum, and box and pine we go - A hundred miles shall see tonight the lights of Cobb and Co. BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART II</a>\b \B <a name=“poem12”>The Never-Never Land</a>\b By homestead, hut, and shearing-shed, By railroad, coach, and track - By lonely graves where rest our dead, Up Country and Out Back: To where beneath the clustered stars The dreamy plains expand - My home lies wide a thousand miles In the Never-Never Land. It lies beyond the farming belt, Wide wastes of scrub and plain, A blazing desert in the drought, A lake-land after rain; To the sky-line sweeps the waving grass, Or whirls the scorching sand - A phantom land, a mystic realm! The Never-Never Land. Where lone Mount Desolation lies, Mounts Dreadful and Despair - 'Tis lost beneath the rainless skies In hopeless deserts there; It spreads nor'-west by No-Man's Land - Where clouds are seldom seen - To where the cattle-stations lie Three hundred miles between. The drovers of the Great Stock Routes The strange Gulf country know - Where, travelling for th northern grass The big lean bullocks go; And camped by night where plains lie wide, Like some old ocean's bed, The stockmen in the starlight ride Round fifteen hundred head. And west of named and numbered days The shearers walk and ride - Jack Cornstalk and the Ne'er-do-well, And Greybeard side by side; They veil their eyes from moon and stars, And slumber on the sand - Sad memories sleep as years go round In Never-Never Land. Oh rebels to society! The Outcasts of the West - Oh hopeless eyes that smile for me, And broken hearts that jest! The pluck to face a thousand miles, The grit to see it through! The Communism perfected! - Till man to man is True! The Arab to true desert sand, The Finn to fens and snow; The "Flax-stick" dreams of Maoriland, While seasons come and go; Whatever stars may glow or burn O'er lands of East and West, The wanering heart of man will turn To one it loves the best. Lest in the city I forget True mateship after all, My water-bag and billy yet Are hanging on the wall. And I to save my soul again Would tramp to sunsets grand With sad-eyed mates across the plain In the Never-Never Land. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART II</a>\b 2009-06-01T09:19:05+10:00 false 206 15 2009-06-02T07:06:45+10:00 \ShPreface Henry Lawson was born in rural New South Wales in 1867, moved to Sydney and later travelled to both Britain and New Zealand. He lapsed into alcoholism in his later years, and was given a state funeral when he died in 1922, as befitted a man seen by many as Australia's national poet. The poems selected here give a feel for the Australia that many Australians still believe in, though like America's Wild West, it has been gone for the best part of a hundred years. Lawson’s poems are spread over three separate titles – this one, and also \BHENRY LAWSON POEMS -- PART I\b and \BHENRY LAWSON POEMS -- PART II\b. The poems are in alphabetical order, with 10 poems in this \BPART III\b title. Clicking on any link below will take you directly to that poem. \BPART I\b goes from \BAndy’s Gone With Cattle\b to \BSaint Peter\b. \BPART II\b goes from \BThe Ballard of the Drover\b to the \BNever-Never Land\b. \B <a name=“LawsonIII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART III</a>\b <a href=#“poem1”>The Old Bark School</a> <a href=#“poem2”>The Poets of the Tomb</a> <a href=#“poem3”>The Roaring Days</a> <a href=#“poem4”>The Shearers (Lawson poem)</a> <a href=#“poem5”>The Teams (Lawson poem)</a> <a href=#“poem6”>The Wattle (Lawson poem)</a> <a href=#“poem7”>Up the Country</a> <a href=#“poem8”>Waratah and Wattle</a> <a href=#“poem9”>When Your Pants Begin To Go</a> <a href=#“poem10”>Wide Spaces (Lawson poem)</a> \B <a name=“poem1”>The Old Bark School</a>\b It was built of bark and poles, and the roof was full of holes Where each leak in rainy weather made a pool; And the walls were mostly cracks lined with calico and sacks- There was little need for windows in the school. Then we rode to school and back by the rugged gully-track, On the old grey horse that carried three or four; And he looked so very wise that he lit the Master's eyes Every time he put his head in at the door. (He had run with Cobb and Co. - "That grey leader, let him go!" There were men "as knowed the brand upon his hide", And "as knowed it on the course". - Funeral service: "Good old horse !" When we burnt him in the gully where he died.) Kevin was the Master's name. 'Twas from Ireland that he came, Where the tanks are full all summer, and feed is simply grand; And the joker then in vogue said his lessons wid a brogue- 'Twas unconscious imitation, let the reader understand. And we learnt the world in scraps from some ancient dingy maps Long discarded by the public-schools in town; And as nearly every book dated back to Captain Cook Our geography was somewhat upside-down. It was "in the book" and so - well, at that we'd let it go, For we never would believe that print could lie; And we all learnt pretty soon that when school came out at noon "The sun is in the south part of the sky." And Ireland! \Ithat\i was known from the coast-line to Athlone, But little of the land that gave us birth; Save that Captain Cook was killed (and was very likely grilled) And "our blacks are just the lowest race on earth". And a woodcut, in its place, of the same degraded race, Seemed a lot more like camels than the blackmen that we knew; Jimmy Bullock, with the rest, scratched his head and gave it best; But he couldn't stick a bobtailed kangaroo ! Now the old bark school is gone, and the spot it stood upon Is a cattle-camp where curlews' cries are heard; There's a brick school on the flat - an old schoolmate teaches that, It was built when Mr. Kevin was "transferred". But the old school comes again with exchanges 'cross the plain- With the \IOut-Back Advertiser\i my fancy roams at large When I read of passing stock, of a western mob or flock, With James Bullock, Grey, or Henry Dale in charge. And I think how Jimmy went from the old bark school content, "Eddicated", with his packhorse after him; Well . . . perhaps if I were back I would follow in his track, And let Kevin "finish" me as he did Jim. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonIII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART III</a>\b \B <a name=“poem2”>The Poets of the Tomb</a>\b The world has had enough of bards who wish that they were dead, Tis time, the people passed a law to knock 'em on the head, For 'twould be lovely if their friends could grant the rest they crave - Those bards Of "tears" and "vanished hopes," those poets of the grave. They say that life's an awful thing and full of care and gloom, They talk of peace and restfulness connected with the tomb. They say that man is made of dirt, and die, of course, he must; But, all the same, a man is made of pretty solid dust, There is a thing that they forget, so let it here be writ, That some are made of common mud, and some are made of grit; Some try to help the world along while others fret and fume And wish that they were slumbering is the silence of the tomb. 'Twixt mother's arms and coffin-gear a man has work to do! And if he does his very best he mostly worries through, And while there is a wrong to right, and while the world goes round, An honest man alive is worth a million under ground, And yet, as long as sheoaks sigh and wattle-blossoms bloom, The world shall hear the drivel of the poets of the tomb. And though the graveyard poets long to vanish from the scene, I notice that they mostly wish their resting-place kept green. Now, were I rotting underground, I do not think I'd care If wombats rooted on the ground or if the cows camped there; And should I have some feelings left when have gone before, I think a ton of solid stone would hurt my feelings more. Such wormy songs of mouldy joys can give me no delight; I'll take my chances with the world, I'd rather live and fight. Tho' "fortune" laughs along my track, or wears her blackest frown, I'll try to do the world some good before I tumble down. Let's fight for things that ought to be and try to make 'em boom; We cannot help mankind when we are ashes in the tomb. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonIII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART III</a>\b \B <a name=“poem3”>The Roaring Days</a>\b The night too quickly passes And we are growing old, So let us fill our glasses And toast the Days of Gold; When finds of wondrous treasure Set all the South ablaze, And you and I were faithful mates All through the roaring days! Then stately ships came sailing From every harbour's mouth, And sought the land of promise That beaconed in the South; Then southward streamed their streamers And swelled their canvas full To speed the wildest dreamers E'er borne in vessel's hull. Their shining Eldorado, Beneath the southern skies, Was day and night for ever Before their eager eyes. The brooding bush, awakened, Was stirred in wild unrest, And all the year a human stream Went pouring to the West. The rough bush roads re-echoed The bar-room's noisy din, When troops of stalwart horsemen Dismounted at the inn. And oft the hearty greetings And hearty clasp of hands Would tell of sudden meetings Of friends from other lands. And when the cheery camp-fire Explored the bush with gleams, The camping-grounds were crowded With caravans of teams; Then home the jests were driven, And good old songs were sung, And choruses were given The strength of heart and lung. Oft when the camps were dreaming, And fires began to pale, Through rugged ranges gleaming Would come the Royal Mail. Behind six foaming horses, And lit by flashing lamps, Old Cobb and Co., in royal state, Went dashing past the camps. Oh, who would paint a goldfield, And paint the picture right, As old Adventure saw it In early morning's light? The yellow mounds of mullock With spots of red and white, The scattered quartz that glistened Like diamonds in light; The azure line of ridges, The bush of darkest green, The little homes of calico That dotted all the scene. The flat straw hats with ribands That old engravings show - The dress that still reminds us Of sailors, long ago. I hear the fall of timber From distant flats and fells, The pealing of the anvils As clear as little bells, The rattle of the cradle, The clack of windlass-boles, The flutter of the crimson flags Above the golden holes. Ah, then their hearts were bolder, And if Dame Fortune frowned Our swags we'd lightly shoulder And tramp to other ground. Oh, they were lion-hearted Who gave our country birth! Stout sons, of stoutest fathers born, From all the lands on earth! Those golden days are vanished, And altered is the scene; The diggings are deserted, The camping-grounds are green; The flaunting flag of progress Is in the West unfurled, The mighty bush with iron rails Is tethered to the world. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonIII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART III</a>\b \B <a name=“poem4”>The Shearers (Lawson poem)</a>\b No church-bell rings them from the Track, No pulpit lights their blindness - 'Tis hardship, drought and homelessness That teach those Bushmen kindness: The mateship born, in barren lands, Of toil and thirst and danger - The camp-fare for the wanderer set, The first place to the stranger. They do the best they can to-day - Take no thought of the morrow; Their way is not the old-world way - They live to lend and borrow. When shearing's done and cheque's gone wrong, They call it "time to slither" - They saddle up and say "So-long!" And ride the Lord knows whither. And though he may be brown or black, Or wrong man there, or right man, The mate that's steadfast to his mates They call that man a "white man!" They tramp in mateship side by side - The Protestant and Roman - They call no biped lord or sir, And touch their hat to no man! They carry in their swags, perhaps, A portrait and a letter - And, maybe, deep down in their hearts, The hope of "something better". Where lonely miles are long to ride, And long, hot days recurrent, There's lots of time to think of men They might have been - but weren't, They turn their faces to the west And leave the world behind them - (The drought-dried graves are seldom set Where even mates can find them). They know too little of the world To rise to wealth or greatness: But in these lines I gladly pay My tribute to their straightness. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonIII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART III</a>\b \B <a name=“poem5”>The Teams (Lawson poem)</a>\b A cloud of dust on the long white road, And the teams go creeping on Inch by inch with the weary load; And by the power of the green-hide goad The distant goal is won. With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust, And necks to the yokes bent low, The beasts are pulling as bullocks must; And the shining tires might almost rust While the spokes are turning slow. With face half-hid 'neath a broad-brimmed hat That shades from the heat's white waves, And shouldered whip with its green-hide plait, The driver plods with a gait like that Of his weary, patient slaves. He wipes his brow, for the day is hot, And spits to the left with spite; He shouts at Bally, and flicks at Scot, And raises dust from the back of Spot, And spits to the dusty right. He'll sometimes pause as a thing of form In front of a settler's door, And ask for a drink, and remark "It's warm", Or say "There's signs of a thunder-storm"; But he seldom utters more. The rains are heavy on roads like these; And, fronting his lonely home, For days together the settler sees The waggons bogged to the axletrees, Or ploughing the sodden loam. And then when the roads are at their worst, The bushman's children hear The cruel blows of the whips reversed While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst, And bellow with pain and fear. And thus - with glimpses of home and rest - Are the long, long journeys done; And thus - 'tis a thankless life at the best! - Is Distance fought in the mighty West, And the lonely battle won. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonIII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART III</a>\b \B <a name=“poem6”>The Wattle (Lawson poem)</a>\b I saw it in the days gone by, When the dead girl lay at rest, And the wattle and the native rose We placed upon her breast. I saw it in the long ago (And I've seen strong men die), And who, to wear the wattle, Hath better right than I? I've fought it through the world since then, And seen the best and worst, But always in the lands of men I held Australia first. I wrote for her, I fought for her, And when at last I lie, Then who, to wear the wattle, has A better right than I? \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonIII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART III</a>\b \B <a name=“poem7”>Up the Country</a>\b I am back from up the country - very sorry that I went - Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track, Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back. Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast, But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast. Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town, Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down. 'Sunny plains'! Great Scott! - those burning wastes of barren soil and sand With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land! Desolation where the crow is! Desert where the eagle flies, Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes; Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep. Stunted peak of granite gleaming, glaring like a molten mass Turned from some infernal furnace on a plain devoid of grass. Miles and miles of thirsty gutters - strings of muddy water-holes In the place of 'shining rivers' - 'walled by cliffs and forest boles.' Barren ridges, gullies, ridges! where the ever-madd'ning flies - Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt - swarm about your blighted eyes! Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees Nothing - Nothing! but the sameness of the ragged, stunted trees! Lonely hut where drought's eternal, suffocating atmosphere Where the God-forgotten hatter dreams of city life and beer. Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, endless roads that gleam and glare, Dark and evil-looking gullies, hiding secrets here and there! Dull dumb flats and stony rises, where the toiling bullocks bake, And the sinister 'gohanna', and the lizard, and the snake. Land of day and night - no morning freshness, and no afternoon, When the great white sun in rising bringeth summer heat in June. Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall From the sad heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum worst of all. Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift O'er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift - Dismal land when it is raining - growl of floods, and, oh! the woosh Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush - Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are piled In the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild. Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men, Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again: Homes of men! if home had ever such a God-forgotten place, Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face. Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell, Heaven of the shanty-keeper - fitting fiend for such a hell - And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the curlew's call - And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward through it all! I am back from up the country, up the country where I went Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; I have shattered many idols out along the dusty track, Burnt a lot of fancy verses - and I'm glad that I am back. I believe the Southern poets' dream will not be realised Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised. I intend to stay at present, as I said before, in town Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down. \BHenry Lawson\b published July 9, 1892 \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonIII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART III</a>\b \B <a name=“poem8”>Waratah and Wattle</a>\b Though poor and in trouble I wander alone, With a rebel cockade in my hat; Though friends may desert me, and kindred disown, My country will never do that! You may sing of the Shamrock, the Thistle, and Rose, Or the three in a bunch if you will; But I know of a country that gathered all those, And I love the great land where the Waratah grows, And the Wattle-bough blooms on the hill. Australia! Australia! so fair to behold While the blue sky is arching above; The stranger should never have need to be told, That the Wattle-bloom means that her heart is of gold, And the Waratah's red with her love. Australia! Australia! most beautiful name, Most kindly and bountiful land; I would die every death that might save her from shame, If a black cloud should rise on the strand; But whatever the quarrel, whoever her foes, Let them come! Let them come when they will! Though the struggle be grim, 'tis Australia that knows, That her children shall fight while the Waratah grows, And the Wattle blooms out on the hill. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonIII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART III</a>\b \B <a name=“poem9”>When Your Pants Begin To Go</a>\b When you wear a cloudy collar and a shirt that isn't white, And you cannot sleep for thinking how you'll reach tomorrow night, You may be a man of sorrow, and on speaking terms with Care, But as yet you're unacquainted with the Demon of Despair; For I rather think that nothing heaps the trouble on your mind Like the knowledge that your trousers badly need a patch behind. I have noticed when misfortune strikes the hero of the play That his clothes are torn and tattered in a most unlikely way; And the gods applaud and cheer him while he whines and loafs around, But they never seem to notice that his pants are mostly sound; Yet, of course, he cannot help it, for our mirth would mock his care If the ceiling of his trousers showed the patches of repair. You are none the less a hero if you elevate your chin When you feel the pavement wearing through the leather, sock and skin; You are rather more heroic than are ordinary folk If you scorn to fish for pity under cover of a joke; You will face the doubtful glances of the people that you know; But - of course you're bound to face them when your pants begin to go. If, when flush you took your pleasure, failed to make a god of Pelf - Some will say that for your troubles you can only thank yourself; Some will swear you'll die a beggar, but you only laugh at that While your garments hang together and you wear a decent hat; You may laugh at their predictions while your soles are wearing through - But a man's an awful coward when his pants are going too! Though the present and the future may be anything but bright, It is best to tell the fellows that you're getting on all right. And a man prefers to say it - 'tis a manly lie to tell, For the folks may be persuaded that you're doing very well; But it's hard to be a hero, and it's hard to wear a grin, When your most important garment is in places very thin. Get some sympathy and comfort from the chum who knows you best, Then your sorrows won't run over in the presence of the rest; There's a chum that you can go to when you feel inclined to whine, He'll declare your coat is tidy, and he'll say: "Just look at mine!" Though you may be patched all over he will say it doesn't show, And he'll swear it can't be noticed when your pants begin to go. Brother mine, and of misfortune! times are hard but do not fret, Keep your courage up and struggle, and we'll laugh at these things yet. Though there is no corn in Egypt, surely Africa has some - Keep your smile in working order for the better days to come! We shall often laugh together at the hard times that we know, And get measured by the tailor when our pants begin to go. \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonIII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART III</a>\b \B <a name=“poem10”>Wide Spaces (Lawson poem)</a>\b When my last long-beer has vanished and the truth is left unsaid; When each sordid care is banished from my chair and from my bed, And my common people sadly murmur: " 'Arry Lawson dead," When the man I was denounces all the things that I was not, When the true souls stand like granite, while the souls of liars not - When the quids I gave are counted, and the trays I cadged forgot; Shall my spirit see the country that it wrote for once again? Shall it see the old selections, and the common street and lane? Shall it pass across the Black Soil and across the Red Soil Plain? Shall it see the gaunt Bushwoman "slave until she's fit to drop", For the distant trip to Sydney, all depending on the crop? Or the twinkling legs of kiddies, running to the lollie-shop? Shall my spirit see the failures battling west and fighting here? Shall it see the darkened shanty, or the bar-room dull and drear? Shall it whisper to the landlord to give Bummer Smith a beer? Will they let me out of Heaven, or Valhalla, on my own - Or the Social Halls of Hades (where I shall not be alone) - Just to bring a breath of comfort to the hells that I have known? \BHenry Lawson\b \B Back to <a href=#“LawsonIII”>HENRY LAWSON LIST OF POEMS -- PART III</a>\b 2009-06-01T10:13:43+10:00 false 207 15 2009-06-02T07:07:36+10:00 \ShPreface This title includes 24 poems from the six different poets listed in the Chapters below. \IPlease select the first chapter to go to the start of the title. Alternatively, select any Chapter link to go to that Poet.\i 2009-06-02T03:39:03+10:00 false 208 15 2009-06-08T22:53:04+10:00 \ShPreface Born Andrew Barton Paterson near Orange, New South Wales, Australia in 1864, Paterson was a lawyer, journalist and poet, best known as the author of \IWaltzing Matilda\i, and a number of distinctively Australian pieces that would be at least familiar to most Australians. He died in 1941. For more information on Banjo Paterson, please go to our 90 minute documentary of the \BHistory of Waltzing Matilda\b which is included in our \BDocumentaries and Video Footage\b Topic area. Listed below are the 17 different Banjo Paterson poems. Clicking on any link will take you directly to that poem. \B <a name=“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b <a href=#“poem1”>A Bush Christening</a> <a href=#“poem2”>An Answer to Various Bards</a> <a href=#“poem3”>Been There Before</a> <a href=#“poem4”>Black Swans (Paterson Poem)</a> <a href=#“poem5”>Clancy of the Overflow</a> <a href=#“poem6”>Come-by-Chance</a> <a href=#“poem7”>Hay and Hell and Booligal</a> <a href=#“poem8”>In Defence of the Bush</a> <a href=#“poem9”>It's Grand</a> <a href=#“poem10”>Mulga Bill's Bicycle</a> <a href=#“poem11”>Song of the Artesian Water</a> <a href=#“poem12”>The City of Dreadful Thirst</a> <a href=#“poem13”>The Geebung Polo Club</a> <a href=#“poem14”>The Man from Ironbark</a> <a href=#“poem15”>The Man from Snowy River</a> <a href=#“poem16”>The Old Australian Ways</a> <a href=#“poem17”>The Road to Hogan's Gap</a> \B Back to <a href=“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b <a name=“poem1”>A Bush Christening</a>\b On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, And men of religion are scanty, On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost, One Michael Magee had a shanty. Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad, Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned; He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest For the youngster had never been christened. And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should die Saint Peter would not recognise him.' But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, Who agreed straightaway to baptise him. Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue, With his ear to the keyhole was listenin', And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white, 'What the divil and all is this christenin'?' He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts, And it seemed to his small understanding, If the man in the frock made him one of the flock, It must mean something very like branding. So away with a rush he set off for the bush, While the tears in his eyelids they glistened - "'Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me, I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!' Like a young native dog he ran into a log, And his father with language uncivil, Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste, 'Come out and be christened, you divil!' But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, And his parents in vain might reprove him, Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke) 'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.' 'Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog; Poke him aisy - don't hurt him or maim him, 'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand, As he rushes out this end I'll name him. 'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name - Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?' Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout - 'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!' As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub Where he knew that pursuit would be risky, The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head That was labelled 'MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'! And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P., And the one thing he hates more than sin is To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke, How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'! \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem2”>An Answer to Various Bards</a>\b Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in, Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin, With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp, How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp; And they paint it so terrific it would fill one's soul with gloom- But you know they're fond of writing about "corpses" and "the tomb". So, before they curse the bushland, they should let their fancy range, And take something for their livers, and be cheerful for a change. Now, for instance, Mr Lawson-well of course, we almost cried At the sorrowful description how his "little 'Arvie" died, And we lachrymosed in silence when "His Father's Mate" was slain; Then he went and killed the father, and we had to weep again. Ben Duggan and Jack Denver, too, he caused them to expire, After which he cooked the gander of Jack Dunn, of Nevertire; And, no doubt, the bush is wretched if you judge it by the groan Of the sad and soulful poet with a graveyard of his own. And he spoke in terms prophetic of a revolution's heat, When the world should hear the clamour of those people in the street; But the shearer chaps who start it-why, he rounds on them the blame, And he calls 'em "agitators who are living on the game". But I "over-write" the bushmen! Well, I own without a doubt That I always see a hero in the "man from furthest out". I could never contemplate him through an atmosphere of gloom, And a bushman never struck me as a subject for "the tomb". If it ain't all "golden sunshine" where the "wattle branches wave", Well, it ain't all damp and dismal, and it ain't all "lonely grave". And, of course, there's no denying that the bushman's life is rough, But a man can easy stand it if he's built of sterling stuff; Though it's seldom that the drover gets a bed of eiderdown, Yet the man who's born a bushman, he gets mighty sick of town, For he's jotting down the figures, and he's adding up the bills While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills. Then he hears a wool-team passing with a rumble and a lurch, And, although the work is pressing, yet it brings him off his perch, For it stirs him like a message from his station friends afar And he seems to sniff the ranges in the scent of wool and tar; And it takes him back in fancy, half in laughter, half in tears, To a sound of other voices and a thought of other years. When the woolshed rang with a bustle from the dawning of the day, And the shear-blades were a-clicking to the cry of "Wool away!" Then his face was somewhat browner, and his frame was firmer set- And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret. But the wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go sadly back To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack, And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall, And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush-life after all. But we'll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun, For our fathers' hearts have failed us, and the droving days are done. There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels, And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals. For to hang around the townships suits us better, you'll agree, And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we. Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push Till we lose the love of roving, and we learn to hate the bush; And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer, And we'll slip across to England-it's a nicer place than here; For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store, And the theatres are in plenty, and the pubs are more and more. But that ends it, Mr Lawson, and it's time to say good-bye, So we must agree to differ in all friendship, you and I. Yes, we'll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may, And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day, And go droving down the river 'neath the sunshine and the stars, And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars. \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem3”>Been There Before</a>\b There came a stranger to Walgett town, To Walgett town when the sun was low, And he carried a thirst that was worth a crown, Yet how to quench it he did not know; But he thought he might take those yokels down, The guileless yokels of Walgett town. They made him a bet in a private bar, In a private bar when the talk was high, And they bet him some pounds no matter how far He could pelt a stone, yet he could not shy A stone right over the river so brown, The Darling River at Walgett town. He knew that the river from bank to bank Was fifty yards, and he smiled a smile As he trundled down; but his hopes they sank, For there wasn't a stone within fifty mile; For the saltbush plain and the open down Produce no quarries in Walgett town. The yokels laughed at his hopes o'erthrown, And he stood awhile like a man in a dream; Then he out of his pocket he fetched a stone, And pelted it over the silent stream- He'd been there before; he had wandered down On a previous visit to Walgett town. \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem4”>Black Swans (Paterson Poem)</a>\b As I lie at rest on a patch of clover In the Western Park when the day is done, I watch as the wild black swans fly over With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; And I hear the clang of their leader crying To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, And they fade away in the darkness dying, Where the stars are mustering one by one. Oh! 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, Through the cooling air of the glorious night. 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. From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes, Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze, Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes Make music sweet in the jungle maze, They will hold their course to the westward ever, Till they reach the banks of the old grey river, Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver In the burning heat of the summer days. Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting To the folk that live in that western land? Then for every sweep of your pinions beating, Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band, To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting, Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting, When once to the work they have put their hand. Facing it yet! Oh, my friend stout-hearted, What does it matter for rain or shine, For the hopes deferred and the gain departed? Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. And thy health and strength are beyond confessing As the only joys that are worth possessing. May the days to come be as rich in blessing As the days we spent in the auld lang syne. I would fain go back to the old grey river, To the old bush days when our hearts were light, But, alas! those days they have fled for ever, They are like the swans that have swept from sight. And I know full well that the strangers' faces Would meet us now in our dearest places; For our day is dead and has left no traces But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night. There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken - We would grieve for them with a bitter pain, If the past could live and the dead could quicken, We then might turn to that life again. But on lonely nights we would 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 is 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. They are flying west, by their instinct guided, And for man likewise is his fate decided, And griefs apportioned and joys divided By a mighty power with a purpose dread. \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem5”>Clancy of the Overflow</a>\b I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better 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". And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected (And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar); 'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it: "Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are." In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go; As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing, For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know. And the bush has friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars, And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended, And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars. I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall, And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city, Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all. And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street; And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet. And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste, With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste. And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy, Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go, While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal- But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow. \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem6”>Come-by-Chance</a>\b As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary - For the plot was void of interest - 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact, There I learnt the true location, distance, size, and population Of each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act. And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee, And that Booleroi and Bumble get their letters twice a year, Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector, Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear. But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me, Quite by chance I came across it - 'Come-by-Chance' was what I read; No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it, Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid. I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northward Till I come by chance across it, and I'll straightway settle down, For there can't be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worry Where the telegraph don't reach you nor the railways run to town. And one's letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges, Where a wiry young Australian leads a pack-horse once a week, And the good news grows by keeping, and you're spared the pain of weeping Over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek. But I fear, and more's the pity, that there's really no such city, For there's not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know, 'Come-by-chance', be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour, It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go. . . . . . Though we work and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle, All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free; Man may weary and importune, but the fickle goddess Fortune Deals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be. All the happy times entrancing, days of sport and nights of dancing, Moonlit rides and stolen kisses, pouting lips and loving glance: When you think of these be certain you have looked behind the curtain, You have had the luck to linger just a while in 'Come-by-chance'. \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem7”>Hay and Hell and Booligal</a>\b 'You come and see me, boys,' he said; 'You'll find a welcome and a bed And whisky any time you call; Although our township hasn't got The name of quite a lively spot - You see, I live in Booligal. 'And people have an awful down Upon the district and the town - Which worse than hell itself they call; In fact, the saying far and wide Along the Riverina side Is "Hay and Hell and Booligal". 'No doubt it suits 'em very well To say it's worse than Hay or Hell, But don't you heed their talk at all; Of course, there's heat - no one denies - And sand and dust and stacks of flies, And rabbits, too, at Booligal. 'But such a pleasant, quiet place, You never see a stranger's face - They hardly ever care to call; The drovers mostly pass it by; They reckon that they'd rather die Than spend a night in Booligal. 'The big mosquitoes frighten some - You'll lie awake to hear 'em hum - And snakes about the township crawl; But shearers, when they get their cheque, They never come along and wreck The blessed town of Booligal. 'But down in Hay the shearers come And fill themselves with fighting-rum, And chase blue devils up the wall, And fight the snaggers every day, Until there is the deuce to pay - There's none of that in Booligal. 'Of course, there isn't much to see - The billiard-table used to be The great attraction for us all, Until some careless, drunken curs Got sleeping on it in their spurs, And ruined it, in Booligal. 'Just now there is a howling drought That pretty near has starved us out - It never seems to rain at all; But, if there SHOULD come any rain, You couldn't cross the black-soil plain - You'd have to stop in Booligal.' . . . . . 'WE'D HAVE TO STOP!' With bated breath We prayed that both in life and death Our fate in other lines might fall: 'Oh, send us to our just reward In Hay or Hell, but, gracious Lord, Deliver us from Booligal!' \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem8”>In Defence of the Bush</a>\b So you're back from up the country, Mister Lawson, where you went, And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent; Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear That it wasn't cool and shady-and there wasn't whips of beer, And the looney bullock snorted when you first came into view- Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you; And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown, And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town. Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went In a month or two at furthest, you would wonder what it meant; Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain You would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain, And the miles of thirsty gutters, blocked with sand and choked with mud, You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood. For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street, In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet; But the bush has moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall, And the men who know the bush-land-they are loyal through it all. But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight- Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers' huts at night? Did they "rise up William Riley" by the camp-fire's cheery blaze? Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days? And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet- Were their faces sour and saddened like the "faces in the street"? And the "shy selector children"-were they better now or worse Than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse? Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and square Where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare, Where the sempstress plies her needle till her eyes are sore and red In a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread? Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush Than the roar of trams and buses, and the war-whoop of "the push"? Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange? Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range? But, perchance, the wild birds' music by your senses was despised, For you say you'll stay in townships till the bush is civilized. Would you make it a tea-garden, and on Sundays have a band Where the "blokes" might take their "donahs", with a "public" close at hand? You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the "push", For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush. \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem9”>It's Grand</a>\b It's grand to be a squatter And sit upon a post, And watch your little ewes and lambs A-giving up the ghost. It's grand to be a 'cockie' With wife and kids to keep, And find an all-wise Providence Has mustered all your sheep. It's grand to be a Western man, With shovel in your hand, To dig your little homestead out From underneath the sand. It's grand to be a shearer, Along the Darling side, And pluck the wool from stinking sheep That some days since have died. It's grand to be a rabbit And breed till all is blue, And then to die in heaps because There's nothing left to chew. It's grand to be a Minister And travel like a swell, And tell the Central District folk To go to - Inverell. It's grand to be a Socialist And lead the bold array That marches to prosperity At seven bob a day. It's grand to be an unemployed And lie in the Domain, And wake up every second day And go to sleep again. It's grand to borrow English tin To pay for wharves and Rocks, And then to find it isn't in The little money-box. It's grand to be a democrat And toady to the mob, For fear that if you told the truth They'd hunt you from your job. It's grand to be a lot of things In this fair Southern land, But if the Lord would send us rain, That would, indeed, be grand! \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem10”>Mulga Bill's Bicycle</a>\b 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze; He turned away the good old horse that served him many days; He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen; He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine; And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride, The grinning shop assistant said, 'Excuse me, can you ride?' 'See, here, young man,' said Mulga Bill, 'from Walgett to the sea, From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me. I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows, Although I'm not the one to talk - I HATE a man that blows. But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight; Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wild cat can it fight. There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel, There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel, But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight: I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.' 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode, That perched above the Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road. He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray, But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away. It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak, It whistled down the awful slope, towards the Dead Man's Creek. It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box: The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks, The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground, As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound. It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree, It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be; And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek. 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore: He said, 'I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before; I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five pound bet, But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet. I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve. It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still; A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.' \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem11”>Song of the Artesian Water</a>\b Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought; But we're sick of prayers and Providence - we're going to do without; With the derricks up above us and the solid earth below, We are waiting at the lever for the word to let her go. Sinking down, deeper down, Oh, we'll sink it deeper down: As the drill is plugging downward at a thousand feet of level, If the Lord won't send us water, oh, we'll get it from the devil; Yes, we'll get it from the devil deeper down. Now, our engine's built in Glasgow by a very canny Scot, And he marked it twenty horse-power, but he don't know what is what: When Canadian Bill is firing with the sun-dried gidgee logs, She can equal thirty horses and a score or so of dogs. Sinking down, deeper down, Oh, we're going deeper down: If we fail to get the water then it's ruin to the squatter, For the drought is on the station and the weather's growing hotter, But we're bound to get the water deeper down. But the shaft has started caving and the sinking's very slow, And the yellow rods are bending in the water down below, And the tubes are always jamming and they can't be made to shift Till we nearly burst the engine with a forty horse-power lift. Sinking down, deeper down, Oh, we're going deeper down Though the shaft is always caving, and the tubes are always jamming, Yet we'll fight our way to water while the stubborn drill is ramming - While the stubborn drill is ramming deeper down. But there's no artesian water, though we've passed three thousand feet, And the contract price is growing and the boss is nearly beat. But it must be down beneath us, and it's down we've got to go, Though she's bumping on the solid rock four thousand feet below. Sinking down, deeper down, Oh, we're going deeper down: And it's time they heard us knocking on the roof of Satan's dwellin'; But we'll get artesian water if we cave the roof of hell in - Oh! we'll get artesian water deeper down. But it's hark! the whistle's blowing with a wild, exultant blast, And the boys are madly cheering, for they've struck the flow at last, And it's rushing up the tubing from four thousand feet below Till it spouts above the casing in a million-gallon flow. And it's down, deeper down - Oh, it comes from deeper down; It is flowing, ever flowing, in a free, unstinted measure From the silent hidden places where the old earth hides her treasure - Where the old earth hides her treasure deeper down. And it's clear away the timber, and it's let the water run: How it glimmers in the shadow, how it flashes in the sun! By the silent belts of timber, by the miles of blazing plain It is bringing hope and comfort to the thirsty land again. Flowing down, further down; It is flowing further down To the tortured thirsty cattle, bringing gladness in its going; Through the droughty days of summer it is flowing, ever flowing - It is flowing, ever flowing, further down. \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem12”>The City of Dreadful Thirst</a>\b The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke - 'They say we folks in Narromine are narrow-minded folk. But all the smartest men down here are puzzled to define A kind of new phenomenon that came to Narromine. 'Last summer up in Narromine 'twas gettin' rather warm - Two hundred in the water-bag, and lookin' like a storm - We all were in the private bar, the coolest place in town, When out across the stretch of plain a cloud came rollin' down, 'We don't respect the clouds up there, they fill us with disgust, They mostly bring a Bogan shower - three rain-drops and some dust; But each man, simultaneous-like, to each man said, "I think That cloud suggests it's up to us to have another drink!" 'There's clouds of rain and clouds of dust - we'd heard of them before, And sometimes in the daily press we read of "clouds of war": But - if this ain't the Gospel truth I hope that I may burst - That cloud that came to Narromine was just a cloud of thirst. 'It wasn't like a common cloud, 'twas more a sort of haze; It settled down about the streets, and stopped for days and days, And not a drop of dew could fall and not a sunbeam shine To pierce that dismal sort of mist that hung on Narromine. 'Oh, Lord! we had a dreadful time beneath that cloud of thirst! We all chucked-up our daily work and went upon the burst. The very blacks about the town that used to cadge for grub, They made an organised attack and tried to loot the pub. 'We couldn't leave the private bar no matter how we tried; Shearers and squatters, union-men and blacklegs side by side Were drinkin' there and dursn't move, for each was sure, he said, Before he'd get a half-a-mile the thirst would strike him dead! 'We drank until the drink gave out, we searched from room to room, And round the pub, like drunken ghosts, went howling through the gloom. The shearers found some kerosene and settled down again, But all the squatter chaps and I, we staggered to the train. 'And, once outside the cloud of thirst, we felt as right as pie, But while we stopped about the town we had to drink or die. But now I hear it's safe enough, I'm going back to work Because they say the cloud of thirst has shifted on to Bourke. 'But when you see those clouds about - like this one over here - All white and frothy at the top, just like a pint of beer, It's time to go and have a drink, for if that cloud should burst You'd find the drink would all be gone, for that's a cloud of thirst!' . . . . . We stood the man from Narromine a pint of half-and-half; He drank it off without a gasp in one tremendous quaff; 'I joined some friends last night,' he said, 'in what THEY called a spree; But after Narromine 'twas just a holiday to me.' And now beyond the Western Range, where sunset skies are red, And clouds of dust, and clouds of thirst, go drifting overhead, The railway-train is taking back, along the Western Line, That narrow-minded person on his road to Narromine. \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem13”>The Geebung Polo Club</a>\b It was somewhere up the country in a land of rock and scrub, That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club. They were long and wiry natives of the rugged mountainside, And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride; But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash - They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash: And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong, Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long. And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub: They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club. It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam, That a polo club existed, called the Cuff and Collar Team. As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success, For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress. They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek, For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week. So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame, For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game; And they took their valets with them - just to give their boots a rub Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club. Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed, When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road; And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone A spectator's leg was broken - just from merely looking on. For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead, While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead. And the Cuff and Collar captain, when he tumbled off to die, Was the last surviving player - so the game was called a tie. Then the captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground, Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around; There was no one to oppose him - all the rest were in a trance, So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance, For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side; So he struck at goal - and missed it - then he tumbled off and died. By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass, There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass, For they bear a crude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear, For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here." And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around, You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground; You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet, And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet, Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub - He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club. \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem14”>The Man from Ironbark</a>\b It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down. He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop, Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop. "'Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark, I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark." The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are, He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar: He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee, He laid the odds and kept a 'tote', whatever that may be, And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered "Here's a lark! Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark." There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall, Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all; To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut, "I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut." And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark: "I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark." A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin, Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in. He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat, Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat; Upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark - No doubt it fairly took him in - the man from Ironbark. He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear, And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear, He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe: "You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go! I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark! But you'll remember all your life, the man from Ironbark." He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out. He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck; He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck. And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark, And "Murder! Bloody Murder!" yelled the man from Ironbark. A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show; He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go. And when at last the barber spoke, and said, "'Twas all in fun - 'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone." "A joke!" he cried, "By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark; I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark." And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape, He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape. "Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough, One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough." And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark, That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark. \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem15”>The Man from Snowy River</a>\b There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around That the colt from old Regret had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses-he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight. There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up- He would go wherever horse and man could go. No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand- He learnt to ride while droving on the plains. And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast; He was something like a racehorse undersized, With a touch of Timor pony-three parts thoroughbred at least- And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. He was hard and tough and wiry-just the sort that won't say die- There was courage in his quick impatient tread; And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, And the proud and lofty carriage of his head. But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, And the old man said, "That horse will never do For a long and tiring gallop-lad, you'd better stop away, Those hills are far too rough for such as you." So he waited, sad and wistful-only Clancy stood his friend- "I think we ought to let him come," he said; "I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, For both his horse and he are mountain bred. "He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough; Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride, The man that holds his own is good enough. And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, Where the river runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen." So he went; they found the horses by the big mimosa clump, They raced away towards the mountain's brow, And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump, No use to try for fancy riding now. And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once they gain the shelter of those hills." So Clancy rode to wheel them-he was racing on the wing Where the best and boldest riders take their place, And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew. Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day, No man can hold them down the other side." When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull- It well might make the boldest hold their breath; The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, While the others stood and watched in very fear. He sent the flint-stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat- It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, At the bottom of that terrible descent. He was right among the horses as they climbed the farther hill, And the watchers on the mountain, standing mute, Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely; he was right among them still, As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. They lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges-but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, With the man from Snowy River at their heels. And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam; He followed like a bloodhound on their track, Till they halted cowed and beaten; then he turned their heads for home, And alone and unassisted brought them back. But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, For never yet was mountain horse a cur. And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, And where around the Overflow the reed-beds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, The Man from Snowy River is a household word today, And the stockmen tell the story of his ride. \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem16”>The Old Australian Ways</a>\b The London lights are far abeam Behind a bank of cloud, Along the shore the gaslights gleam, The gale is piping loud; And down the Channel, groping blind, We drive her through the haze Towards the land we left behind - The good old land of 'never mind', And old Australian ways. The narrow ways of English folk Are not for such as we; They bear the long-accustomed yoke Of staid conservancy: But all our roads are new and strange, And through our blood there runs The vagabonding love of change That drove us westward of the range And westward of the suns. The city folk go to and fro Behind a prison's bars, They never feel the breezes blow And never see the stars; They never hear in blossomed trees The music low and sweet Of wild birds making melodies, Nor catch the little laughing breeze That whispers in the wheat. Our fathers came of roving stock That could not fixed abide: And we have followed field and flock Since e'er we learnt to ride; By miner's camp and shearing shed, In land of heat and drought, We followed where our fortunes led, With fortune always on ahead And always further out. The wind is in the barley-grass, The wattles are in bloom; The breezes greet us as they pass With honey-sweet perfume; The parakeets go screaming by With flash of golden wing, And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry Their long-drawn note of revelry, Rejoicing at the Spring. So throw the weary pen aside And let the papers rest, For we must saddle up and ride Towards the blue hill's breast; And we must travel far and fast Across their rugged maze, To find the Spring of Youth at last, And call back from the buried past The old Australian ways. When Clancy took the drover's track In years of long ago, He drifted to the outer back Beyond the Overflow; By rolling plain and rocky shelf, With stockwhip in his hand, He reached at last, oh lucky elf, The Town of Come-and-help-yourself In Rough-and-ready Land. And if it be that you would know The tracks he used to ride, Then you must saddle up and go Beyond the Queensland side - Beyond the reach of rule or law, To ride the long day through, In Nature's homestead - filled with awe You then might see what Clancy saw And know what Clancy knew. \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b \B <a name=“poem17”>The Road to Hogan's Gap</a>\b Now look, you see, it's this way like, You cross the broken bridge And run the crick down till you strike The second right-hand ridge. The track is hard to see in parts, But still it's pretty clear; There's been two Injin hawkers' carts Along that road this year. Well, run that right-hand ridge along - It ain't, to say, too steep - There's two fresh tracks might put you wrong Where blokes went out with sheep. But keep the crick upon your right, And follow pretty straight Along the spur, until you sight A wire and sapling gate. Well, that's where Hogan's old grey mare Fell off and broke her back; You'll see her carcase layin' there, Jist down below the track. And then you drop two mile, or three, It's pretty steep and blind; You want to go and fall a tree And tie it on behind. And then you pass a broken cart Below a granite bluff; And that is where you strike the part They reckon pretty rough. But by the time you've got that far It's either cure or kill, So turn your horses round the spur And face 'em up the hill. For look, if you should miss the slope And get below the track, You haven't got the whitest hope Of ever gettin' back. An' half way up you'll see the hide Of Hogan's brindled bull; Well, mind and keep the right-hand side, The left's too steep a pull. And both the banks is full of cracks; An' just about at dark You'll see the last year's bullock tracks Where Hogan drew the bark. The marks is old and pretty faint And grown with scrub and such; Of course the track to Hogan's ain't A road that's travelled much. But turn and run the tracks along For half a mile or more, And then, of course, you can't go wrong - You're right at Hogan's door. When first you come to Hogan's gate He mightn't show, perhaps; He's pretty sure to plant and wait To see it ain't the traps. I wouldn't call it good enough To let your horses out; There's some that's pretty extra rough Is livin' round about. It's likely if your horses did Get feedin' near the track, It's goin' to cost at least a quid Or more to get them back. So, if you find they're off the place, It's up to you to go And flash a quid in Hogan's face - He'll know the blokes that know. But listen, if you're feelin' dry, Just see there's no one near, And go and wink the other eye And ask for ginger beer. The blokes come in from near and far To sample Hogan's pop; They reckon once they breast the bar They stay there till they drop. On Sundays you can see them spread Like flies around the tap. It's like that song "The Livin' Dead" Up there at Hogan's Gap. They like to make it pretty strong Whenever there's a charnce; So when a stranger comes along They always holds a darnce. There's recitations, songs, and fights - A willin' lot you'll meet. There's one long bloke up there recites, I tell you - he's a treat. They're lively blokes all right up there, It's never dull a day. I'd go meself if I could spare The time to get away. . . . . . The stranger turned his horses quick. He didn't cross the bridge; He didn't go along the crick To strike the second ridge; He didn't make the trip, because He wasn't feeling fit. His business up at Hogan's was To serve him with a writ. He reckoned if he faced the pull And climbed the rocky stair, The next to come might find his hide A land-mark on the mountain side, Along with Hogan's brindled bull And Hogan's old grey mare! \BBanjo Paterson\b \B Back to <a href=#“Banjo”>BANJO PATERSON LIST OF POEMS</a>\b 2009-06-02T05:07:08+10:00 false 209 15 2009-06-02T06:57:07+10:00 \ShPreface This title includes two poems from the two poets listed in the Chapters below. \IPlease select the first chapter to go to the start of the title. Alternatively, select any Chapter link to go to that Poet.\i 2009-06-02T06:06:29+10:00 false 210 15 2009-06-08T22:53:14+10:00