Down The River

Ive done with joys an misery,
An why should I repine?
Theres no one knows the past but me
An that ol dog o mine.
We camp an walk an camp an walk,
An find it fairly good;
He can do anything but talk,
An he wouldnt if he could.

We sits an thinks beside the fire,
With all the stars a-shine,
An no one knows our thoughts but me
An that there dog o mine.
We has our Johnny-cake an scrag,
An finds em fairly good;
He can do anything but talk,
An he wouldnt if he could.

He gets a possum now an then,
I cooks it on the fire;
He has his water, me my tea,
What more could we desire?
He gets a rabbit when he likes,
We finds it pretty good;
He can do anything but talk,
An he wouldnt if he could.

I has me smoke, he has his rest,
When sunsets gettin dim;
An if I do get drunk at times,
Its all the same to him.
So longs hes got me swag to mind,
He thinks that times is good;
He can do anything but talk,
An he wouldnt if he could.

He gets his tucker from the cook,
For cook is good to him,
An when I sobers up a bit,
He goes an has a swim.
He likes the rivers where I fish,
An all the world is good;
He can do anything but talk,
An he wouldnt if he could.

Henry Lawson

Henry Lawson was an Australian writer and poet. Along with Banjo Paterson, he is among the best-known Australian poets and fiction writers of the colonial period and is often called Australia's 'greatest short story writer'. His works frequently document the lives and struggles of rural and outback Australians. Lawson's own life was marked by hardship and struggles including impaired hearing and financial difficulties, which influenced his realist depictions of Australian life. Some of his notable works include 'While the Billy Boils' and 'In the Days When the World was Wide.'

Henry Lawson

The Separated Women

Henry Lawson, Simple Poetry

And What Have You To Say

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Gipsy Too

Henry Lawson, Simple Poetry

On The Wallaby

Henry Lawson, Simple Poetry

English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Ballad Of The Rousabout

A Rouseabout of rouseabouts, from any land, or none,
I bear a nick-name of the bush, and Im, a womans son;
I came from where I campd last night, and, at the day-dawn glow,
I rub the darkness from my eyes, roll up my swag, and go.

Some take the track for bitter pride, some for no pride at all,
(But, to us all the world is wide when driven to the wall)
Some take the track for gain in life, some take the track for loss,
And some of us take up the swag as Christ took up the Cross.

Some take the track for faith in men, some take the track for doubt,
Some flee a squalid home to work their own salvation out.
Some dared not see a mothers tears nor meet a fathers face,
Born of good Christian families some leap, head-long, from Grace.

Oh we are men who fought and ros...

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Possum - A Lay Of Newchumland

So yer travlin for yer pleasure while yer writin for the press?
An yer huntin arter copy? well, Ive heerd o that. I guess
You are gorn ter write a story that is gorn ter be yer best,
Bout the blunders an advenchers ov a new chum in the west?
An you would be very thankful an acknowledge any hint?
Well, I karnt say as I hankers fur ter see my name in print;
But I know a little story an Ill tell it out ov hand
If yerll put it down in writin that the swells kin understand
(Its a story ov a new chum, and a story ov the land.)


He had lately kum from Ingland you cud tell it by s cap
Fur kerlonial experence (an he got it, too, poor chap).
Twas in town he met the squatter, an he asked, as if in fun,
If the boss ud want a flunkey or a coachy on th...

Henry Lawson

The Song Of Old Joe Swallow

When I was up the country in the rough and early days,
I used to work along ov Jimmy Nowlett's bullick-drays;
Then the reelroad wasn't heered on, an' the bush was wild an' strange,
An' we useter draw the timber from the saw-pits in the range,
Load provisions for the stations, an' we'd travel far and slow
Through the plains an' 'cross the ranges in the days of long ago.

Then it's yoke up the bullicks and tramp beside 'em slow,
An' saddle up yer horses an' a-ridin' we will go,
To the bullick-drivin', cattle-drovin',
Nigger, digger, roarin', rovin'
Days o' long ago.

Once me and Jimmy Nowlett loaded timber for the town,
But we hadn't gone a dozen mile before the rain come down,
An' me an' Jimmy Nowlett an' the bullicks an' the dray
Was cut off on some risin' gro...

Henry Lawson

The Black Bordered Letter

An SO es dead in London,
An answered to the call,
An trotted through the Long Street,
With earse an plumes an all?
We was village boys an brothers,
We was warm as we could be,
In the milk-walk an the fried fish,
Up in London, im an me.

We was warm,
We was warm,
As we ad always been;
We never ad a dry word
Till she come between.

I lived round Windsor Terrace,
An im across the wye,
An when I sailed a emigrant
We never said good-bye!
He wos better than a brother,
Wot you Bushmen call a mate.
(Did he reach the rylwye stytion,
As they told me, just too late!)

We was warm,
We was warm,
As pals was ever seen;
We never ad a dry word
Till she come between.

I meant to go back om...

Henry Lawson

Cherry-Tree Inn

The rafters are open to sun, moon, and star,
Thistles and nettles grow high in the bar,
The chimneys are crumbling, the log fires are dead,
And green mosses spring from the hearthstone instead.
The voices are silent, the bustle and din,
For the railroad hath ruined the Cherry-tree Inn.

Save the glimmer of stars, or the moon's pallid streams,
And the sounds of the 'possums that camp on the beams,
The bar-room is dark and the stable is still,
For the coach comes no more over Cherry-tree Hill.
No riders push on through the darkness to win
The rest and the comfort of Cherry-tree Inn.

I drift from my theme, for my memory strays
To the carrying, digging, and bushranging days,
Far back to the seasons that I love the best,
When a stream of wild diggers rushed i...

Henry Lawson

And What Have You To Say

I mind the days when ladies fair
Helped on my overcoat,
And tucked the silken handkerchief
About my precious throat;
They used to see the poets soul
In every song I wrote.

They pleaded hard, but I had work
To do, and could not stay
I used to work the whole night through,
And what have you to say?

Twas clever, handsome woman then,
And I their rising star;
I could not see they worshipped me,
Because I saw too far.
(Tis well for one or two, I think,
That things are as they are.)

(I used to write for writings sake,
I used to write till day,
I loved my prose and poetry,
And what have you to say?)

I guess if one should meet me now
That she would gasp to think,
She ever knew a thing like me,
As down the s...

Henry Lawson