Old North Sydney

They're shifting old North Sydney,
Perhaps tis just as well,
Theyre carting off the houses
Where the old folks used to dwell.
Where only ghosts inhabit
They lay the old shops low;
But the Spirit of North Sydney,
It vanished long ago.

The Spirit of North Sydney,
The good old time and style,
It camped, maybe, at Crows Nest,
But only for a while.
It left about the season,
Or at the time, perhaps,
When old Inspector Cotter
Transferred his jokes and traps.

A brand new crowd is thronging
The brand new streets aglow
Where the Spirit of North Sydney
Would gossip long ago.
They will not know to-morrow,
Tho twere but yesterday,
Exactly how McMahons Point
And its ferry used to lay.

The good old friendly spirit
Its sorrows would unfold,
When householders were neighbours
And shop-keeping was old;
But now were busy strangers,
Our feelings we restrain,
The Spirit of North Sydney
Shall never come again!

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.'

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English

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Above Crows Nest - Sydney

A blanket low and leaden,
Though rent across the west,
Whose darkness seems to deaden
The brightest and the best;
A sunset white and staring
On cloud-wrecks far away,
And haggard house-walls glaring
A farewell to the day.

A light on tower and steeple,
Where sun no longer shines,
My people, Oh my people!
Rise up and read the signs!
Low looms the nearer high-line
(No sign of star or moon),
The horseman on the skyline
Rode hard this afternoon!

(Is he, and who shall know it?,
The spectre of a scout?
The spirit of a poet,
Whose truths were met with doubt?
Who sought and who succeeded
In marking dangers track,
Whose warnings were unheeded
Till all the sky was black?)

It is a shameful story
For our young...

Henry Lawson

Sydney-Side

Where's the steward?, Bar-room steward? Berth? Oh, any berth will do,
I have left a three-pound billet just to come along with you.
Brighter shines the Star of Rovers on a world thats growing wide,
But I think Id give a kingdom for a glimpse of Sydney-Side.

Run of rocky shelves at sunrise, with their base on oceans bed;
Homes of Coogee, homes of Bondi, and the lighthouse on South Head.
For in loneliness and hardship, and with just a touch of pride,
Has my heart been taught to whisper, You belong to Sydney-Side.

Oh, there never dawned a morning, in the long and lonely days,
But I thought I saw the ferries streaming out across the bays,
And as fresh and fair in fancy did the picture rise again
As the sunrise flushed the city from Woollahra to Balmain:

And the...

Henry Lawson

Wide Spaces

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?

Sh...

Henry Lawson

William Street

Tis William Street, the link street,
That seems to stand alone;
Tis William Street, the vague street,
With terraces of stone:
That starts with clean, cool pockets,
And ancient stable ways,
And built by solid landlords
And in more solid days.

Beginning where the shadow streets
Of vacant wealth begin,
Street William runs down sadly
Across the vale of sin.
Tis William Street, the haggard,
Where all the streets are mean
Thats trying to be honest,
Thats trying to keep clean.

Tis William Street with method,
And nought of show or pride,
That tries to keep its business
Upon the right-hand side.
No pavement exhibition
Of carcases and slops;
But old-established principles
In old-established shops.

Tis Will...

Henry Lawson

Interlude. Callaghans Hotel

There's the same old coaching stable that was used by Cobb and Co.,
And the yard the coaches stood in more than sixty years ago;
And the public-private parlour, where they serve the passing swell,
Was the shoeing forge and smithy up at Callaghans Hotel.

Theres the same old walls and woodwork that our fathers built to last,
And the same old doors and wainscot and the windows of the past;
And the same old nooks and corners where the Jim-Jams used to dwell;
But the Fantods dance no longer up at Callaghans Hotel.

There are memories of old days that were red instead of blue;
In the time of Dick the Devil and of other devils too;
But perhaps they went to Heaven and are angels, doing well,
They were always open-hearted up at Callaghans Hotel.

Then the new chum, b...

Henry Lawson

The Bards Who Lived At Manly

The camp of high-class spielers,
Who sneered in summer dress,
And doo-dah dilettante,
And scornful venuses,
House agents, and storekeepers,
All eager they to bleed,
The bards who tackled Manly,
Were plucky bards indeed!

With shops that feared to trust them,
And pubs that looked askance;
And prigs who read their verses,
But gave them not a glance;,
When all were vain and selfish,
And editors were hard,
The bard that stuck to Manly
Was sure a mighty bard.

What mattered floors were barren,
And windows curtainless,
And our life seemed to others
But blackguard recklessness?
We wore our clothes for comfort,
We earned our bread alway,
And beer and good tobacco
Came somehow every day.

Came kindred souls to ...

Henry Lawson