Sacred To The Memory Of Unknown

Oh, the wild black swans fly westward still,
While the sun goes down in glory,
And away oer lonely plain and hill
Still runs the same old story:
The sheoaks sigh it all day long,
It is safe in the Big Scrubs keeping,
Tis the butcher-birds and the bell-birds song
In the gum where Unknown lies sleeping,
(It is heard in the chat of the soldier-birds
Oer the grave where Unknown lies sleeping).
Ah! the Bushmen knew not his name or land,
Or the shame that had sent him here,
But the Bushmen knew by the dead mans hand
That his past life lay not near.
The law of the land might have watched for him,
Or a sweetheart, wife, or mother;
But they bared their heads, and their eyes were dim,
For he might have been a brother!
(Ah! the death he died brought him near to them,
For he might have been a brother.)

Oh, the wild black swans to the westward fade,
And the sunset burns to ashes,
And three times bright on an eastern range
The light of a big star flashes,
Like a signal sent to a distant strand
Where a dead mans love sits weeping.
And the night comes grand to the Great Lone Land
Oer the grave where Unknown lies sleeping,
And the big white stars in their clusters blaze
Oer the Bush where Unknown lies sleeping.

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

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The Wattle

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In The Height Of Fashion

Henry Lawson, Simple Poetry

English

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Unknown

Oh, the wild black swans fly westward still,
While the sun goes down in glory,
And away o'er lonely plain and hill
Still runs the same old story:
The sheoaks sigh it all day long,
It is safe in the Big Scrub's keeping,
'Tis the butcher-birds' and the bell-birds' song
In the gum where "Unknown" lies sleeping,
(It is heard in the chat of the soldier-birds
O'er the grave where "Unknown" lies sleeping).

Ah! the Bushmen knew not his name or land,
Or the shame that had sent him here,
But the Bushmen knew by the dead man' hand
That his past life lay not near.
The law of the land might have watched for him,
Or a sweetheart, wife, or mother;
But they bared their heads, and their eyes were dim,
For he might have been a brother!
(Ah! the death he died bro...

Henry Lawson

Old Stone Chimney

The rising moon on the peaks was blending
Her silver light with the sunset glow,
When a swagman came as the day was ending
Along a path that he seemed to know.
But all the fences were gone or going,
The hand of ruin was everywhere;
The creek unchecked in its course was flowing,
For none of the old clay dam was there.

Here Time had been with his swiftest changes,
And husbandry had westward flown;
The cattle tracks in the rugged ranges
Were long ago with the scrub oergrown.
It must have needed long years to soften
The road, that as hard as rock had been;
The mountain path he had trod so often
Lay hidden now with a carpet green.

He thought at times from the mountain courses
He heard the sound of a bullock bell,
The distant gallop of stockme...

Henry Lawson

The Empty Glass

There are three lank bards in a borrowed room,
Ah! The number is one too few,
They have deemed their home and the bars unfit
For the thing that they have to do.
Three glasses they fill with the Lands own wine,
And the bread of life they pass.
Their glasses they take, which they slowly raise,
And they drink to an empty glass.

(Theres a greater glare in the street to-night,
And a louder rush and roar,
Theres a mad crowd yelling the winners name,
And howling the cricket score:
Oh! The bright moonlight on the angels white,
And the tombs and the monuments grand,
And down by the water at Waverley
Theres a little lone mound of sand.)

Oh, the drinkers would deem them drunk or mad,
And the barmaid stare and frown,
Each lays a hand on the empt...

Henry Lawson

A Voice From The City

On western plain and eastern hill
Where once my fancy ranged,
The station hands are riding still
And they are little changed.
But I have lost in London gloom
The glory of the day,
The grand perfume of wattle bloom
Is faint and far away.
Brown faces under broad-brimmed hats
The grip of wiry hands,
The gallops on the frosty flats,
Seem dreams of other lands;
The camp fire and the stars that blaze
Above the mystic plain
Are but the thoughts of vanished days
That never come again.

The evening star I seldom view,
That led me on to roam,
I never see the morning star
That used to draw me home.
But I have often longed for day
To hide the few I see,
Because they only point and say
Most bitter things to me.

I wear my l...

Henry Lawson

Victor

And his death came in December,
When our summer was aglow,
Like a song that we remember,
Like a childs dream long ago,
And it brought Australia to him,
Her sweetest singer dead,
While in silence friends who knew him
Bowed their heads beside his bed.

Angel Death comes softly stealing
When the watchers eyes are dim,
And, when all has failed in healing
Wounded heart or helpless limb,
With a whisper we may hear not
Till with Adsum we respond,
And a vision we shall fear not
Of the Peaceful Land beyond.

While Australians in their blindness
Fail to realize their loss,
Place the wreath of loving kindness
And raise the simple cross.
For he taught us to be brothers
And he taught us to be brave,
And well banish pride and en...

Henry Lawson

Watching The Crows

A bushman got lost in a scrub in the North,
And all the long morning the searchers went forth.
They swore at the rain that had washed out the tracks
And left not a trace for the eyes of the blacks;
But, trusting the signs that the blackfellow knows,
A quiet old darkey stood watching the crows.

The solemn old blackman stood silently by;
He stood like a statue, his face to the sky.
Black Billy was out of the bearings, we thought,
If he looked above for the bushman we sought;
For we rather suspected the spirit would go
In, well, quite another direction, you know.

Most bushmen on solemn occasions will joke,
And unto Black Bill twas the super who spoke.
He asked, as he cocked his red nose in the air,
You think it old Harrison sit down up there?
Im ...

Henry Lawson

Sacred To The Memory Of Unknown

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Sacred To The Memory Of Unknown