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 watching the crows. Where the white man lies dead
The crows will fly over, the blackfellow said.

The blackfellow died, and long years have gone round
Since the day when old Harrisons body was found;
But still do I see, in my vision at night,
A faint figure come like a shadow in sight,
And nearer and nearer it comes till it grows
Like the form of that blackfellow, watching the crows.

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 Drover's Sweetheart

Henry Lawson, Simple Poetry

Bonnie New South Wales

Henry Lawson, Simple Poetry

The Briny Grave

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

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 ...

Henry Lawson

The Bush Beyond The Range

From Crows Nest here by Sydney town
Where crows had nests of old
I see the Range where day goes down,
The dim blue in the gold.
And sometimes wonder, half in doubt,
Has there been so much change
As pictured in the prints about
The Bush beyond the Range.

Theres motor car and all the frills
But none of my old mates,
The Bush seems run by Bufflo Bills
And Hayseeds from the States.
I miss the homesteads and the scrub,
The stock and fences too,
The horse and swagmen and the pub.
That Minns and Mahoney drew.

I miss the drivers, diggers, sheep,
And, lots of things, Ah, well!
I wonder if the Kellys keep
The Carriers Camp Hotel,
If that still stands by hill and plain
As old man Kellys pride,
Or if he did pull round again...

Henry Lawson

He Mourned His Master

INTRODUCTION

The theme is ancient as the hills,
With all their prehistoric glory;
But yet of Corney and his friend,
Weve often longed to tell the story;
And should we jar the readers ear,
Or fail to please his eye observant,
We only trust that hell forgive
The bush muse and, your humble servant.



THE STORY

Old Corney built in Deadmans Gap
A hut, where mountain shades grow denser,
And there he lived for many years,
A timber-getter and a fencer.
And no one knew if hed a soul
Above long sprees, or split-rail fences,
Unless, indeed, it was his friend,
Who always kept his confidences.

There was a saw-pit in the range;
Twas owned by three, and they were brothers,
And visitors to Corneys hut,
Twas se...

Henry Lawson

Skeleton Flat

Here's never a bough to be tossed in the breeze,
For its long since the forest was green;
And round all the trunks of the naked white trees
The marks of the death-ring are seen.
The solemn-faced bear, who had looked on the blacks
From his home with the possum and cat,
Blinked anxiously down when the death-dealing axe
Was ring-barking Skeleton Flat.

And, strange to be seen in the evergreen south,
The gums for ten summers have stood,
And dried in the terrible furnace of drouth,
Till harder than flint is the wood.
Now tall grows the grass at the roots of the trees,
But a beautiful forest it cost;
And the heart of the splitter is sad when he sees
And thinks of the timber thats lost.

Here flies, through a sky that is glazed, the black crow,
And ...

Henry Lawson

Marshall's Mate

You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves turn,
You could have watched the grass scorch brown had there been grass to burn.
In such a drought the strongest heart might well grow faint and weak,
'Twould frighten Satan to his home, not far from Dingo Creek.

The tanks went dry on Ninety Mile, as tanks go dry out back,
The Half-Way Spring had failed at last when Marshall missed the track;
Beneath a dead tree on the plain we saw a pack-horse reel,
Too blind to see there was no shade, and too done-up to feel.
And charcoaled on the canvas bag (`twas written pretty clear)
We read the message Marshall wrote. It said: `I'm taken queer,
I'm somewhere off of Deadman's Track, half-blind and nearly dead;
Find Crowbar, get him sobered up, and follow back,' it said.

`...

Henry Lawson