Whos Dot Pulleteen?

O my prow vas plack mit curses,
Ven I dries to write dose verses;
Ven I dries to write dot boem,
Dot de best was effer been.
All in vain my peer I guzzles,
But I gannod solve dot broblem,
Whos dot Western Pulleteen?

Und I swear mit pleets and dvonder,
Und I ferry often wonder,
Would dot pabers cirgulation
Shusta little pigger been,
If dey toog deir seissor-pinchers,
Shust to cut some leetle inches
From that smarty-smarty writer
Of dot Western Pulleeteen.

Let dose mountains fall and hide us
Gry benighded odersiders,
Shame come round and woe betide us,
Und our fellow men deride us
If we effer yet can find oud
Whos dot Western Pull-it-in?

HENRICH HERTZBERG LAWSON

I remain, Yours etc.,
JOE SWALLOW

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 King And Queen And I

Henry Lawson, Simple Poetry

Out On The Roofs Of Hell

Henry Lawson, Simple Poetry

To Jim

Henry Lawson, Simple Poetry

The Shearing Shed

Henry Lawson, Simple Poetry

English

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Will Yer Write It Down For Me?

In the parlour of the shanty where the lives have all gone wrong,
When a singer or reciter gives a story or a song,
Where the poets heart is speaking to their hearts in every line,
Till the hardest curse and blubber at the thoughts of Auld Lang Syne;
Then a boozer lurches forward with an oath for all disguise,
Prayers and curses in his soul, and tears and liquor in his eyes,
Grasps the singer or reciter with a death-grip by the hand:
Thats the truth, bloke! Sling it at em! Oh! Gorblime, that was grand!
Dont mind me; Ive got em. You know! Whats yer name, bloke! Dont yer see?
Whos the bloke what wrote the potry? Will yer write it down fer me?
And the backblocks bard goes through it, ever seeking as he goes
For the line of least resistance to the hearts of men he knows;

Henry Lawson

An Interlude Of Peace - The Fairy West

I.

We wrote and sang of a bush we never
Had known in youth in the Western land;
Of the dear old homes by the shining river,
The deep, clear creeks and the hills so grand.
The grass waved high on the flat and siding,
The wild flowers bloomed on the banks so fair,
And younger sons from the North came riding
To vine-clad homes in the gardens there.
We wrote and sang, and the Lord knows best,
Oh, those dear old songs of the fairy West!

We dreamed and sang of the bustling mother;
The brick-floored kitchen we saw so clear,
The pranks and jokes of the youngest brother,
The evening songs of our sisters dear.
The old man dozed in the chimney corner,
Or smoked and blinked at the cheerful blaze,
Or yarned with a crony, old Jack Horner,
Whod known...

Henry Lawson

The Old, Old Story And The New Order

They proved we could not think nor see,
They proved we could not write,
They proved we drank the day away
And raved through half the night.
They proved our stars were never up,
Theyve proved our stars are set,
Theyve proved we neer saw sorrows cup,
And theyre not happy yet.

They proved that in the Southern Land
We all led vicious lives;
Theyve proved we starved our children, and,
Theyve proved we beat our wives.
Theyve proved we never worked, and we
Were never out of debt;
Theyve proved us bad as we can be
And theyre not happy yet.

The Daily Press, with paltry power,
For reasons understood,
Have aye sought to belittle our
Unhappy brotherhood.
Because we fought in days like these,
Where rule the upper tens,
Be...

Henry Lawson

The Old, Old Story And The New Order

They proved we could not think nor see,
They proved we could not write,
They proved we drank the day away
And raved through half the night.
They proved our stars were never up,
Theyve proved our stars are set,
Theyve proved we neer saw sorrows cup,
And theyre not happy yet.

They proved that in the Southern Land
We all led vicious lives;
Theyve proved we starved our children, and,
Theyve proved we beat our wives.
Theyve proved we never worked, and we
Were never out of debt;
Theyve proved us bad as we can be
And theyre not happy yet.

The Daily Press, with paltry power,
For reasons understood,
Have aye sought to belittle our
Unhappy brotherhood.
Because we fought in days like these,
Where rule the upper tens,
Be...

Henry Lawson

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...

Henry Lawson

Write By Return

Clerk, corresponding,
Rooster and Comb,
Here I sit idle
Thinking of home;
I must be grafting,
Living to earn,
More correspondence,
Write by return.

Clerk in employ of
Shoddy and Woods,
Thinks that we have not
Forwarded goods.
Parcel we sent them,
Missing, I learn,
Says in his postscript:
Write by return.

Here is another
Letter from Bland,
Cheque he expected
Isnt to hand.
How we forgot it
Cannot discern,
Forward remittance,
Write by return.

Here is another,
O how they come?
Treats of a Bender
Planned by a chum.
See on the margin,
Big letters: Burn
After perusal,
Write by return.

Mail in from England,
Letters for me,
Dear little sw...

Henry Lawson

Whos Dot Pulleteen?

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Whos Dot Pulleteen?