Henry Lawson

These are songs of the Friends I neglected,
And the Foes, too, in part;
These are songs that were mostly rejected,
But songs from my heart.

Yours truly,
Henry Lawson.

Sydney, 19/9/1910

There has been many a grander deed since man had life to give,
And thousands have gone to certain death, eyes open, that men might live;
And many have gone for their country’s sake, when their numbers were all too few,
And bravely died that their mates may die, to show what a man can do.

Now this is the song of La Bella wreck at the harbour of Warnambool,
And this is the song of a brave, brave man of the grand old simple school:
We all know the forces of circumstance, and we blame not the lifeboat crew,
But this is the song of a fisherman who showed what a man can do.

With a single scull in his strong young hands, and his brave young eyes aglow,
He shot his skill o’er the raging hell, where the lifeboat dared not go!
It was twice and thrice that he went again, and the lives the...

Farewell! The gold we send shall be a token
Of that which in our hearts is growing strong;
You asked our sympathy, and we have spoken,
“They wrong us who our brothers rob and wrong.”

Tell Ireland, tell her in her desolation,
That hearts within the South for her have bled,
That scalding tears of helpless indignation
By eyes that read her cruel wrongs are shed.

Helpless no more! but strong to act hereafter,
For silenced arc the “loyal subjects’” sneers,
Too long have Ireland’s wrongs been words of laughter,
Arch-mockery to tickle British ears.

Tell Ireland that they lie of us, they slander,
Who say we care not for another’s wrong;
For we are not the men to kneel and pander
To tyranny, because the tyrant’s strong.

Take back across the wave...

O had you tracked where Kendall trod
I think you would be kneelin’
Three times a week and thankin’ God
That you are of New Zealan’!
For this I’ll say, to make it short,
An’ keep my tongue from clacken,
The people are a kinder sort
You’re singin’ for, Tom Bracken

I thought that silence would be best,
But I a call have heard,
And, Victor, after all the rest,
I well might say a word:
The day and work is nearly done,
And ours the victory,
And we are resting, one by one,
In graveyards by the sea.

But then you talked of other nights,
When, gay from dusk to dawn,
You wasted hours with other lights
That went where you have gone.
You spoke not of the fair and “fast”,
But of the pure and true,
“Sweet ugly women of the past”
Who stood so well by you.

You made a jest on that last night,
I met it with a laugh:
You wondered which of us should write
The other’s epitaph.
We filled the glasses to the brim,
“The land’s own wine” you know,
And solemnly we drank to him
Who should be first to...

Though doctors may your name discard
And say you physicked vilely,
I would I were as good a bard
As you a doctor, Wylie!

How often, when your skill subdued
The fever ranging highly,
You won a bushman’s gratitude,
Though little more, Doc Wylie!

How oft across the regions wide
Where scrub for many a mile lay
The bushman rode, as bushmen ride,
To seek your aid, Doc Wylie!

But now, when bushman’s wife or child
Lies ill and suffering direly,
He’ll need to ride a weary while
Before he finds Doc Wylie.

I hope where they have made your bed,
And where these verses I lay,
They’ll raise a board above your head,
And write your name, Doc Wylie!

When you’re suffering hard for your sins, old man,
When you wake to trouble and sleep ill,
Oh, this is the clack of the middle class,
‘Win back the respect of the people!’
You are weak, you’re a fool, or a drunken brute
When you’re deep in trouble and sorrow;
But walk down the street in a decent suit,
And their hats will be off to-morrow! Old Chap,
And their hats will be off to-morrow!

They cant and they cackle, ‘Redeem the Past!’
Who never had past worth redeeming:
Your soul seems dead, but you’ll find at last
That somewhere your soul lay dreaming.
You may stagger down-hill in a beer-stained coat,
You may loaf, you may cadge and borrow,
But walk down the street with a ten-pound note
And their hats will be off to-morrow! Old Man,
Yes, their hats wil...

One day old Trooper Campbell
Rode out to Blackman's Run,
His cap-peak and his sabre
Were glancing in the sun.
'Twas New Year's Eve, and slowly
Across the ridges low
The sad Old Year was drifting
To where the old years go.

The trooper's mind was reading
The love-page of his life,
His love for Mary Wylie
Ere she was Blackman's wife;
He sorrowed for the sorrows
Of the heart a rival won,
For he knew that there was trouble
Out there on Blackman's Run.

The sapling shades had lengthened,
The summer day was late,
When Blackman met the trooper
Beyond the homestead gate.
And if the hand of trouble
Can leave a lasting trace,
The lines of care had come to stay
On poor old Blackman's face.

`Not good day, Trooper Cam...

You lazy boy, you’re here at last,
You must be wooden-legged;
Now, are you sure the gate is fast
And all the sliprails pegged
And all the milkers at the yard,
The calves all in the pen?
We don’t want Poley’s calf to suck
His mother dry again.

And did you mend the broken rail
And make it firm and neat?
I s’pose you want that brindle steer
All night among the wheat.
And if he finds the lucerne patch,
He’ll stuff his belly full;
He’ll eat till he gets ‘blown’ on that
And busts like Ryan’s bull.

Old Spot is lost? You’ll drive me mad,
You will, upon my soul!
She might be in the boggy swamps
Or down a digger’s hole.
You needn’t talk, you never looked
You’d find her if you’d choose,
Instead of poking ’possum logs
And hun...

Oh, never let on to your own true love
That ever you drank a drop;
That ever you played in a two-up school
Or slept in a sly-grog shop;
That ever a bad girl nursed you round,
That ever you sank so low.
But she pulled you through, and it's only you
And your old mate Harry know.

"Billy the Link" they called you then,
And it makes me sad to think
Of the strenuous days when it took three cops
And a pimp to couple the Link.
"Mister Linkhurst" they call you now,
And your kitchen garden grows;
And no one knows in your family,
But your Uncle Harry knows.

Oh, never let on to your fair young bride
How a "straight" girl stabbed your heart
With a devilish wire to the Western side
Where we were a world apart.
With pick and shovel you fought ...

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...

I am back from up the country, very sorry that I went,
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent;
I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track,
Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back.
Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast,
But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast.
Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town,
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.

`Sunny plains'! Great Scott!, those burning wastes of barren soil and sand
With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land!
Desolation where the crow is! Desert where the eagle flies,
Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes;
Where, in clouds of dust enve...

And his death came in December,
When our summer was aglow,
Like a song that we remember,
Like a child’s 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 we’ll banish pride and en...

The schools marched in procession in happiness and pride,
The city bands before them, the soldiers marched beside;
Oh, starched white frocks and sashes and suits that high schools wear,
The boy scout and the boy lout and all the rest were there,
And all flags save Australia's flag waved high in sun and air!

The Girls' High School, and Grammar School and colleges of stone
Flew all flags from their walls and towers, all flags except our own!
And down here in the alleys where Premiers never come,
Nor candidate, nor delegate, nor sound of fife and drum,
They packed them on the lorries, seared children of the slum.

Each face seemed soiled and faded, though scrubbed with household soap,
And older than a mother-face, but with less sign of hope:
The knowledge of things evil, ...

Though poor and in trouble I wander alone,
With rebel cockade in my hat,
Though friends may desert me, and kindred disown,
My country will never do that!
You may sing of the Shamrock, the Thistle, the rose,
Or the three in a bunch, if you will;
But I know of a country that gathered all those,
And I love the great land where the Waratah grows.
And the Wattle-bough blooms on the hill.

Australia! Australia! so fair to behold-
While the blue sky is arching above;
The stranger should never have need to be told,
That the Wattle-bloom means that her heart is of gold.
And the Waratah's red with her love.

Australia! Australia! most beautiful name,
Most kindly and bountiful land;
I would die every death that might save her from shame,
If a black cloud s...

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?”
“I’m ...

What have we all forgotten, at the break of the seventh year?
With a nation born to the ages and a Bad Time borne on its bier!
Public robbing, and lying that death cannot erase,
“Private” strife and deception, Cover the bad dead face!
Drinking, gambling and madness, Cover and bear it away,
But what have we all forgotten at the dawn of the seventh day?

These are the years of plenty, years when the “tanks” are full,
Stacked by the lonely sidings mountains of wheat and wool.
Country crowds to the city, healthy, shaven and dressed,
Clothes to wear with the gayest, money to spend with the best.
Grand are the lights of the cities, carnival kings in power,
But what have we all forgotten, in this, the eleventh hour?

“We” have brought the states together, a land to the lands n...

When hopes ran high the world was young,
We thought that we would never die,
And glorious were the songs we sung
In those grand days when hopes ran high.

When hopes ran high the world was true
We thought that friends could never lie,
There have been bitter truths for you
And me, since days when hopes ran high.