Henry Lawson
The Star of Australasia
We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a nation’s slime; Better a shred of a deep-dyed rag from the storms of the olden time. From grander clouds in our ‘peaceful
Corny Bill
His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth, His hat pushed from his brow, His dress best fitted for the South I think I see him now; And when the city streets are still,
Victory
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 Drover's Sweetheart
An hour before the sun goes down Behind the ragged boughs, I go across the little run And bring the dusty cows; And once I used to sit and rest Beneath the fading dome,
When the Children Come Home
On a lonely selection far out in the West An old woman works all the day without rest, And she croons, as she toils ‘neath the sky’s glassy dome, ‘Sure I’ll keep the ould
The Cambaroora Star
So you’re writing for a paper? Well, it’s nothing very new To be writing yards of drivel for a tidy little screw; You are young and educated, and a clever chap you are, But
Mount Bukaroo
Only one old post is standing Solid yet, but only one Where the milking, and the branding, And the slaughtering were done. Later years have brought dejection, Care, and sorrow; but we knew Happy
For'ard'
It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep, For there’s near a hundred for’ard, and they’re stowed away like sheep, They are trav’lers for the most part in a straight ‘n’ honest
The Shanty On The Rise
When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West, On a spur among the mountains stood ‘The Bullock-drivers’ Rest’; It was built of bark and saplings, and was rather rough inside, But
On The Night Train
Have you seen the bush by moonlight, from the train, go running by? Blackened log and stump and sapling, ghostly trees all dead and dry; Here a patch of glassy water; there a glimpse
Dan, The Wreck
Tall, and stout, and solid-looking, Yet a wreck; None would think Death’s finger’s hooking Him from deck. Cause of half the fun that’s started ‘Hard-case’ Dan Isn’t like a broken-hearted, Ruined man. Walking-coat from
The Ballad Of The Drover
Across the stony ridges, Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover, Comes riding home again. And well his stock-horse bears him, And light of heart is he, And stoutly his old pack-horse
The Shearers Dream
O I dreamt I shore in a shearing shed and it was a dream of joy For every one of the rouseabouts was a girl dressed up as a boy Dressed up like a
Queen Hilda of Virland
PART I Queen Hilda rode along the lines, And she was young and fair; And forward on her shoulders fell The heavy braids of hair: No gold was ever dug from earth Like that
Trooper Campbell
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