Henry Lawson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sons of Australia, be loyal and true to her – Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross! Sing a loud song to be joyous and new to her – Fling out the flag

Ten miles down Reedy River A pool of water lies, And all the year it mirrors The changes in the skies, And in that pool’s broad bosom Is room for all the stars; Its

The Eagle screams at the beck of trade, so Spain, as the world goes round, Must wrestle the right to live or die from the sons of the land she found; For, as in

When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star, Hide the picture on the signboard over Doughty’s Horse Bazaar; When the last rose-tint is fading on the distant mulga scrub,

I’ll tell you what you wanderers, who drift from town to town; Don’t look into a good girl’s eyes, until you’ve settled down. It’s hard to go away alone and leave old chums behind

As the night was falling slowly down on city, town and bush, From a slum in Jones’s Alley sloped the Captain of the Push; And he scowled towards the North, and he scowled towards

So the time seems come at last, And the drums go rolling past, And above them in the sunlight Labour’s banners float and flow; They are marching with the sun, But I look in

The creek went down with a broken song, ‘Neath the sheoaks high; The waters carried the song along, And the oaks a sigh. The song and the sigh went winding by, Went winding down;

It was a week from Christmas-time, As near as I remember, And half a year since, in the rear, We’d left the Darling timber. The track was hot and more than drear; The day

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

By Lawson’s Hill, near Mudgee, On old Eurunderee – The place they called “New Pipeclay”, Where the diggers used to be – On a dreary old selection, Where times were dry and thin, In

The future was dark and the past was dead As they gazed on the sea once more – But a nation was born when the immigrants said “Good-bye!” as they stepped ashore! In their

Old Mate! In the gusty old weather, When our hopes and our troubles were new, In the years spent in wearing out leather, I found you unselfish and true I have gathered these verses

A day of seeming innocence, A glorious sun and sky, And, just above my picket fence, Black Bonnet passing by. In knitted gloves and quaint old dress, Without a spot or smirch, Her worn

“Was I at Eureka?” His figure was drawn to a youthful height, And a flood of proud recollections made the fire in his grey eyes bright; With pleasure they lighted and glisten’d, tho’ the

We’re marching along, we’re gath’ring strong’ We place on our right reliance, We fling in the air, for all who care, Our first loud notes of defiance! We fling in the air, For all

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

Australia’s a big country An’ Freedom’s humping bluey, An’ Freedom’s on the wallaby Oh! don’t you hear ‘er cooey? She’s just begun to boomerang, She’ll knock the tyrants silly, She’s goin’ to light another

Fire lighted; on the table a meal for sleepy men; A lantern in the stable; a jingle now and then; The mail-coach looming darkly by light on moon and star; The growl of sleepy

There’s many a schoolboy’s bat and ball that are gathering dust at home, For he hears a voice in the future call, and he trains for the war to come; A serious light in

Out West, where the stars are brightest, Where the scorching north wind blows, And the bones of the dead gleam whitest, And the sun on a desert glows Yet within the selfish kingdom Where

When I was up the country in the rough and early days, I used to work along ov Jimmy Nowlett’s bullick-drays; Then the reelroad wasn’t heered on, an’ the bush was wild an’ strange,

When you wear a cloudy collar and a shirt that isn’t white, And you cannot sleep for thinking how you’ll reach to-morrow night, You may be a man of sorrows, and on speaking terms

Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began, And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man; Jack Denver’s wife bowed down her head her daughter’s grief was wild, And

The short hour’s halt is ended, The red gone from the west, The broken wheel is mended, And the dead men laid to rest. Three days have we retreated The brave old Curse-and-Grin –

There are scenes in the distance where beauty is not, On the desolate flats where gaunt appletrees rot. Where the brooding old ridge rises up to the breeze From his dark lonely gullies of

The Channel fog has lifted – And see where we have come! Round all the world we’ve drifted, A hundred years from “home”. The fields our parents longed for – Ah! we shall ne’er

The skies are brass and the plains are bare, Death and ruin are everywhere And all that is left of the last year’s flood Is a sickly stream on the grey-black mud; The salt-springs

When the heavy sand is yielding backward from your blistered feet, And across the distant timber you can SEE the flowing heat; When your head is hot and aching, and the shadeless plain is

Above the ashes straight and tall, Through ferns with moisture dripping, I climb beneath the sandstone wall, My feet on mosses slipping. Like ramparts round the valley’s edge The tinted cliffs are standing, With

Wide lies Australia! The seas that surround her Flow for her unity – all states in one. Never has Custom nor Tyranny bound her – Never was conquest so peacefully won. Fair lies Australia!

Now, with the wars of the world begun, they’ll listen to you and me, Now while the frightened nations run to the arms of democracy, Now, when our blathering fools are scared, and the

Light on the towns and cities, and peace for evermore! The Big Five met in the world’s light as many had met before, And the future of man is settled and there shall be

Now the tent poles are rotting, the camp fires are dead, And the possums may gambol in trees overhead; I am humping my bluey far out on the land, And the prints of my

They were hanging men in Buckland who would not cheer King George – The parson from his pulpit and the blacksmith from his forge; They were hanging men and brothers, and the stoutest heart

He’d been for years in Sydney “a-acting of the goat”, His name was Joseph Swallow, “the Great Australian Pote”, In spite of all the stories and sketches that he wrote. And so his friends

Man, is the Sea your master? Sea, and is man your slave? – This is the song of brave men who never know they are brave: Ceaselessly watching to save you, stranger from foreign

The boy cleared out to the city from his home at harvest time They were Scots of the Riverina, and to run from home was a crime. The old man burned his letters, the

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought, The cheque was spent that the shearer earned, And the sheds were all cut out; The publican’s words were short

It was built of bark and poles, and the floor was full of holes Where each leak in rainy weather made a pool; And the walls were mostly cracks lined with calico and sacks

The centuries found me to nations unknown – My people have crowned me and made me a throne; My royal regalia is love, truth, and light – A girl called Australia – I’ve come

We hear a great commotion ‘Bout the ship that comes to grief, That founders in mid-ocean, Or is driven on a reef; Because it’s cheap and brittle A score of sinners drown. But we