The Free-Selector's Daughter
I met her on the Lachlan Side A darling girl I thought her, And ere I left I swore I’d win The free-selector’s daughter. I milked her father’s cows a month, I brought the
Republican Pioneers
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
The Wattle
I saw it in the days gone by, When the dead girl lay at rest, And the wattle and the native rose We placed upon her breast. I saw it in the long ago
Borderland
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
Said Grenfell to my Spirit
Said Grenfell to my spirit, “You’ve been writing very free Of the charms of other places, and you don’t remember me. You have claimed another native place and think it’s Nature’s law, Since you
Freedom on the Wallaby
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
Every Man Should have a Rifle
So I sit and write and ponder, while the house is deaf and dumb, Seeing visions “over yonder” of the war I know must come. In the corner – not a vision – but
The Lights of Cobb & Co
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
Faces In The Street
They lie, the men who tell us for reasons of their own That want is here a stranger, and that misery’s unknown; For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet My window-sill
Here Died
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
Cherry – Tree Inn
The rafters are open to sun, moon, and star, Thistles and nettles grow high in the bar The chimneys are crumbling, the log fires are dead, And green mosses spring from the hearthstone instead.
The Great Grey Plain
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
To Hannah
Spirit girl to whom ’twas given To revisit scenes of pain, From the hell I thought was Heaven You have lifted me again; Through the world that I inherit, Where I loved her ere
The Song Of Old Joe Swallow
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,
The Old Jimmy Woodser
The old Jimmy Woodser comes into the bar Unwelcomed, unnoticed, unknown, Too old and too odd to be drunk with, by far; So he glides to the end where the lunch baskets are And