Waratah and Wattle
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,
Wide Spaces
When the man I was denounces all the things that I was not, When the true souls stand like granite, while the souls of liars not – When the quids I gave are counted,
The Grog-an'Grumble Steeplechase
‘Twixt the coastline and the border lay the town of Grog-an’-Grumble In the days before the bushman was a dull ‘n’ heartless drudge, An’ they say the local meeting was a drunken rough-and-tumble, Which
Peter Anderson And Co
He had offices in Sydney, not so many years ago, And his shingle bore the legend ‘Peter Anderson and Co.’, But his real name was Careless, as the fellows understood And his relatives decided
The Iron Wedding Rings
In these days of peace and money, free to all the Commonweal, There are ancient dames in Buckland wearing wedding rings of steel; Wedding rings of steel and iron, worn on wrinkled hands and
To Be Amused
You ask me to be gay and glad While lurid clouds of danger loom, And vain and bad and gambling mad, Australia races to her doom. You bid me sing the light and fair,
At The Beating Of A Drum
Fear ye not the stormy future, for the Battle Hymn is strong, And the armies of Australia shall not march without a song; The glorious words and music of Australia’s song shall come When
Uncle Harry
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
The Christ of the 'Never'
With eyes that are narrowed to pierce To the awful horizons of land, Through the blaze of hot days, and the fierce White heat-waves that flow on the sand; Through the Never Land westward
The Fire At Ross's Farm
The squatter saw his pastures wide Decrease, as one by one The farmers moving to the west Selected on his run; Selectors took the water up And all the black soil round; The best
Past Carin'
Now up and down the siding brown The great black crows are flyin’, And down below the spur, I know, Another ‘milker’s’ dyin’; The crops have withered from the ground, The tank’s clay bed
The Cockney Soul
From Woolwich and Brentford and Stamford Hill, from Richmond into the Strand, Oh, the Cockney soul is a silent soul — as it is in every land! But out on the sand with a
The Professional Wanderer
When you’ve knocked about the country-been away from home for years; When the past, by distance softened, nearly fills your eyes with tears – You are haunted oft, wherever or however you may roam,
The Sliprails And The Spur
The colours of the setting sun Withdrew across the Western land- He raised the sliprails, one by one, And shot them home with trembling hand; Her brown hands clung-her face grew pale- Ah! quivering
Australian Engineers
Ah, well! but the case seems hopeless, and the pen might write in vain; The people gabble of old things over and over again. For the sake of the sleek importer we slave with