IN THE DAYS WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND OTHER VERSES

(2 ed.)

by Henry Lawson

    First Edition printed February 1896,

    Reprinted August 1896, October 1896, March 1898, and November 1898;

    Revised Edition, January 1900;

    Reprinted May 1903, February 1910, June 1912, and July 1913.

PREFACE

Most of the verses contained in this volume were first published in the Sydney 'Bulletin'; others in the Brisbane 'Boomerang', Sydney 'Freeman's Journal', 'Town and Country Journal', 'Worker', and 'New Zealand Mail', whose editors and proprietors I desire to thank for past kindnesses and for present courtesy in granting me the right of reproduction in book form.

'In the Days When the World was Wide' was written in Maoriland and some of the other verses in Victoria, Queensland and Western Australia.

The dates of original publication are given in the Table of Contents. Those undated are now printed for the first time.

HENRY LAWSON.

To J. F. Archibald

To an Old Mate

     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 together
     For the sake of our friendship and you.

     You may think for awhile, and with reason,
     Though still with a kindly regret,
     That I've left it full late in the season
     To prove I remember you yet;
     But you'll never judge me by their treason
     Who profit by friends — and forget.

     I remember, Old Man, I remember —
     The tracks that we followed are clear —
     The jovial last nights of December,
     The solemn first days of the year,
     Long tramps through the clearings and timber,
     Short partings on platform and pier.

     I can still feel the spirit that bore us,
     And often the old stars will shine —
     I remember the last spree in chorus
     For the sake of that other Lang Syne,
     When the tracks lay divided before us,
     Your path through the future and mine.

     Through the frost-wind that cut like whip-lashes,
     Through the ever-blind haze of the drought —
     And in fancy at times by the flashes
     Of light in the darkness of doubt —
     I have followed the tent poles and ashes
     Of camps that we moved further out.

     You will find in these pages a trace of
     That side of our past which was bright,
     And recognise sometimes the face of
     A friend who has dropped out of sight —
     I send them along in the place of
     The letters I promised to write.

CONTENTS WITH FIRST LINES

 To an Old Mate
    Old Mate!  In the gusty old weather,

 In the Days When the World was Wide
    The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow,
 [Dec. — 1894]

 Faces in the Street
    They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone
 [July — 1888]

 The Roaring Days
    The night too quickly passes
 [Dec. — 1889]

 'For'ard'
    It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep,
 [Dec. — 1893]

 The Drover's Sweetheart
    An hour before the sun goes down
 [June — 1891]

 Out Back
    The old year went, and the new returned,
      in the withering weeks of drought,
 [Sept. — 1893]

 The Free-Selector's Daughter
    I met her on the Lachlan Side —
 [May — 1891]

 'Sez You'
    When the heavy sand is yielding backward from your blistered feet,
 [Mar. — 1894]

 Andy's Gone With Cattle
    Our Andy's gone to battle now
 [Oct. — 1888]

 Jack Dunn of Nevertire
    It chanced upon the very day we'd got the shearing done,
 [Aug. — 1892]

 Trooper Campbell
    One day old Trooper Campbell
 [Apr. — 1891]

 The Sliprails and the Spur
    The colours of the setting sun
 [July — 1899]

 Past Carin'
    Now up and down the siding brown
 [Aug. — 1899]

 The Glass on the Bar
    Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn,
 [Apr. — 1890]

 The Shanty on the Rise
    When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West,
 [Dec. — 1891]

 The Vagabond
    White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier
 [Aug. — 1895]

 Sweeney
    It was somewhere in September, and the sun was going down,
 [Dec. — 1893]

 Middleton's Rouseabout
    Tall and freckled and sandy,
 [Mar. — 1890]

 The Ballad of the Drover
    Across the stony ridges,
 [Mar. — 1889]

 Taking His Chance
    They stood by the door of the Inn on the Rise;
 [June — 1892]

 When the 'Army' Prays for Watty
    When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star,
 [May — 1893]

 The Wreck of the 'Derry Castle'
    Day of ending for beginnings!
 [Dec. — 1887]

 Ben Duggan
    Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began,
 [Dec. — 1891]

 The Star of Australasia
    We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a nation's slime;

 The Great Grey Plain
    Out West, where the stars are brightest,
 [Sept. — 1893]

 The Song of Old Joe Swallow
    When I was up the country in the rough and early days,
 [May — 1890]

 Corny Bill
    His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth,
 [May — 1892]

 Cherry-Tree Inn
    The rafters are open to sun, moon, and star,

 Up the Country
    I am back from up the country — very sorry that I went —
 [July — 1892]

 Knocked Up
    I'm lyin' on the barren ground that's baked and cracked with drought,
 [Aug. — 1893]

 The Blue Mountains
    Above the ashes straight and tall,
 [Dec. — 1888]

 The City Bushman
    It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went,
 [Aug. — 1892]

 Eurunderee
    There are scenes in the distance where beauty is not,
 [Aug. — 1891]

 Mount Bukaroo
    Only one old post is standing —
 [Dec. — 1889]

 The Fire at Ross's Farm
    The squatter saw his pastures wide
 [Apr. — 1891]

 The Teams
    A cloud of dust on the long white road,
 [Dec. — 1889]

 Cameron's Heart
    The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came,
 [July — 1891]

 The Shame of Going Back
    When you've come to make a fortune and you haven't made your salt,
 [Oct. — 1891]

 Since Then
    I met Jack Ellis in town to-day —
 [Nov. — 1895]

 Peter Anderson and Co.
    He had offices in Sydney, not so many years ago,
 [Aug. — 1895]

 When the Children Come Home
    On a lonely selection far out in the West
 [Dec. — 1890]

 Dan, the Wreck
    Tall, and stout, and solid-looking,

 A Prouder Man Than You
    If you fancy that your people came of better stock than mine,
 [June — 1892]

 The Song and the Sigh
    The creek went down with a broken song,
 [Mar. — 1889]

 The Cambaroora Star
    So you're writing for a paper?  Well, it's nothing very new
 [Dec. — 1891]

 After All
    The brooding ghosts of Australian night
      have gone from the bush and town;

 Marshall's Mate
    You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves turn —
 [July — 1895]

 The Poets of the Tomb
    The world has had enough of bards who wish that they were dead,
 [Oct. — 1892]

 Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers
    While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse
 [Feb. — 1894]

 The Ghost
    Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide,
 [Aug. — 1889]

IN THE DAYS WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND OTHER VERSES

In the Days When the World was Wide

 The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow,
 For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go;
 Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side —
 And tired of all is the spirit that sings
   of the days when the world was wide.

 When the North was hale in the march of Time,
   and the South and the West were new,
 And the gorgeous East was a pantomime, as it seemed in our boyhood's view;
 When Spain was first on the waves of change,
   and proud in the ranks of pride,
 And all was wonderful, new and strange in the days when the world was wide.

 Then a man could fight if his heart were bold,
   and win if his faith were true —
 Were it love, or honour, or power, or gold, or all that our hearts pursue;
 Could live to the world for the family name, or die for the family pride,
 Could fly from sorrow, and wrong, and shame
   in the days when the world was wide.

 They sailed away in the ships that sailed ere science controlled the main,
 When the strong, brave heart of a man prevailed
   as 'twill never prevail again;
 They knew not whither, nor much they cared —
   let Fate or the winds decide —
 The worst of the Great Unknown they dared
   in the days when the world was wide.

 They raised new stars on the silent sea that filled their hearts with awe;
 They came to many a strange countree and marvellous sights they saw.
 The villagers gaped at the tales they told,
   and old eyes glistened with pride —
 When barbarous cities were paved with gold
   in the days when the world was wide.

 'Twas honest metal and honest wood, in the days of the Outward Bound,
 When men were gallant and ships were good — roaming the wide world round.
 The gods could envy a leader then when 'Follow me, lads!' he cried —
 They faced each other and fought like men
   in the days when the world was wide.

 They tried to live as a freeman should — they were happier men than we,
 In the glorious days of wine and blood, when Liberty crossed the sea;
 'Twas a comrade true or a foeman then, and a trusty sword well tried —
 They faced each other and fought like men
   in the days when the world was wide.

 The good ship bound for the Southern seas when the beacon was Ballarat,
 With a 'Ship ahoy!' on the freshening breeze,
   'Where bound?' and 'What ship's that?' —
 The emigrant train to New Mexico — the rush to the Lachlan Side —
 Ah! faint is the echo of Westward Ho!
   from the days when the world was wide.

 South, East, and West in advance of Time — and, ay! in advance of Thought
 Those brave men rose to a height sublime — and is it for this they fought?
 And is it for this damned life we praise the god-like spirit that died
 At Eureka Stockade in the Roaring Days
   with the days when the world was wide?

 We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts we guard;
 Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch,
   the sneer of a sneak hits hard;
 The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the weapons of curs, decide —
 They faced each other and fought like men
   in the days when the world was wide.

 Think of it all — of the life that is!  Study your friends and foes!
 Study the past!  And answer this:  'Are these times better than those?'
 The life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your poisoned pride!
 No matter who fell it were better to fight
   as they did when the world was wide.

 Boast as you will of your mateship now — crippled and mean and sly —
 The lines of suspicion on friendship's brow
   were traced since the days gone by.
 There was room in the long, free lines of the van
   to fight for it side by side —
 There was beating-room for the heart of a man
   in the days when the world was wide.

      .    .    .    .    .

 With its dull, brown days of a-shilling-an-hour
   the dreary year drags round:
 Is this the result of Old England's power?
   — the bourne of the Outward Bound?
 Is this the sequel of Westward Ho! — of the days of Whate'er Betide?
 The heart of the rebel makes answer 'No!
   We'll fight till the world grows wide!'

 The world shall yet be a wider world — for the tokens are manifest;
 East and North shall the wrongs be hurled that followed us South and West.
 The march of Freedom is North by the Dawn!  Follow, whate'er betide!
 Sons of the Exiles, march!  March on!  March till the world grows wide!

Faces in the Street

 They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone
 That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;
 For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet
 My window-sill is level with the faces in the street —
     Drifting past, drifting past,
     To the beat of weary feet —
 While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

 And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,
 To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care;
 I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet
 In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street —
     Drifting on, drifting on,
     To the scrape of restless feet;
 I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

 In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky
 The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by,
 Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet,
 Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street —
     Flowing in, flowing in,
     To the beat of hurried feet —
 Ah!  I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

 The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight,
 Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late;
 But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat
 The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street —
     Grinding body, grinding soul,
     Yielding scarce enough to eat —
 Oh!  I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

 And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down
 Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town,
 Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street,
 Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat —
     Drifting round, drifting round,
     To the tread of listless feet —
 Ah!  My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street.

 And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away,
 And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day,
 Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat,
 Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street —
     Ebbing out, ebbing out,
     To the drag of tired feet,
 While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street.

 And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end,
 For while the short 'large hours' toward the longer 'small hours' trend,
 With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat,
 Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street —
     Sinking down, sinking down,
     Battered wreck by tempests beat —
 A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.

 But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes,
 For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums,
 Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet,
 And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street —
     Rotting out, rotting out,
     For the lack of air and meat —
 In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street.

 I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure
 Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor?
 Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat,
 When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street,
     The wrong things and the bad things
     And the sad things that we meet
 In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.

 I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still,
 And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill;
 But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet,
 They haunted me — the shadows of those faces in the street,
     Flitting by, flitting by,
     Flitting by with noiseless feet,
 And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street.

 Once I cried:  'Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure,
 Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.'
 And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city's street,
 And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet,
     Coming near, coming near,
     To a drum's dull distant beat,
 And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street.

 Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall,
 The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all,
 And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat,
 And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street.
     Pouring on, pouring on,
     To a drum's loud threatening beat,
 And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.

 And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course,
 The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse,
 But not until a city feels Red Revolution's feet
 Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street —
     The dreadful everlasting strife
     For scarcely clothes and meat
 In that pent track of living death — the city's cruel street.

The Roaring Days

 The night too quickly passes
  And we are growing old,
 So let us fill our glasses
  And toast the Days of Gold;
 When finds of wondrous treasure
  Set all the South ablaze,
 And you and I were faithful mates
  All through the roaring days!

 Then stately ships came sailing
  From every harbour's mouth,
 And sought the land of promise
  That beaconed in the South;
 Then southward streamed their streamers
  And swelled their canvas full
 To speed the wildest dreamers
  E'er borne in vessel's hull.

 Their shining Eldorado,
  Beneath the southern skies,
 Was day and night for ever
  Before their eager eyes.
 The brooding bush, awakened,
  Was stirred in wild unrest,
 And all the year a human stream
  Went pouring to the West.

 The rough bush roads re-echoed
  The bar-room's noisy din,
 When troops of stalwart horsemen
  Dismounted at the inn.
 And oft the hearty greetings
  And hearty clasp of hands
 Would tell of sudden meetings
  Of friends from other lands;
 When, puzzled long, the new-chum
  Would recognise at last,
 Behind a bronzed and bearded skin,
  A comrade of the past.

 And when the cheery camp-fire
  Explored the bush with gleams,
 The camping-grounds were crowded
  With caravans of teams;
 Then home the jests were driven,
  And good old songs were sung,
 And choruses were given
  The strength of heart and lung.
 Oh, they were lion-hearted
  Who gave our country birth!
 Oh, they were of the stoutest sons
  From all the lands on earth!

 Oft when the camps were dreaming,
  And fires began to pale,
 Through rugged ranges gleaming
  Would come the Royal Mail.
 Behind six foaming horses,
  And lit by flashing lamps,
 Old 'Cobb and Co.'s', in royal state,
  Went dashing past the camps.

 Oh, who would paint a goldfield,
  And limn the picture right,
 As we have often seen it
  In early morning's light;
 The yellow mounds of mullock
  With spots of red and white,
 The scattered quartz that glistened
  Like diamonds in light;
 The azure line of ridges,
  The bush of darkest green,
 The little homes of calico
  That dotted all the scene.

 I hear the fall of timber
  From distant flats and fells,
 The pealing of the anvils
  As clear as little bells,
 The rattle of the cradle,
  The clack of windlass-boles,
 The flutter of the crimson flags
  Above the golden holes.

      .    .    .    .    .

 Ah, then our hearts were bolder,
  And if Dame Fortune frowned
 Our swags we'd lightly shoulder
  And tramp to other ground.
 But golden days are vanished,
  And altered is the scene;
 The diggings are deserted,
  The camping-grounds are green;
 The flaunting flag of progress
  Is in the West unfurled,
 The mighty bush with iron rails
  Is tethered to the world.