Henry LawsonNineties and Federation (1890–1910)Bush poetryballads and songshumourbush lifeShort (under 3 hours)
Verses, Popular and Humorous, Henry Lawson: THE CHRIST OF THE ‘NEVER’
THE CHRIST OF THE ‘NEVER’
With eyes that seem shrunken to pierce
To the awful horizons of land,
Through the haze of hot days, and the fierce
White heat-waves that flow on the sand;
Through the Never Land westward and nor’ward,
Bronzed, bearded and gaunt on the track,
Quiet-voiced and hard-knuckled, rides forward
The Christ of the Outer Out-back.
To the awful horizons of land,
Through the haze of hot days, and the fierce
White heat-waves that flow on the sand;
Through the Never Land westward and nor’ward,
Bronzed, bearded and gaunt on the track,
Quiet-voiced and hard-knuckled, rides forward
The Christ of the Outer Out-back.
For the cause that will ne’er be relinquished
Spite of all the great cynics on earth—
In the ranks of the bush undistinguished
By manner or dress—if by birth—
God’s preacher, of churches unheeded—
God’s vineyard, though barren the sod—
Plain spokesman where spokesman is needed—
Rough link ’twixt the bushman and God.
Spite of all the great cynics on earth—
In the ranks of the bush undistinguished
By manner or dress—if by birth—
God’s preacher, of churches unheeded—
God’s vineyard, though barren the sod—
Plain spokesman where spokesman is needed—
Rough link ’twixt the bushman and God.
He works where the hearts of all nations
Are withered in flame from the sky,
Where the sinners work out their salvations
In a hell-upon-earth ere they die.
In the camp or the lonely hut lying
In a waste that seems out of God’s sight,
He’s the doctor—the mate of the dying
Through the smothering heat of the night.
Are withered in flame from the sky,
Where the sinners work out their salvations
In a hell-upon-earth ere they die.
In the camp or the lonely hut lying
In a waste that seems out of God’s sight,
He’s the doctor—the mate of the dying
Through the smothering heat of the night.
By his work in the hells of the shearers,
Where the drinking is ghastly and grim,
Where the roughest and worst of his hearers
Have listened bareheaded to him.
By his paths through the parched desolation
Hot rides and the terrible tramps;
By the hunger, the thirst, the privation
Of his work in the furthermost camps;
Where the drinking is ghastly and grim,
Where the roughest and worst of his hearers
Have listened bareheaded to him.
By his paths through the parched desolation
Hot rides and the terrible tramps;
By the hunger, the thirst, the privation
Of his work in the furthermost camps;
By his worth in the light that shall search men
And prove—ay! and justify each—
I place him in front of all churchmen
Who feel not, who know not—but preach!
And prove—ay! and justify each—
I place him in front of all churchmen
Who feel not, who know not—but preach!
THE CATTLE-DOG’S DEATH
The plains lay bare on the homeward route,
And the march was heavy on man and brute;
For the Spirit of Drouth was on all the land,
And the white heat danced on the glowing sand.
And the march was heavy on man and brute;
For the Spirit of Drouth was on all the land,
And the white heat danced on the glowing sand.
The best of our cattle-dogs lagged at last,
His strength gave out ere the plains were passed,
And our hearts grew sad when he crept and laid
His languid limbs in the nearest shade.
His strength gave out ere the plains were passed,
And our hearts grew sad when he crept and laid
His languid limbs in the nearest shade.
He saved our lives in the years gone by,
When no one dreamed of the danger nigh,
And the treacherous blacks in the darkness crept
On the silent camp where the drovers slept.
When no one dreamed of the danger nigh,
And the treacherous blacks in the darkness crept
On the silent camp where the drovers slept.
‘The dog is dying,’ a stockman said,
As he knelt and lifted the shaggy head;
‘ ’Tis a long day’s march ere the run be near,
And he’s dying fast; shall we leave him here?’
As he knelt and lifted the shaggy head;
‘ ’Tis a long day’s march ere the run be near,
And he’s dying fast; shall we leave him here?’
But the super cried, ‘There’s an answer there!’
As he raised a tuft of the dog’s grey hair;
And, strangely vivid, each man descried
The old spear-mark on the shaggy hide.
As he raised a tuft of the dog’s grey hair;
And, strangely vivid, each man descried
The old spear-mark on the shaggy hide.
We laid a ‘bluey’ and coat across
The camping pack of the lightest horse,
And raised the dog to his deathbed high,
And brought him far ’neath the burning sky.
The camping pack of the lightest horse,
And raised the dog to his deathbed high,
And brought him far ’neath the burning sky.
At the kindly touch of the stockmen rude
His eyes grew human with gratitude;
And though we parched in the heat that fags,
We gave him the last of the water-bags.
His eyes grew human with gratitude;
And though we parched in the heat that fags,
We gave him the last of the water-bags.
The super’s daughter we knew would chide
If we left the dog in the desert wide;
So we brought him far o’er the burning sand
For a parting stroke of her small white hand.
If we left the dog in the desert wide;
So we brought him far o’er the burning sand
For a parting stroke of her small white hand.
But long ere the station was seen ahead,
His pain was o’er, for the dog was dead;
And the folks all knew by our looks of gloom
’Twas a comrade’s corpse that we carried home.
His pain was o’er, for the dog was dead;
And the folks all knew by our looks of gloom
’Twas a comrade’s corpse that we carried home.
THE SONG OF THE DARLING RIVER
The only national work of the blacks was a dam or dyke of stones across the Darling River at Brewarrina. The stones they carried from Lord knows where—and the Lord knows how. The people of Bourke kept up navigation for months above the town by a dam of sand-bags. The Darling rises in blazing droughts from the Queensland rains. There are banks and beds of good clay and rock along the river.
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 bubble and quagmires quiver,
And—this is the dirge of the Darling River:
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 bubble and quagmires quiver,
And—this is the dirge of the Darling River:
‘I rise in the drought from the Queensland rain,
I fill my branches again and again;
I hold my billabongs back in vain,
For my life and my peoples the South Seas drain;
And the land grows old and the people never
Will see the worth of the Darling River.
I fill my branches again and again;
I hold my billabongs back in vain,
For my life and my peoples the South Seas drain;
And the land grows old and the people never
Will see the worth of the Darling River.
‘I drown dry gullies and lave bare hills,
I turn drought-ruts into rippling rills—
I form fair island and glades all green
Till every bend is a sylvan scene.
I have watered the barren land ten leagues wide!
But in vain I have tried, ah! in vain I have tried
To show the sign of the Great All Giver,
The Word to a people: O! lock your river.
I turn drought-ruts into rippling rills—
I form fair island and glades all green
Till every bend is a sylvan scene.
I have watered the barren land ten leagues wide!
But in vain I have tried, ah! in vain I have tried
To show the sign of the Great All Giver,
The Word to a people: O! lock your river.
‘I want no blistering barge aground,
But racing steamers the seasons round;
I want fair homes on my lonely ways,
A people’s love and a people’s praise—
And rosy children to dive and swim—
And fair girls’ feet in my rippling brim;
And cool, green forests and gardens ever’—
Oh, this is the hymn of the Darling River.
But racing steamers the seasons round;
I want fair homes on my lonely ways,
A people’s love and a people’s praise—
And rosy children to dive and swim—
And fair girls’ feet in my rippling brim;
And cool, green forests and gardens ever’—
Oh, this is the hymn of the Darling River.
The sky is brass and the scrub-lands glare,
Death and ruin are everywhere;
Thrown high to bleach, or deep in the mud
The bones lie buried by last year’s flood.
And the Demons dance from the Never Never
To laugh at the rise of the Darling River.
Death and ruin are everywhere;
Thrown high to bleach, or deep in the mud
The bones lie buried by last year’s flood.
And the Demons dance from the Never Never
To laugh at the rise of the Darling River.
RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS
The valley’s full of misty cloud,
Its tinted beauty drowning,
The Eucalypti roar aloud,
The mountain fronts are frowning.
Its tinted beauty drowning,
The Eucalypti roar aloud,
The mountain fronts are frowning.
The mist is hanging like a pall
From many granite ledges,
And many a little waterfall
Starts o’er the valley’s edges.
From many granite ledges,
And many a little waterfall
Starts o’er the valley’s edges.
The sky is of a leaden grey,
Save where the north is surly,
The driven daylight speeds away,
And night comes o’er us early.
Save where the north is surly,
The driven daylight speeds away,
And night comes o’er us early.
But, love, the rain will pass full soon,
Far sooner than my sorrow,
And in a golden afternoon
The sun may set to-morrow.
Far sooner than my sorrow,
And in a golden afternoon
The sun may set to-morrow.
A MAY NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS
’Tis a wonderful time when these hours begin,
These long ‘small hours’ of night,
When grass is crisp, and the air is thin,
And the stars come close and bright.
The moon hangs caught in a silvery veil,
From clouds of a steely grey,
And the hard, cold blue of the sky grows pale
In the wonderful Milky Way.
These long ‘small hours’ of night,
When grass is crisp, and the air is thin,
And the stars come close and bright.
The moon hangs caught in a silvery veil,
From clouds of a steely grey,
And the hard, cold blue of the sky grows pale
In the wonderful Milky Way.
There is something wrong with this star of ours,
A mortal plank unsound,
That cannot be charged to the mighty powers
Who guide the stars around.
Though man is higher than bird or beast,
Though wisdom is still his boast,
He surely resembles Nature least,
And the things that vex her most.
A mortal plank unsound,
That cannot be charged to the mighty powers
Who guide the stars around.
Though man is higher than bird or beast,
Though wisdom is still his boast,
He surely resembles Nature least,
And the things that vex her most.
Oh, say, some muse of a larger star,
Some muse of the Universe,
If they who people those planets far
Are better than we, or worse?
Are they exempted from deaths and births,
And have they greater powers,
And greater heavens, and greater earths,
And greater Gods than ours?
Some muse of the Universe,
If they who people those planets far
Are better than we, or worse?
Are they exempted from deaths and births,
And have they greater powers,
And greater heavens, and greater earths,
And greater Gods than ours?
Are our lies theirs, and our truth their truth,
Are they cursed for pleasure’s sake,
Do they make their hells in their reckless youth
Ere they know what hells they make?
And do they toil through each weary hour
Till the tedious day is o’er,
For food that gives but the fleeting power
To toil and strive for more?
Are they cursed for pleasure’s sake,
Do they make their hells in their reckless youth
Ere they know what hells they make?
And do they toil through each weary hour
Till the tedious day is o’er,
For food that gives but the fleeting power
To toil and strive for more?
THE NEW CHUM JACKAROO
Let bushmen think as bushmen will,
And say whate’er they choose,
I hate to hear the stupid sneer
At New Chum Jackaroos.
And say whate’er they choose,
I hate to hear the stupid sneer
At New Chum Jackaroos.
He may not ride as you can ride,
Or do what you can do;
But sometimes you’d seem small beside
The New Chum Jackaroo.
Or do what you can do;
But sometimes you’d seem small beside
The New Chum Jackaroo.
His share of work he never shirks,
And through the blazing drought,
He lives the old things down, and works
His own salvation out.
And through the blazing drought,
He lives the old things down, and works
His own salvation out.
When older, wiser chums despond
He battles brave of heart—
’Twas he who sailed of old beyond
The margin of the chart.
He battles brave of heart—
’Twas he who sailed of old beyond
The margin of the chart.
’Twas he who proved the world was round—
In crazy square canoes;
The lands you’re living in were found
By New Chum Jackaroos.
In crazy square canoes;
The lands you’re living in were found
By New Chum Jackaroos.
He crossed the deserts hot and bare,
From barren, hungry shores—
The plains that you would scarcely dare
With all your tanks and bores.
From barren, hungry shores—
The plains that you would scarcely dare
With all your tanks and bores.
He fought a way through stubborn hills
Towards the setting sun—
Your fathers all and Burke and Wills
Were New Chums, every one.
Towards the setting sun—
Your fathers all and Burke and Wills
Were New Chums, every one.
When England fought with all the world
In those brave days gone by,
And all its strength against her hurled,
He held her honour high.
In those brave days gone by,
And all its strength against her hurled,
He held her honour high.
By Southern palms and Northern pines—
Where’er was life to lose—
She held her own with thin red lines
Of New Chum Jackaroos.
Where’er was life to lose—
She held her own with thin red lines
Of New Chum Jackaroos.
Through shot and shell and solitudes,
Wherever feet have gone,
The New Chums fought while eye-glass dudes
And Johnnies led them on.
Wherever feet have gone,
The New Chums fought while eye-glass dudes
And Johnnies led them on.
And though he wear a foppish coat,
And these old things forget,
In stormy times I’d give a vote
For Cuffs and Collars yet.
And these old things forget,
In stormy times I’d give a vote
For Cuffs and Collars yet.
THE DONS OF SPAIN
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 the days when the buccaneer was abroad on the Spanish Main,
The national honour is one thing dear to the hearts of the Dons of Spain.
Must wrestle the right to live or die from the sons of the land she found;
For, as in the days when the buccaneer was abroad on the Spanish Main,
The national honour is one thing dear to the hearts of the Dons of Spain.
She has slaughtered thousands with fire and sword, as the Christian world might know;
We murder millions, but, thank the Lord! we only starve ’em slow.
The times have changed since the days of old, but the same old facts remain—
We fight for Freedom, and God, and Gold, and the Spaniards fight for Spain.
We murder millions, but, thank the Lord! we only starve ’em slow.
The times have changed since the days of old, but the same old facts remain—
We fight for Freedom, and God, and Gold, and the Spaniards fight for Spain.
We fought with the strength of the moral right, and they, as their ships went down,
They only fought with the grit to fight and their armour to help ’em drown.
It mattered little what chance or hope, for ever their path was plain,
The Church was the Church, and the Pope the Pope—but the Spaniards fought for Spain.
They only fought with the grit to fight and their armour to help ’em drown.
It mattered little what chance or hope, for ever their path was plain,
The Church was the Church, and the Pope the Pope—but the Spaniards fought for Spain.
If Providence struck for the honest thief at times in the battle’s din—
If ever it struck at the hypocrite—well, that’s where the Turks came in;
But this remains ere we leave the wise to argue it through in vain—
There’s something great in the wrong that dies as the Spaniards die for Spain.
If ever it struck at the hypocrite—well, that’s where the Turks came in;
But this remains ere we leave the wise to argue it through in vain—
There’s something great in the wrong that dies as the Spaniards die for Spain.
The foes of Spain may be kin to us who are English heart and soul,
And proud of our national righteousness and proud of the lands we stole;
But we yet might pause while those brave men die and the death-drink pledge again—
For the sake of the past, if you’re doomed, say I, may your death be a grand one, Spain!
And proud of our national righteousness and proud of the lands we stole;
But we yet might pause while those brave men die and the death-drink pledge again—
For the sake of the past, if you’re doomed, say I, may your death be a grand one, Spain!
Then here’s to the bravest of Freedom’s foes who ever with death have stood—
For the sake of the courage to die on steel as their fathers died on wood;
And here’s a cheer for the flag unfurled in a hopeless cause again,
For the sake of the days when the Christian world was saved by the Dons of Spain.
For the sake of the courage to die on steel as their fathers died on wood;
And here’s a cheer for the flag unfurled in a hopeless cause again,
For the sake of the days when the Christian world was saved by the Dons of Spain.