Henry LawsonNineties and Federation (1890–1910)Bush poetryballads and songshumourbush lifeShort (under 3 hours)
Verses, Popular and Humorous, Henry Lawson: BILL AND JIM FALL OUT
BILL AND JIM FALL OUT
Bill and Jim are mates no longer—they would scorn the name of mate—
Those two bushmen hate each other with a soul-consuming hate;
Yet erstwhile they were as brothers should be (tho’ they never will):
Ne’er were mates to one another half so true as Jim and Bill.
Those two bushmen hate each other with a soul-consuming hate;
Yet erstwhile they were as brothers should be (tho’ they never will):
Ne’er were mates to one another half so true as Jim and Bill.
Bill was one of those who have to argue every day or die—
Though, of course, he swore ’twas Jim who always itched to argufy.
They would, on most abstract subjects, contradict each other flat
And at times in lurid language—they were mates in spite of that.
Though, of course, he swore ’twas Jim who always itched to argufy.
They would, on most abstract subjects, contradict each other flat
And at times in lurid language—they were mates in spite of that.
Bill believed the Bible story re the origin of him—
He was sober, he was steady, he was orthodox; while Jim,
Who, we grieve to state, was always getting into drunken scrapes,
Held that man degenerated from degenerated apes.
He was sober, he was steady, he was orthodox; while Jim,
Who, we grieve to state, was always getting into drunken scrapes,
Held that man degenerated from degenerated apes.
Bill was British to the backbone, he was loyal through and through;
Jim declared that Blucher’s Prussians won the fight at Waterloo,
And he hoped the coloured races would in time wipe out the white—
And it rather strained their mateship, but it didn’t burst it quite.
Jim declared that Blucher’s Prussians won the fight at Waterloo,
And he hoped the coloured races would in time wipe out the white—
And it rather strained their mateship, but it didn’t burst it quite.
They battled round in Maoriland—they saw it through and through—
And argued on the rata, what it was and how it grew;
Bill believed the vine grew downward, Jim declared that it grew up—
Yet they always shared their fortunes to the final bite and sup.
Night after night they argued how the kangaroo was born,
And each one held the other’s stupid theories in scorn,
Bill believed it was ‘born inside,’ Jim declared it was born out—
Each as to his own opinions never had the slightest doubt.
They left the earth to argue and they went among the stars,
Re conditions atmospheric, Bill believed ‘the hair of Mars
Was too thin for human bein’s to exist in mortal states.’
Jim declared it was too thick, if anything—yet they were mates
Bill for Freetrade—Jim, Protection—argued as to which was best
For the welfare of the workers—and their mateship stood the test!
They argued over what they meant and didn’t mean at all,
And what they said and didn’t—and were mates in spite of all.
Till one night the two together tried to light a fire in camp,
When they had a leaky billy and the wood was scarce and damp.
And ... No matter: let the moral be distinctly understood:
One alone should tend the fire, while the other brings the wood.
And argued on the rata, what it was and how it grew;
Bill believed the vine grew downward, Jim declared that it grew up—
Yet they always shared their fortunes to the final bite and sup.
Night after night they argued how the kangaroo was born,
And each one held the other’s stupid theories in scorn,
Bill believed it was ‘born inside,’ Jim declared it was born out—
Each as to his own opinions never had the slightest doubt.
They left the earth to argue and they went among the stars,
Re conditions atmospheric, Bill believed ‘the hair of Mars
Was too thin for human bein’s to exist in mortal states.’
Jim declared it was too thick, if anything—yet they were mates
Bill for Freetrade—Jim, Protection—argued as to which was best
For the welfare of the workers—and their mateship stood the test!
They argued over what they meant and didn’t mean at all,
And what they said and didn’t—and were mates in spite of all.
Till one night the two together tried to light a fire in camp,
When they had a leaky billy and the wood was scarce and damp.
And ... No matter: let the moral be distinctly understood:
One alone should tend the fire, while the other brings the wood.
THE PAROO
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 long day seemed forever;
But now we knew that we were near
Our camp—the Paroo River.
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 long day seemed forever;
But now we knew that we were near
Our camp—the Paroo River.
With blighted eyes and blistered feet,
With stomachs out of order,
Half mad with flies and dust and heat
We’d crossed the Queensland Border.
I longed to hear a stream go by
And see the circles quiver;
I longed to lay me down and die
That night on Paroo River.
With stomachs out of order,
Half mad with flies and dust and heat
We’d crossed the Queensland Border.
I longed to hear a stream go by
And see the circles quiver;
I longed to lay me down and die
That night on Paroo River.
’Tis said the land out West is grand—
I do not care who says it—
It isn’t even decent scrub,
Nor yet an honest desert;
It’s plagued with flies, and broiling hot,
A curse is on it ever;
I really think that God forgot
The country round that river.
I do not care who says it—
It isn’t even decent scrub,
Nor yet an honest desert;
It’s plagued with flies, and broiling hot,
A curse is on it ever;
I really think that God forgot
The country round that river.
My mate—a native of the land—
In fiery speech and vulgar,
Condemned the flies and cursed the sand,
And doubly damned the mulga.
He peered ahead, he peered about—
A bushman he, and clever—
‘Now mind you keep a sharp look-out;
‘We must be near the river.’
In fiery speech and vulgar,
Condemned the flies and cursed the sand,
And doubly damned the mulga.
He peered ahead, he peered about—
A bushman he, and clever—
‘Now mind you keep a sharp look-out;
‘We must be near the river.’
The ‘nose-bags’ heavy on each chest
(God bless one kindly squatter!)
With grateful weight our hearts they pressed—
We only wanted water.
The sun was setting (in the west)
In colour like a liver—
We’d fondly hoped to camp and rest
That night on Paroo River.
(God bless one kindly squatter!)
With grateful weight our hearts they pressed—
We only wanted water.
The sun was setting (in the west)
In colour like a liver—
We’d fondly hoped to camp and rest
That night on Paroo River.
A cloud was on my mate’s broad brow,
And once I heard him mutter:
‘I’d like to see the Darling now,
‘God bless the Grand Old Gutter!’
And now and then he stopped and said
In tones that made me shiver—
‘It cannot well be on ahead,
‘I think we’ve crossed the river.’
And once I heard him mutter:
‘I’d like to see the Darling now,
‘God bless the Grand Old Gutter!’
And now and then he stopped and said
In tones that made me shiver—
‘It cannot well be on ahead,
‘I think we’ve crossed the river.’
But soon we saw a strip of ground
That crossed the track we followed—
No barer than the surface round,
But just a little hollowed.
His brows assumed a thoughtful frown—
This speech he did deliver:
‘I wonder if we’d best go down
‘Or up the blessed river?’
That crossed the track we followed—
No barer than the surface round,
But just a little hollowed.
His brows assumed a thoughtful frown—
This speech he did deliver:
‘I wonder if we’d best go down
‘Or up the blessed river?’
‘But where,’ said I, ‘ ’s the blooming stream?’
And he replied, ‘We’re at it!’
I stood awhile, as in a dream,
‘Great Scott!’ I cried, ‘is that it?
‘Why, that is some old bridle-track!’
He chuckled, ‘Well, I never!
‘It’s nearly time you came out-back—
‘This is the Paroo River!’
And he replied, ‘We’re at it!’
I stood awhile, as in a dream,
‘Great Scott!’ I cried, ‘is that it?
‘Why, that is some old bridle-track!’
He chuckled, ‘Well, I never!
‘It’s nearly time you came out-back—
‘This is the Paroo River!’
No place to camp—no spot of damp—
No moisture to be seen there;
If e’er there was it left no sign
That it had ever been there.
But ere the morn, with heart and soul
We’d cause to thank the Giver—
We found a muddy water-hole
Some ten miles down the river.
No moisture to be seen there;
If e’er there was it left no sign
That it had ever been there.
But ere the morn, with heart and soul
We’d cause to thank the Giver—
We found a muddy water-hole
Some ten miles down the river.
THE GREEN-HAND ROUSEABOUT
Call this hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!—you don’t know what it means.
(What’s that, waiter? lamb or mutton! Thank you—mine is beef and greens.
Bread and butter while I’m waiting. Milk? Oh, yes—a bucketful.)
I’m just in from west the Darling, ‘picking-up’ and ‘rolling wool.’
(What’s that, waiter? lamb or mutton! Thank you—mine is beef and greens.
Bread and butter while I’m waiting. Milk? Oh, yes—a bucketful.)
I’m just in from west the Darling, ‘picking-up’ and ‘rolling wool.’
Mutton stewed or chops for breakfast, dry and tasteless, boiled in fat;
Bread or brownie, tea or coffee—two hours’ graft in front of that;
Legs of mutton boiled for dinner—mutton greasy-warm for tea—
Mutton curried (gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me.)
Bread or brownie, tea or coffee—two hours’ graft in front of that;
Legs of mutton boiled for dinner—mutton greasy-warm for tea—
Mutton curried (gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me.)
Breakfast, curried rice and mutton till your innards sacrifice,
And you sicken at the colour and the smell of curried rice.
All day long with living mutton—bits and belly-wool and fleece;
Blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirt and trousers stiff with grease,
Till you long for sight of verdure, cabbage-plots and water clear,
And you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer.
. . . . . . . . . .
Dusty patch in baking mulga—glaring iron hut and shed—
Feel and smell of rain forgotten—water scarce and feed-grass dead.
Hot and suffocating sunrise—all-pervading sheep-yard smell—
Stiff and aching green-hand stretches—‘Slushy’ rings the bullock-bell—
Pint of tea and hunk of brownie—sinners string towards the shed—
Great, black, greasy crows round carcass—screen behind of dust-cloud red.
And you sicken at the colour and the smell of curried rice.
All day long with living mutton—bits and belly-wool and fleece;
Blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirt and trousers stiff with grease,
Till you long for sight of verdure, cabbage-plots and water clear,
And you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer.
. . . . . . . . . .
Dusty patch in baking mulga—glaring iron hut and shed—
Feel and smell of rain forgotten—water scarce and feed-grass dead.
Hot and suffocating sunrise—all-pervading sheep-yard smell—
Stiff and aching green-hand stretches—‘Slushy’ rings the bullock-bell—
Pint of tea and hunk of brownie—sinners string towards the shed—
Great, black, greasy crows round carcass—screen behind of dust-cloud red.
Engine whistles. ‘Go it, tigers!’ and the agony begins,
Picking up for seven devils out of Hades—for my sins;
Picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell!
Sell their souls to get the bell-sheep—half a-dozen Christs they’d sell!
Day grows hot as where they come from—too damned hot for men or brutes;
Roof of corrugated iron, six-foot-six above the shoots!
Picking up for seven devils out of Hades—for my sins;
Picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell!
Sell their souls to get the bell-sheep—half a-dozen Christs they’d sell!
Day grows hot as where they come from—too damned hot for men or brutes;
Roof of corrugated iron, six-foot-six above the shoots!
Whiz and rattle and vibration, like an endless chain of trams;
Blasphemy of five-and-forty—prickly heat—and stink of rams!
‘Barcoo’ leaves his pen-door open and the sheep come bucking out;
When the rouser goes to pen them, ‘Barcoo’ blasts the rouseabout.
Injury with insult added—trial of our cursing powers—
Cursed and cursing back enough to damn a dozen worlds like ours.
Blasphemy of five-and-forty—prickly heat—and stink of rams!
‘Barcoo’ leaves his pen-door open and the sheep come bucking out;
When the rouser goes to pen them, ‘Barcoo’ blasts the rouseabout.
Injury with insult added—trial of our cursing powers—
Cursed and cursing back enough to damn a dozen worlds like ours.
‘Take my combs down to the grinder, will yer?’ ‘Seen my cattle-pup?’
‘There’s a sheep fell down in my shoot—just jump down and pick it up.’
‘Give the office when the boss comes.’ ‘Catch that gory sheep, old man.’
‘Count the sheep in my pen, will yer?’ ‘Fetch my combs back when yer can.’
‘When yer get a chance, old feller, will yer pop down to the hut?’
‘Fetch my pipe—the cook’ll show yer—and I’ll let yer have a cut.’
‘There’s a sheep fell down in my shoot—just jump down and pick it up.’
‘Give the office when the boss comes.’ ‘Catch that gory sheep, old man.’
‘Count the sheep in my pen, will yer?’ ‘Fetch my combs back when yer can.’
‘When yer get a chance, old feller, will yer pop down to the hut?’
‘Fetch my pipe—the cook’ll show yer—and I’ll let yer have a cut.’
Shearer yells for tar and needle. Ringer’s roaring like a bull:
‘Wool away, you (son of angels). Where the hell’s the (foundling) Wool!!’
. . . . . . . . . .
Pound a week and station prices—mustn’t kick against the pricks—
Seven weeks of lurid mateship—ruined soul and four pounds six.
. . . . . . . . . .
What’s that? waiter? me? stuffed mutton! Look here, waiter, to be brief,
I said beef! you blood-stained villain! Beef—moo-cow—Roast Bullock—BEEF!
‘Wool away, you (son of angels). Where the hell’s the (foundling) Wool!!’
. . . . . . . . . .
Pound a week and station prices—mustn’t kick against the pricks—
Seven weeks of lurid mateship—ruined soul and four pounds six.
. . . . . . . . . .
What’s that? waiter? me? stuffed mutton! Look here, waiter, to be brief,
I said beef! you blood-stained villain! Beef—moo-cow—Roast Bullock—BEEF!
THE MAN FROM WATERLOO
(With kind regards to “Banjo.”)
It was the Man from Waterloo,
When work in town was slack,
Who took the track as bushmen do,
And humped his swag out back.
He tramped for months without a bob,
For most the sheds were full,
Until at last he got a job
At picking up the wool.
He found the work was rather rough,
But swore to see it through,
For he was made of sterling stuff—
The Man from Waterloo.
When work in town was slack,
Who took the track as bushmen do,
And humped his swag out back.
He tramped for months without a bob,
For most the sheds were full,
Until at last he got a job
At picking up the wool.
He found the work was rather rough,
But swore to see it through,
For he was made of sterling stuff—
The Man from Waterloo.
The first remark was like a stab
That fell his ear upon,
’Twas—‘There’s another something scab
‘The boss has taken on!’
They couldn’t let the towny be—
They sneered like anything;
They’d mock him when he’d sound the ‘g’
In words that end in ‘ing.’
That fell his ear upon,
’Twas—‘There’s another something scab
‘The boss has taken on!’
They couldn’t let the towny be—
They sneered like anything;
They’d mock him when he’d sound the ‘g’
In words that end in ‘ing.’
There came a man from Ironbark,
And at the shed he shore;
He scoffed his victuals like a shark,
And like a fiend he swore.
He’d shorn his flowing beard that day—
He found it hard to reap—
Because ’twas hot and in the way
While he was shearing sheep.
His loaded fork in grimy holt
Was poised, his jaws moved fast,
Impatient till his throat could bolt
The mouthful taken last.
He couldn’t stand a something toff,
Much less a jackaroo;
And swore to take the trimmings off
The Man from Waterloo.
And at the shed he shore;
He scoffed his victuals like a shark,
And like a fiend he swore.
He’d shorn his flowing beard that day—
He found it hard to reap—
Because ’twas hot and in the way
While he was shearing sheep.
His loaded fork in grimy holt
Was poised, his jaws moved fast,
Impatient till his throat could bolt
The mouthful taken last.
He couldn’t stand a something toff,
Much less a jackaroo;
And swore to take the trimmings off
The Man from Waterloo.
The towny saw he must be up
Or else be underneath,
And so one day, before them all,
He dared to clean his teeth.
Or else be underneath,
And so one day, before them all,
He dared to clean his teeth.
The men came running from the shed,
And shouted, ‘Here’s a lark!’
‘It’s gone to clean its tooties!’ said
The man from Ironbark.
His feeble joke was much enjoyed;
He sneered as bullies do,
And with a scrubbing-brush he guyed
The Man from Waterloo.
And shouted, ‘Here’s a lark!’
‘It’s gone to clean its tooties!’ said
The man from Ironbark.
His feeble joke was much enjoyed;
He sneered as bullies do,
And with a scrubbing-brush he guyed
The Man from Waterloo.
The Jackaroo made no remark
But peeled and waded in,
And soon the Man from Ironbark
Had three teeth less to grin!
And when they knew that he could fight
They swore to see him through,
Because they saw that he was right—
The Man from Waterloo.
But peeled and waded in,
And soon the Man from Ironbark
Had three teeth less to grin!
And when they knew that he could fight
They swore to see him through,
Because they saw that he was right—
The Man from Waterloo.
Now in a shop in Sydney, near
The Bottle on the Shelf,
The tale is told—with trimmings—by
The Jackaroo himself.
‘They made my life a hell,’ he said;
‘They wouldn’t let me be;
‘They set the bully of the shed
‘To take it out of me.
The Bottle on the Shelf,
The tale is told—with trimmings—by
The Jackaroo himself.
‘They made my life a hell,’ he said;
‘They wouldn’t let me be;
‘They set the bully of the shed
‘To take it out of me.
‘The dirt was on him like a sheath,
‘He seldom washed his phiz;
‘He sneered because I cleaned my teeth—
‘I guess I dusted his!
‘I treated them as they deserved—
‘I signed on one or two!
‘They won’t forget me soon,’ observed
The Man from Waterloo.
‘He seldom washed his phiz;
‘He sneered because I cleaned my teeth—
‘I guess I dusted his!
‘I treated them as they deserved—
‘I signed on one or two!
‘They won’t forget me soon,’ observed
The Man from Waterloo.
SAINT PETER
Now, I think there is a likeness
’Twixt St. Peter’s life and mine,
For he did a lot of trampin’
Long ago in Palestine.
He was ‘union’ when the workers
First began to organise,
And—I’m glad that old St. Peter
Keeps the gate of Paradise.
’Twixt St. Peter’s life and mine,
For he did a lot of trampin’
Long ago in Palestine.
He was ‘union’ when the workers
First began to organise,
And—I’m glad that old St. Peter
Keeps the gate of Paradise.
When the ancient agitator
And his brothers carried swags,
I’ve no doubt he very often
Tramped with empty tucker-bags;
And I’m glad he’s Heaven’s picket,
For I hate explainin’ things,
And he’ll think a union ticket
Just as good as Whitely King’s.
And his brothers carried swags,
I’ve no doubt he very often
Tramped with empty tucker-bags;
And I’m glad he’s Heaven’s picket,
For I hate explainin’ things,
And he’ll think a union ticket
Just as good as Whitely King’s.
He denied the Saviour’s union,
Which was weak of him, no doubt;
But perhaps his feet was blistered
And his boots had given out.
And the bitter storm was rushin’
On the bark and on the slabs,
And a cheerful fire was blazin’,
And the hut was full of ‘scabs.’
. . . . . . . . . .
When I reach the great head-station—
Which is somewhere ‘off the track’—
I won’t want to talk with angels
Who have never been out back;
They might bother me with offers
Of a banjo—meanin’ well—
And a pair of wings to fly with,
When I only want a spell.
Which was weak of him, no doubt;
But perhaps his feet was blistered
And his boots had given out.
And the bitter storm was rushin’
On the bark and on the slabs,
And a cheerful fire was blazin’,
And the hut was full of ‘scabs.’
. . . . . . . . . .
When I reach the great head-station—
Which is somewhere ‘off the track’—
I won’t want to talk with angels
Who have never been out back;
They might bother me with offers
Of a banjo—meanin’ well—
And a pair of wings to fly with,
When I only want a spell.
I’ll just ask for old St. Peter,
And I think, when he appears,
I will only have to tell him
That I carried swag for years.
‘I’ve been on the track,’ I’ll tell him,
‘An’ I done the best I could,’
And he’ll understand me better
Than the other angels would.
And I think, when he appears,
I will only have to tell him
That I carried swag for years.
‘I’ve been on the track,’ I’ll tell him,
‘An’ I done the best I could,’
And he’ll understand me better
Than the other angels would.
He won’t try to get a chorus
Out of lungs that’s worn to rags,
Or to graft the wings on shoulders
That is stiff with humpin’ swags.
But I’ll rest about the station
Where the work-bell never rings,
Till they blow the final trumpet
And the Great Judge sees to things.
Out of lungs that’s worn to rags,
Or to graft the wings on shoulders
That is stiff with humpin’ swags.
But I’ll rest about the station
Where the work-bell never rings,
Till they blow the final trumpet
And the Great Judge sees to things.