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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408849" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Last Review</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Turn the light down, nurse, and leave me, while I hold my last review,<br>For <br>the Bush<br>is slipping from me, and the town is going too:<br>Draw the blinds, the streets are lighted, and I hear the tramp of feet—<br>And I’m weary, very weary, of the <br>Faces in the Street<br>. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the dens of Grind and Heartbreak, in the streets of Never-Rest,<br>I have lost the scent and colour and the music of the West:<br>And I would recall old faces with the memories they bring—<br>Where are Bill and Jim and Mary and the <br>Songs They used to Sing<br>? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">They are coming! They are coming! they are passing through the room<br>With the smell of gum leaves burning, and the scent of <br>Wattle bloom!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And behind them in the timber, after dust and heat and toil,<br>Others sit beside the camp fire yarning while the billies boil. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the Gap above the ridges there’s a flash and there’s a glow—<br>Swiftly down the scrub-clad siding come the <br>Lights of Cobb and Co<br>.:<br>Red face from the box-seat beaming—Oh, how plain those faces come!<br>From his ‘Golden-Hole’ ’tis Peter M’Intosh who’s going home. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dusty patch in desolation, bare slab walls and earthen floor,<br>And a blinding drought is blazing from horizons to the door:<br>Milkless tea and ration sugar, damper junk and pumpkin mash—<br>And a <br>Day on our Selection<br>passes by me in a flash. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rush of big wild-eyed store bullocks while the sheep crawl hopelessly,<br>And the loaded wool teams rolling, lurching on like ships at sea:<br>With his whip across his shoulder (and the wind just now abeam),<br>There goes <br>Jimmy Nowlett<br>ploughing through the dust beside his team! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sunrise on the diggings! (Oh! what life and hearts and hopes are here)<br>From a hundred pointing forges comes a tinkle, tinkle clear—<br>Strings of drays with wash to puddle, clack of countless windlass boles,<br>Here and there <br>the red flag flying<br>, flying over golden holes. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Picturesque, unreal, romantic, chivalrous, and brave and free;<br>Clean in living, true in mateship—reckless generosity.<br>Mates are buried here as comrades who on fields of battle fall—<br>And—the dreams, the aching, hoping lover hearts beneath it all! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rough-built theatres and stages where the world’s best actors trod—<br>Singers bringing reckless rovers nearer boyhood, home and God;<br>Paid in laughter, tears and nuggets in the play that fortune plays—<br>’Tis the palmy days of Gulgong—Gulgong in <br>the Roaring Days.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Pass the same old scenes before me—and again my heart can ache—<br>There the <br>Drover’s Wife<br>sits watching (not as Eve did) for a snake.<br>And I see the drear deserted goldfields when the night is late,<br>And the stony face of Mason watching by his <br>Father’s Mate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And I see my<br>Haggard Women<br>plainly as they were in life,<br>’Tis the form of Mrs. Spicer and her friend, <br>Joe Wilson’s wife,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sitting hand in hand <br>‘Past Carin<br>’,’ not a sigh and not a moan,<br>Staring steadily before her and the tears just trickle down. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was <br>No Place for a Woman<br>—where the women worked like men—<br>From the Bush and Jones’ Alley come their haunting forms again.<br>And, let this thing be remembered when I’ve answered to the roll,<br>That I pitied haggard women—wrote for them with all my soul. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Narrow bed-room in the City in the hard days that are dead—<br>An alarm clock on the table, and a pale boy on the bed:<br>Arvie Aspinalls Alarm Clock with its harsh and startling call<br>Never more shall break his slumbers—I was Arvie Aspinall. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Maoriland<br>and <br>Steelman<br>, cynic, spieler, stiff-lipped, battler-through<br>(Kept a wife and child in comfort, but of course they never knew—<br>Thought he was an honest bagman)—Well, old man, you needn’t hug—<br>Sentimental; you of all men!—Steelman, Oh! I was a mug! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ghostly lines of scrub at daybreak—dusty daybreak in the drought—<br>And a lonely swagman tramping on the track to <br>Further Out<br>:<br>Like a shade the form of Mitchell, nose-bag full and bluey up<br>And between the swag and shoulders lolls his foolish cattle-pup. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Kindly cynic, sad comedian! Mitchell! when you’ve left the Track,<br>And have shed your load of sorrow as we slipped our swags out back,<br>We shall have a yarn together in the land of <br>Rest Awhile<br>—<br>And across his ragged shoulder Mitchell smiles his quiet smile. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shearing sheds and tracks and shanties—girls that wait at homestead gates—<br>Camps and stern-eyed Union leaders, and <br>Joe Wilson and his Mates</div><div style="margin:10px 0">True and straight, and to my fancy, each one as he passes through<br>Deftly down upon the table slips a dusty ‘note’ or two. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>So at last the end has found me—(end of all the human push)<br>And again in silence round me come my <br>Children of the Bush<br>!—<br>Listen, who are young, and let them—if I in late and bitter days<br>Wrote some reckless lines—forget them—there is little there to praise. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I was human, very human, and if in the days misspent<br>I have injured man or woman, it was done without intent.<br>If at times I blundered blindly—bitter heart and aching brow—<br>If I wrote a line unkindly—I am sorry for it now. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Days in London<br>like a nightmare—dreams of foreign lands and sea—<br>And <br>Australia<br>is the only land that seemeth real to me.<br>Tell the Bushmen to Australia and each other to be true—<br>‘Tell the boys to stick together!’ I have held my <br>Last Review.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</a><div class=q>
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For 
the Bush
is slipping from me, and the town is going too:
Draw the blinds, the streets are lighted, and I hear the tramp of feet—
And I’m weary, very weary, of the 
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