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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408869" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Men Who Made Australia</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There'll be royal times in Sydney for the Cuff and Collar Push,<br>There’ll be lots of dreary drivel and clap-trap<br>From the men who own Australia, but who never knew the Bush,<br>And who could not point their runs out on the map.<br>Oh, the daily Press will grovel as it never did before,<br>There’ll be many flags of welcome in the air,<br>And the Civil Service poet, he shall write odes by the score—<br>But the men who made the land will not be there. <br>You shall meet the awful Lady of the latest Birthday Knight—<br>(She is trying to be English, don’t-cher-know?)<br>You shall hear the empty mouthing of the champion blatherskite,<br>You shall hear the boss of local drapers blow.<br>There’ll be ‘majahs’ from the counter, tailors’ dummies from the fleet,<br>And to represent Australia here to-day,<br>There’s the today with his card-case and his cab in Downing-street;<br>But the men who made Australia—where are they? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Call across the blazing sand wastes of the Never-Never Land!<br>There are some who will not answer yet awhile,<br>Some whose bones rot in the mulga or lie bleaching on the sand,<br>Died of thirst to win the land another mile.<br>Thrown from horses, ripped by cattle, lost on deserts; and the weak,<br>Mad through loneliness or drink (no matter which),<br>Drowned in floods or dead of fever by the sluggish slimy creek—<br>These are men who died to make the Wool-Kings rich. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Call across the scrubby ridges where they clear the barren soil,<br>And the gaunt Bush-women share the work of men—<br>Toil and loneliness for ever—hardship, loneliness and toil—<br>Where the brave drought-ruined farmer starts again!<br>Call across the boundless sheep-runs of a country cursed for sheep—<br>Call across the awful scrublands west of Bourke!<br>But they have no time to listen—they have scarcely time to sleep—<br>For the men who conquer deserts have to work. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dragged behind the crawling sheep-flock on the hot and dusty plain,<br>They must make a cheque to feed the wife and kids—<br>Riding night-watch round the cattle in the pelting, freezing rain,<br>While world-weariness is pressing down the lids.<br>And away on far out-stations, seldom touched by Heaven’s breath,<br>In a loneliness that smothers love and hate—<br>Where they never take white women—there they live the living death<br>With a half-caste or a black-gin for a mate. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">They must toil to save the gaunt stock in the blazing months of drought,<br>When the stinging, blinding blight is in men’s eyes—<br>On the wretched, burnt selections, on the big runs further out<br>Where the sand-storm rises lurid to the skies.<br>Not to profit when the grass is waving waist-high after rain,<br>And the mighty clip of wool comes rolling in—<br>For the Wool-King goes to Paris with his family again<br>And the gold that souls are sacrificed to win. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are carriages in waiting for the swells from over-sea,<br>There are banquets in the latest London style,<br>While the men who made Australia live on damper, junk and tea—<br>But the quiet voices whisper, ‘Wait a while!’<br>For the sons of all Australia, they were born to conquer fate—<br>And, where charity and friendship are sincere,<br>Where a sinner is a brother and a stranger is a mate,<br>There the future of a nation’s written clear. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Aye, the cities claim the triumphs of a land they do not know,<br>But all empty is the day they celebrate!<br>For the men who made Australia federated long ago,<br>And the men to rule Australia—they can wait.<br>Though the bed may be the rough bunk or the gum leaves or the sand,<br>And the roof for half the year may be the sky—<br>There are men amongst the Bushmen who were born to save the land!<br>And they’ll take their places sternly by-and-by. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There’s a whisper on the desert though the sunset breeze hath died<br>In the scrubs, though not a breath to stir a bough,<br>There’s a murmur, not of waters, down the Lachlan River side,<br>’Tis the spirit of Australia waking now!<br>There’s the weird hymn of the drought-night on the western water-shed,<br>Where the beds of unlocked rivers crack and parch;<br>’Tis the dead that we have buried, and our great unburied dead,<br>Who are calling now on living men to march! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Round the camp fire of the fencers by the furthest panel west,<br>In the men’s hut by the muddy billabong,<br>On the Great North-Western Stock-routes where the drovers never rest,<br>They are sorting out the right things from the wrong.<br>In the shearers’ hut the slush lamp shows a haggard, stern-faced man<br>Preaching war against the Wool-King to his mates;<br>And wherever go the billy, water-bag and frying-pan,<br>They are drafting future histories of states!</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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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408869" data-title="The Men Who Made Australia de Henry Lawson" data-description="There'll be royal times in Sydney for the Cuff and Collar Push,
There’ll be lots of dreary drivel and clap-trap
From the men who own Australia, but who never knew the Bush,
And who could not point their runs out on the map.
Oh, the daily Press w..."></div>
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