Pioneers
They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide;
There were the sons of field and flock since e’er they learned to ride;
We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years
As those explorers of the bush – the brave old pioneers.
‘Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought;
‘Twas they that heard the master-word that called them further out;
‘Twas they that followed up the trail the mountain cattle made
And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid.
But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead
When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead
By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west,
And spied the far off promised land from off the ranges’ crest.
Oh! Ye, that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain,
We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again,
The men who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years –
The founders of our nation’s life, the brave old pioneers.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Sons Of The Pioneers
(myles goodwyn)
Published by northern goody two tunes, ltd./capac - ascap
Reachin for a space in time, layin our fate on the line
Starting out a life anew, after weve come so far
Wont you look and see now, here we are
You were the ones, there is no doubt
You ate it up and spit it out
You were the ones, you made it clear, you could take it
We are the sons of the pioneers (we are the sons of pioneers)
The day has come, our fate is clear
Were the sons of the pioneers
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Were not afraid to try (were not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid of fear
Whats the point of going on, if you feel that it couldnt be done
Cause I just wanna understand, freedoms the soul of a man
Wont you look and see now, and show me how
We have the chance, there is no doubt
Well pick it up, and see it out
We are the ones, you made it clear, we can take it
We are the sons of the pioneers (we are the sons of pioneers)
The day has come, the way is clear
For the sons of the pioneers
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid to try (men not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid of fear......................fear
When you think of how far weve come, and to know that weve only begun
Leaving us a legacy, makes sense to me
That now our time has come, for we have to move on
You were the ones, there is no doubt
You ate it up and spit it out
You were the ones, you made it clear, you could take it
And now its time, our fate is surely here now
There is no doubt about it, its time we thought about it
We are the ones, the way is clear, for the sons of the pioneers
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid to try (men not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afriad of fear
Is there any doubt, none at all, they heard the call of the
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid to try (men not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid to try (men not afraid to try)
Sons of the pioneers (sons of the pioneers)
Men not afraid of fear
song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The New Chum Jackeroo
Let bushmen think as bushmen will,
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.
His share of work he never shirks,
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.
’Twas he who proved the world was round—
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.
He fought a way through stubborn hills
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.
By Southern palms and Northern pines—
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.
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.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
He Mourned His Master
INTRODUCTION
The theme is ancient as the hills,
With all their prehistoric glory;
But yet of Corney and his friend,
We’ve often longed to tell the story;
And should we jar the reader’s ear,
Or fail to please his eye observant,
We only trust that he’ll forgive
The bush muse and—your humble servant.
THE STORY
Old Corney built in Deadman’s Gap
A hut, where mountain shades grow denser,
And there he lived for many years,
A timber-getter and a fencer.
And no one knew if he’d a soul
Above long sprees, or split-rail fences,
Unless, indeed, it was his friend,
Who always kept his confidences.
There was a saw-pit in the range;
’Twas owned by three, and they were brothers,
And visitors to Corney’s hut—
’Twas seldom visited by others.
They came because, as they averred,
“Old Corney licked—a gent infernal.”
“His yarns,” if I might trust their word,
“Would made the fortune of a journal.”
In short, the splitter was a “cure”,
Who brightened up their lives’ dull courses;
And so on Sunday afternoons,
At Corney’s hut they’d hang their horses.
They’d have a game of cards and smoke,
And sometimes sing, which was a rum thing—
Unless, in spite of legal folk,
The splitter kept a “drop of something”.
If, as ’twas said, he was “a swell”
Before he sought these sombre ranges,
’Twixt mother’s arms and coffin gear
He must have seen a world of changes.
But from his lips would never fall
A hint of home, or friends, or brothers;
And if he told his tale at all,
He must have told it as another’s.
Though he was good at telling yarns,
At listening he excelled not less so,
And greatly helped the bushman’s tales
With “yes”, “exactly so”, or “jes’ so”.
In short, the hut became a club
Like our Assembly Legislative,
Combining smokeroom, hall, and “pub”,
Political and recreative.
Old Corney lived and Corney died,
As we will, too, on some to-morrow,
But not as Corney died, we hope,
Of heart disease, and rum, and sorrow.
(We hope to lead a married life,
At times the cup of comfort quaffing;
And when we leave this world of strife
We trust that we may die of laughing.)
One New Year’s Eve they found him dead—
For rum had made his life unstable—
They found him stretched upon his bed,
And also found, upon the table,
The coloured portrait of a girl—
Blue eyes of course. The hair was golden,
A faded letter and a curl,
And—well, we said the theme was olden.
The splitter had for days been dead
And cold before the sawyers found him,
And none had witnessed how he died
Except the friend who whimpered round him;
A noble friend, and of a kind
Who stay when other friends forsake us;
And he at last was left behind
To greet the rough bush undertakers.
This was a season when the bush
Was somewhat ruled by time and distance,
And bushmen came and tried the world,
And “gave it best” without assistance.
Then one might die of heart disease,
And still be spared the inquest horrors.
And when the splitter lay at ease,
So, also, did his sins and sorrows.
“Ole Corey’s dead,” the bushmen said;
“He’s gone at last, an’ ne’er a blunder.”
And so they brought a horse and dray,
And tools to “tuck the old cove under.”
The funeral wended through the range,
And slowly round its rugged corners;
The reader will not think it strange
That Corney’s friend was chief of mourners.
He must have thought the bushmen hard,
And of his misery unheeding,
Because they shunned his anxious eyes,
That seemed for explanation pleading.
At intervals his tongue would wipe
The jaws that seemed with anguish quaking;
As some strong hand impatiently
Might chide the tears for prison breaking.
They reached by rugged ways at last,
A desolate bush cemetery,
Where now (our tale is of the past),
A thriving town its dead doth bury.
And where the bones of pioneers
Are found and thrown aside unheeded—
For later sleepers, blessed with tears
Of many friends, the graves are needed.
The funeral reached the bushmen’s graves,
Where these old pioneers were sleeping,
And now while down the granite ridge
The shadow of the peak was creeping,
They dug a grave beneath a gum
And lowered the dead as gently may be
As Corney’s mother long before
Had laid him down to “hush-a-baby”.
A bushman read the words to which
The others reverently listened,
Some bearded lips were seen to twitch,
Some shaded eyes with moisture glistened.
Perhaps this weakness was because
Their work reminded them in sorrow
Of other burials long ago,
When friends “turned in to wait the morrow.”
The boys had brought the splitter’s tools,
And now they split and put together
Four panels such as Corney made,
To stand the stress of western weather.
Perhaps this second weakness rose,
From some good reason undetected;
They may have thought of other graves
Of dearer friends they left neglected.
“Old Corney’s dead, he paid his bills”
(These words upon the tree were graven)
“And oft a swagman down in luck,
At Corey’s mansion found a haven.”
If this an explanation needs,
We greatly fear we can’t afford it;
Unless they thought of other dead,
Whose virtues they had not recorded.
The day had crossed the homeward track,
And as the bushmen turned to tread it,
They thought and spoke of many things,
Remembered now to Corney’s credit;
And strange to say, above their heads
The kookaburra burst with laughter.
(Perhaps he thought of other friends
Whose virtues they remembered—after.)
But now the bushmen hurried on
Lest darkness in the range should find them;
And strange to say they never saw
That Corney’s friend had stayed behind them.
If one had thrown a backward glance
Along the rugged path they wended,
He might have seen a darker form
Upon the damp cold mound extended.
But soon their forms had vanished all,
And night came down the ranges faster,
And no one saw the shadows fall
Upon the dog that mourned his master.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Way I Treated Father [A Bush Song]
I WORKED with father in the bush
At splitting rails and palings.
He never was unkind to me,
Although he “had his failings:”
And now his grave is old and green,
And now at times I’m rather
Inclined to think ’twas very mean
The way I treated father.
The mother had for years been dead,
And Dad and I and Stumpy
Were living in a little shed—
What bushmen call a humpy;
And now I think when day began,
And it was cold and chilly,
’Twas mean to see a grey old man
Get up and boil the billy.
And though my lazy limbs were stiff;
And though ’twas winter weather.
And though my eyes were shut as if
The lids were glued together,
I think ’twas mean to lie in bed;
I think that I was silly,
Because I growled if father said,
“Git up and bile the billy!”
I didn’t help the cooking much
For I was always “tired”—
’Twas strange that I could eat with such
An appetite as I had;
But now I mind I never growled
When father shouted, “Willie!
It’s gittin’ on for dinnertime;
Go home and bile the hilly.”
His grave is growing old and green
And things have altered rather;
But still I think ’twas mighty mean
The way I treated father.
He left a tidy sum to me,
But I’d give all the money
To hear him say, “Will you get up
And bile the billy, Sonny?”
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Brave New World
Dying swans twisted wings, beauty not needed here
Lost my love, lost my life, in this garden of fear
I have seen many things, in a lifetime alone
Mother love is no more, bring this savage back home
Wilderness house of pain, makes no sense of it all
Close this mind dull this brain, messiah before his fall
What you see is not real, those who know will not tell
All is lost sold your souls to this brave new world
A brave new world, in a brave new world
A brave new world, in a brave new world
In a brave new world, a brave new world
In a brave new world, a brave new world
Dragon kings dying queens, where is salvation now
Lost my life lost my dreams, rip the bones from my flesh
Silent screams laughing here, dying to tell you the truth
You are planned and you are damned in this brave new world
A brave new world, in a brave new world
A brave new world, in a brave new world
In a brave new world, a brave new world
In a brave new world, a brave new world
A brave new world, in a brave new world
A brave new world, in a brave new world
In a brave new world, a brave new world
In a brave new world, a brave new world
Dying swans twisted wings, bring this savage back home
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Song of the Wheat
We have sung the song of the droving days,
Of the march of the travelling sheep;
By silent stages and lonely ways
Thin, white battalions creep.
But the man who now by the land would thrive
Must his spurs to a plough-share beat.
Is there ever a man in the world alive
To sing the song of the Wheat!
It's west by south of the Great Divide
The grim grey plains run out,
Where the old flock-masters lived and died
In a ceaseless fight with drought.
Weary with waiting and hope deferred
They were ready to own defeat,
Till at last they heard the master-word—
And the master-word was Wheat.
Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine—
’Twas axe and fire for all;
They scarce could tarry to blaze the line
Or wait for the trees to fall,
Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide,
And the dust of the horses’ feet
Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide
The wonderful march of Wheat.
Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold,
The soil is turned on the plain;
Better than silver and better than gold
Is the surface-mine of the grain;
Better than cattle and better than sheep
In the fight with drought and heat;
For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep,
Lies hid in a grain of Wheat.
When the stock is swept by the hand of fate,
Deep down in his bed of clay
The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait
For the resurrection day:
Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead;
But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet,
Will over the steaming paddocks spread
The first green flush of the Wheat.
Green and amber and gold it grows
When the sun sinks late in the West;
And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows
Where the quail and the skylark nest.
Mountain or river or shining star,
There’s never a sight can beat—
Away to the sky-line stretching far—
A sea of the ripening Wheat.
When the burning harvest sun sinks low,
And the shadows stretch on the plain,
The roaring strippers come and go
Like ships on a sea of grain;
Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear
Their tale of the load complete.
Of the world’s great work he has done his share
Who has gathered a crop of wheat.
Princes and Potentates and Czars,
They travel in regal state,
But old King Wheat has a thousand cars
For his trip to the water-gate;
And his thousand steamships breast the tide
And plough thro’ the wind and sleet
To the lands where the teeming millions bide
That say: “Thank God for Wheat!”
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Brave Little Soldier
Im a brave little soldier
I must be bold and strong
A brave little soldier
And I must carry on
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Im a brave little soldier
I must fight, I must win
Im a brave little soldier
Through hell and back again
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Per rum, pum, pum
Per rum, pum, pum
Per rum, pum, pum, pum, pum
Ye though I am marching through the valley filled with fear
My steps are sure and sturdy and my aim is straight and clear
The enemy is stalking me just waiting for the kill
Like david slewed galiath
I will claim this battle field
Im a brave little soldier
I must do what I can
Im a brave little soldier
And I must take a stand
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Marching, marching onward
Searching out the light of truth
I did not start the war
But its a battle I cant lose
Faith will be my armor
And love my sword and shield
I must defeat the enemy
I will, I will, I will
A brave little soldier
I must be bold and strong
A brave little soldier
And I must carry on
A brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Brave, little soldier
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Sacred to the Memory of “Unknown”
Oh, the wild black swans fly westward still,
While the sun goes down in glory—
And away o’er lonely plain and hill
Still runs the same old story:
The sheoaks sigh it all day long—
It is safe in the Big Scrub’s keeping—
’Tis the butcher-birds’ and the bell-birds’ song
In the gum where ‘Unknown’ lies sleeping—
(It is heard in the chat of the soldier-birds
O’er the grave where ‘Unknown’ lies sleeping).
Ah! the Bushmen knew not his name or land,
Or the shame that had sent him here—
But the Bushmen knew by the dead man’s hand
That his past life lay not near.
The law of the land might have watched for him,
Or a sweetheart, wife, or mother;
But they bared their heads, and their eyes were dim,
For he might have been a brother!
(Ah! the death he died brought him near to them,
For he might have been a brother.)
Oh, the wild black swans to the westward fade,
And the sunset burns to ashes,
And three times bright on an eastern range
The light of a big star flashes,
Like a signal sent to a distant strand
Where a dead man’s love sits weeping.
And the night comes grand to the Great Lone Land
O’er the grave where ‘Unknown’ lies sleeping,
And the big white stars in their clusters blaze
O’er the Bush where ‘Unknown’ lies sleeping.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Over the Ranges and Into the West
Let others sing praise of their sea-girted isles,
But give me the bush with its limitless miles;
Then it’s over the ranges and into the West,
To the scenes of wild boyhood; we love them the best.
We’ll ride and we’ll ride from the city afar,
To the plains where the cattle and sheep stations are;
Where stockmen ride hard, and the drover starts forth
On his long, lonely journey ’way up in the North.
When your money is low, and your luck has gone down,
There’s no place so lone as the streets of a town;
There’s nothing but worry, and dread and unrest,
So we’ll over the ranges and into the West.
The drought in the West may spread ruin around,
But the dread drought of life in the city is found;
And I’d far sooner tread on the long dusty way,
Where each one you meet says, “Good day, mate, good day.”
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Good Old Concertina
’Twas merry when the hut was full
Of jolly girls and fellows.
We danced and sang until we burst
The concertina’s bellows.
From distant Darling to the sea,
From the Downs to Riverina,
Has e’er a gum in all the west
Not heard the concertina?
’Twas peaceful round the campfire blaze,
The long white branches o’er us;
We’d play the tunes of bygone days,
To some good old bush chorus.
Old Erin’s harp may sweeter be,
The Scottish pipes blow keener;
But sing an old bush song for me
To the good old concertina.
’Twas cosy by the hut-fire bright
When the pint pot passed between us;
We drowned the voice of the stormy night
With the good old concertina’s.
Though trouble drifts along the years,
And the pangs of care grow keener,
My heart is gladdened when it hears
That good old concertina.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Passing of Scotty
WE THROW us down on the dusty plain
When the gold has gone from the west,
But we rise and tramp on the track again,
For we’re tired—too tired to rest.
Darker and denser the shadows fall
That are cramping each aching brow—
Scotty the Wrinkler! you’ve solved it all,
Give us a wrinkle now.
But no one lieth so still in death
As the rover who never could rest;
And he’s free of thought as he’s free of breath—
And his hands are crossed on his breast.
You have earned your rest—you brave old tramp—
As I hope in the end we will.
Ah me! ’Twas a long, long way to camp
Since the days when they called you “Phil’.
What have they done with your quaint old soul
Now they have passed you through?
But we can’t but think, as our swags we roll,
That it’s right, old man, with you;
You learned some truth in the storm and strife
Of the outcast battler’s ways;
And you left some light in the vagabond’s life
Ere you vanished beyond the haze.
One by one in the far ahead,
In the smothering haze of drought—
Where hearts are loyal and hopes are dead—
The forms of our mates fade out.
’Tis a distant goal and a weary load,
But we follow the Wrinkler home,
As, staggering into the short, straight road,
From the blind branch tracks we come.
We leave our mark and we play our part
In the nation’s pregnant days,
And we find a place in the Bushman’s heart
Ere we vanish beyond the haze.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Bush Hay
The stamp of Scotland is on his face,
But he sailed to the South a lad,
And he does not think of the black bleak hills
And the bitter hard youth he had;
He thinks of a nearer and dearer past
In the bright land far away,
When the teams went up and the teams came down,
In the days when they made bush hay.
The fare was rough and the bush was grim
In the “years of his pilgrimage”,
But he gained the strength that is still with him
In his hale, late middle age.
He thinks of the girl at the halfway inn
They use as a barn to-day—
Oh, she was a dumpling and he was thin
In the days when they made bush hay.
The ration teams to the Bathurst Plains
Were often a fortnight full.
And they branched all ways in the early days
And back to the port with wool.
They watched for the lights of old Cobb & Co.
That flashed to the West away,
When drivers drove six on a twelve-mile stage
In the days when they made bush hay.
He has made enough, and he’s sold his claim,
And he goes by the morning train,
From the gold-field town in the sultry West
To his home by the sea again,
Where a bustling old body’s expecting him
Whose hair is scarcely grey,
And she was the girl of the halfway house
In the days when they made bush hay.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Old Pioneers
These old friends of ours! Sixty years back,
Bearded and booted, they followed the track,
Came like their Saxon forefathers of old,
Carving a nation from waste and from wold,
Mighty of purpose and stalwart of limb,
Clove they a path through the forest so dim,
Forward, adventuring, knowing no fears--
Honour and praise to the old pioneers.
Now they are feeble and bowed are their backs,
Long laid aside are the stockwhip and axe;
Dulled though each sense is, the hearing is quick
Oft-times to catch the faint ring of the pick,
Eyes, too, are closed yet they see clear and plain
The camp and the creek and the ranges again;
Australia's first story and the world never hears,
It is locked in the hearts of the old pioneers.
Then to the workers of those distant days
Certain poor players came bringing their plays,
Lighter grew toil for the songs that they trolled,
Sweeter was life for the love-stories told,
Gone now the music, the laughter is stilled,
Audience and players together are chilled,
Yet--like the flowers--the smiles and the tears
Ever are fresh for the old pioneers.
Yes, they are old, nor of wealth have they hoard,
Heap we the fire, then, and plenish the board;
Age steals upon them and chilly life grows,
Workers and players have earned their repose.
Soon on their names all in vain we shall call,
For even the grandest old landmarks must fall.
Just a warm hand-clasp ere one disappears--
These are the last of the old pioneers.
poem by Frank Dalby Davison
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Marshall's Mate
You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves turn --
You could have watched the grass scorch brown had there been grass to burn.
In such a drought the strongest heart might well grow faint and weak --
'Twould frighten Satan to his home -- not far from Dingo Creek.
The tanks went dry on Ninety Mile, as tanks go dry out back,
The Half-Way Spring had failed at last when Marshall missed the track;
Beneath a dead tree on the plain we saw a pack-horse reel --
Too blind to see there was no shade, and too done-up to feel.
And charcoaled on the canvas bag (`twas written pretty clear)
We read the message Marshall wrote. It said: `I'm taken queer --
I'm somewhere off of Deadman's Track, half-blind and nearly dead;
Find Crowbar, get him sobered up, and follow back,' it said.
`Let Mitchell go to Bandicoot. You'll find him there,' said Mack.
`I'll start the chaps from Starving Steers, and take the dry-holes back.'
We tramped till dark, and tried to track the pack-horse on the sands,
And just at daylight Crowbar came with Milroy's station hands.
His cheeks were drawn, his face was white, but he was sober then --
In times of trouble, fire, and flood, 'twas Crowbar led the men.
`Spread out as widely as you can each side the track,' said he;
`The first to find him make a smoke that all the rest can see.'
We took the track and followed back where Crowbar followed fate,
We found a dead man in the scrub -- but 'twas not Crowbar's mate.
The station hands from Starving Steers were searching all the week --
But never news of Marshall's fate came back to Dingo Creek.
And no one, save the spirit of the sand-waste, fierce and lone,
Knew where Jack Marshall crawled to die -- but Crowbar might have known.
He'd scarcely closed his quiet eyes or drawn a sleeping breath --
They say that Crowbar slept no more until he slept in death.
A careless, roving scamp, that loved to laugh and drink and joke,
But no man saw him smile again (and no one saw him smoke),
And, when we spelled at night, he'd lie with eyes still open wide,
And watch the stars as if they'd point the place where Marshall died.
The search was made as searches are (and often made in vain),
And on the seventh day we saw a smoke across the plain;
We left the track and followed back -- 'twas Crowbar still that led,
And when his horse gave out at last he walked and ran ahead.
We reached the place and turned again -- dragged back and no man spoke --
It was a bush-fire in the scrubs that made the cursed smoke.
And when we gave it best at last, he said, `I'LL see it through,'
Although he knew we'd done as much as mortal men could do.
`I'll not -- I won't give up!' he said, his hand pressed to his brow;
`My God! the cursed flies and ants, they might be at him now.
I'll see it so in twenty years, 'twill haunt me all my life --
I could not face his sister, and I could not face his wife.
It's no use talking to me now -- I'm going back,' he said,
`I'm going back to find him, and I will -- alive or dead!'
. . . . .
He packed his horse with water and provisions for a week,
And then, at sunset, crossed the plain, away from Dingo Creek.
We watched him tramp beside the horse till we, as it grew late,
Could not tell which was Bonypart and which was Marshall's mate.
The dam went dry at Dingo Creek, and we were driven back,
And none dared face the Ninety Mile when Crowbar took the track.
They saw him at Dead Camel and along the Dry Hole Creeks --
There came a day when none had heard of Marshall's mate for weeks;
They'd seen him at No Sunday, he called at Starving Steers --
There came a time when none had heard of Marshall's mate for years.
They found old Bonypart at last, picked clean by hungry crows,
But no one knew how Crowbar died -- the soul of Marshall knows!
And now, way out on Dingo Creek, when winter days are late,
The bushmen talk of Crowbar's ghost `what's looking for his mate';
For let the fools indulge their mirth, and let the wise men doubt --
The soul of Crowbar and his mate have travelled further out.
Beyond the furthest two-rail fence, Colanne and Nevertire --
Beyond the furthest rabbit-proof, barbed wire and common wire --
Beyond the furthest `Gov'ment' tank, and past the furthest bore --
The Never-Never, No Man's Land, No More, and Nevermore --
Beyond the Land o' Break-o'-Day, and Sunset and the Dawn,
The soul of Marshall and the soul of Marshall's mate have gone
Unto that Loving, Laughing Land where life is fresh and clean --
Where the rivers flow all summer, and the grass is always green.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Australian Advertisement
WE WANT the man who will lead the van,
The man who will pioneer.
We have no use for the gentleman,
Or the cheating Cheap-Jack here;
We have no room for the men who shirk
The sweat of the brow. Condemn
The men who are frightened to look for work
And funk when it looks for them.
We’ll honour the man who can’t afford
To wait for a job that suits,
But sticks a swag on his shoulders broad
And his feet in blucher boots,
And tramps away o’er the ridges far
And over the burning sand
To look for work where the stations are
In the lonely Western land.
He’ll brave the drouth and he’ll brave the rain,
And fight his sorrows down,
And help to garden the inland plain
And build the inland town;
And he’ll be found in the coming years
With a heart as firm and stout,
An honoured man with the pioneers
Who lead the people out.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Song of the Future
'Tis strange that in a land so strong
So strong and bold in mighty youth,
We have no poet's voice of truth
To sing for us a wondrous song.
Our chiefest singer yet has sung
In wild, sweet notes a passing strain,
All carelessly and sadly flung
To that dull world he thought so vain.
"I care for nothing, good nor bad,
My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled,
I am but sifting sand," he said:
What wonder Gordon's songs were sad!
And yet, not always sad and hard;
In cheerful mood and light of heart
He told the tale of Britomarte,
And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Garde.
And some have said that Nature's face
To us is always sad; but these
Have never felt the smiling grace
Of waving grass and forest trees
On sunlit plains as wide as seas.
"A land where dull Despair is king
O'er scentless flowers and songless bird!"
But we have heard the bell-birds ring
Their silver bells at eventide,
Like fairies on the mountain side,
The sweetest note man ever heard.
The wild thrush lifts a note of mirth;
The bronzewing pigeons call and coo
Beside their nests the long day through;
The magpie warbles clear and strong
A joyous, glad, thanksgiving song,
For all God's mercies upon earth.
And many voices such as these
Are joyful sounds for those to tell,
Who know the Bush and love it well,
With all its hidden mysteries.
We cannot love the restless sea,
That rolls and tosses to and fro
Like some fierce creature in its glee;
For human weal or human woe
It has no touch of sympathy.
For us the bush is never sad:
Its myriad voices whisper low,
In tones the bushmen only know,
Its sympathy and welcome glad.
For us the roving breezes bring
From many a blossum-tufted tree --
Where wild bees murmur dreamily --
The honey-laden breath of Spring.
* * * *
We have our tales of other days,
Good tales the northern wanderers tell
When bushmen meet and camp-fires blaze,
And round the ring of dancing light
The great, dark bush with arms of night
Folds every hearer in its spell.
We have our songs -- not songs of strife
And hot blood spilt on sea and land;
But lilts that link achievement grand
To honest toil and valiant life.
Lift ye your faces to the sky
Ye barrier mountains in the west
Who lie so peacefully at rest
Enshrouded in a haze of blue;
'Tis hard to feel that years went by
Before the pioneers broke through
Your rocky heights and walls of stone,
And made your secrets all their own.
For years the fertile Western plains
Were hid behind your sullen walls,
Your cliffs and crags and waterfalls
All weatherworn with tropic rains.
Between the mountains and the sea
Like Israelites with staff in hand,
The people waited restlessly:
They looked towards the mountains old
And saw the sunsets come and go
With gorgeous golden afterglow,
That made the West a fairyland,
And marvelled what that West might be
Of which such wondrous tales were told.
For tales were told of inland seas
Like sullen oceans, salt and dead,
And sandy deserts, white and wan,
Where never trod the foot of man,
Nor bird went winging overhead,
Nor ever stirred a gracious breeze
To wake the silence with its breath --
A land of loneliness and death.
At length the hardy pioneers
By rock and crag found out the way,
And woke with voices of today
A silence kept for years and tears.
Upon the Western slope they stood
And saw -- a wide expanse of plain
As far as eye could stretch or see
Go rolling westward endlessly.
The native grasses, tall as grain,
Bowed, waved and rippled in the breeze;
From boughs of blossom-laden trees
The parrots answered back again.
They saw the land that it was good,
A land of fatness all untrod,
And gave their silent thanks to God.
The way is won! The way is won!
And straightway from the barren coast
There came a westward-marching host,
That aye and ever onward prest
With eager faces to the West,
Along the pathway of the sun.
The mountains saw them marching by:
They faced the all-consuming drought,
They would not rest in settled land:
But, taking each his life in hand,
Their faces ever westward bent
Beyond the farthest settlement,
Responding to the challenge cry
of "better country farther out".
And lo, a miracle! the land
But yesterday was all unknown,
The wild man's boomerang was thrown
Where now great busy cities stand.
It was not much, you say, that these
Should win their way where none withstood;
In sooth there was not much of blood --
No war was fought between the seas.
It was not much! but we who know
The strange capricious land they trod --
At times a stricken, parching sod,
At times with raging floods beset --
Through which they found their lonely way
Are quite content that you should say
It was not much, while we can feel
That nothing in the ages old,
In song or story written yet
On Grecian urn or Roman arch,
Though it should ring with clash of steel,
Could braver histories unfold
Than this bush story, yet untold --
The story of their westward march.
* * * *
But times are changed, and changes rung
From old to new -- the olden days,
The old bush life and all its ways,
Are passing from us all unsung.
The freedom, and the hopeful sense
Of toil that brought due recompense,
Of room for all, has passed away,
And lies forgotten with the dead.
Within our streets men cry for bread
In cities built but yesterday.
About us stretches wealth of land,
A boundless wealth of virgin soil
As yet unfruitful and untilled!
Our willing workmen, strong and skilled,
Within our cities idle stand,
And cry aloud for leave to toil.
The stunted children come and go
In squalid lanes and alleys black:
We follow but the beaten track
Of other nations, and we grow
In wealth for some -- for many, woe.
And it may be that we who live
In this new land apart, beyond
The hard old world grown fierce and fond
And bound by precedent and bond,
May read the riddle right, and give
New hope to those who dimly see
That all things yet shall be for good,
And teach the world at length to be
One vast united brotherhood.
* * * *
So may it be! and he who sings
In accents hopeful, clear, and strong,
The glories which that future brings
Shall sing, indeed, a wondrous song.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
With the Cattle
The drought is down on field and flock,
The river-bed is dry;
And we must shift the starving stock
Before the cattle die.
We muster up with weary hearts
At breaking of the day,
And turn our heads to foreign parts,
To take the stock away.
And it’s hunt ‘em up and dog ‘em,
And it’s get the whip and flog ‘em,
For it’s weary work, is droving, when they’re dying every day;
By stock routes bare and eaten,
On dusty roads and beaten,
With half a chance to save their lives we take the stock away.
We cannot use the whip for shame
On beasts that crawl along;
We have to drop the weak and lame,
And try to save the strong;
The wrath of God is on the track,
The drought fiend holds his sway;
With blows and cries the stockwhip crack
We take the stock away.
As they fall we leave them lying,
With the crows to watch them dying,
Grim sextons of the Overland that fasten on their prey;
By the fiery dust-storm drifting,
And the mocking mirage shifting,
In heat and drought and hopeless pain we take the stock away.
In dull despair the days go by
With never hope of change,
But every stage we feel more nigh
The distant mountain range;
And some may live to climb the pass,
And reach the great plateau,
And revel in the mountain grass
By streamlets fed with snow.
As the mountain wind is blowing
It starts the cattle lowing
And calling to each other down the dusty long array;
And there speaks a grizzled drover:
“Well, thank God, the worst is over,
The creatures smell the mountain grass that’s twenty miles away.”
They press towards the mountain grass,
They look with eager eyes
Along the rugged stony pass
That slopes towards the skies;
Their feet may bleed from rocks and stones,
But, though the blood-drop starts,
They struggle on with stifled groans,
For hope is in their hearts.
And the cattle that are leading,
Though their feet are worn and bleeding,
Are breaking to a kind of run – pull up, and let them go!
For the mountain wind is blowing,
And the mountain grass is growing,
They’ll settle down by running streams ice-cold with melted snow.
The days are gone of heat and drought
Upon the stricken plain;
The wind has shifted right about,
And brought the welcome rain;
The river runs with sullen roar,
All flecked with yellow foam,
And we must take the road once more
To bring the cattle home.
And it’s “Lads! We’ll raise a chorus,
There’s a pleasant trip before us.”
And the horses bound beneath us as we start them down the track;
And the drovers canter, singing,
Through the sweet green grasses springing
Towards the far-off mountain-land, to bring the cattle back.
Are these the beasts we brought away
That move so lively now?
They scatter off like flying spray
Across the mountain’s brow;
And dashing down the rugged range
We hear the stockwhips crack –
Good faith, it is a welcome change
To bring such cattle back.
And it’s “Steady down the lead there!”
And it’s “Let ‘em stop and feed there!”
For they’re wild as mountain eagles, and their sides are all afoam;
But they’re settling down already,
And they’ll travel nice and steady;
With cheery call and jest and song we fetch the cattle home.
We have to watch them close at night
For fear they’ll make a rush,
And break away in headlong flight
Across the open bush;
And by the camp-fire’s cheery blaze,
With mellow voice and strong,
We hear the lonely watchman raise the Overlander’s song:
“Oh, it’s when we’re done with roving,
With the camping and the droving,
It’s homeward down the Bland we’ll go, and never more we’ll roam”;
While the stars shine out above us,
Like the eyes of those who love us –
The eyes of those who watch and wait to greet the cattle home.
The plains are all awave with grass,
The skies are deepest blue;
And leisurely the cattle pass
And feed the long day through;
But when we sight the station gate
We make the stockwhips crack,
A welcome sound to those who wait
To greet the cattle back:
And through the twilight falling
We hear their voices calling,
As the cattle splash across the ford and churn it into foam;
And the children run to meet us,
And our wives and sweethearts greet us,
Their heroes from the Overland who brought the cattle home.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Song Of Old Joe Swallow
When I was up the country in the rough and early days,
I used to work along ov Jimmy Nowlett's bullick-drays;
Then the reelroad wasn't heered on, an' the bush was wild an' strange,
An' we useter draw the timber from the saw-pits in the range --
Load provisions for the stations, an' we'd travel far and slow
Through the plains an' 'cross the ranges in the days of long ago.
Then it's yoke up the bullicks and tramp beside 'em slow,
An' saddle up yer horses an' a-ridin' we will go,
To the bullick-drivin', cattle-drovin',
Nigger, digger, roarin', rovin'
Days o' long ago.
Once me and Jimmy Nowlett loaded timber for the town,
But we hadn't gone a dozen mile before the rain come down,
An' me an' Jimmy Nowlett an' the bullicks an' the dray
Was cut off on some risin' ground while floods around us lay;
An' we soon run short of tucker an' terbacca, which was bad,
An' pertaters dipped in honey was the only tuck we had.
An' half our bullicks perished when the drought was on the land,
An' the burnin' heat that dazzles as it dances on the sand;
When the sun-baked clay an' gravel paves for miles the burnin' creeks,
An' at ev'ry step yer travel there a rottin' carcase reeks --
But we pulled ourselves together, for we never used ter know
What a feather bed was good for in those days o' long ago.
But in spite ov barren ridges an' in spite ov mud an' heat,
An' dust that browned the bushes when it rose from bullicks' feet,
An' in spite ov cold and chilblains when the bush was white with frost,
An' in spite of muddy water where the burnin' plain was crossed,
An' in spite of modern progress, and in spite of all their blow,
'Twas a better land to live in, in the days o' long ago.
When the frosty moon was shinin' o'er the ranges like a lamp,
An' a lot of bullick-drivers was a-campin' on the camp,
When the fire was blazin' cheery an' the pipes was drawin' well,
Then our songs we useter chorus an' our yarns we useter tell;
An' we'd talk ov lands we come from, and ov chaps we useter know,
For there always was behind us OTHER days o' long ago.
Ah, them early days was ended when the reelroad crossed the plain,
But in dreams I often tramp beside the bullick-team again:
Still we pauses at the shanty just to have a drop er cheer,
Still I feels a kind ov pleasure when the campin'-ground is near;
Still I smells the old tarpaulin me an' Jimmy useter throw
O'er the timber-truck for shelter in the days ov long ago.
I have been a-driftin' back'ards with the changes ov the land,
An' if I spoke ter bullicks now they wouldn't understand,
But when Mary wakes me sudden in the night I'll often say:
`Come here, Spot, an' stan' up, Bally, blank an' blank an' come-eer-way.'
An' she says that, when I'm sleepin', oft my elerquince 'ill flow
In the bullick-drivin' language ov the days o' long ago.
Well, the pub will soon be closin', so I'll give the thing a rest;
But if you should drop on Nowlett in the far an' distant west --
An' if Jimmy uses doubleyou instead of ar an' vee,
An' if he drops his aitches, then you're sure to know it's he.
An' yer won't forgit to arsk him if he still remembers Joe
As knowed him up the country in the days o' long ago.
Then it's yoke up the bullicks and tramp beside 'em slow,
An' saddle up yer horses an' a-ridin' we will go,
To the bullick-drivin', cattle-drovin',
Nigger, digger, roarin', rovin'
Days o' long ago.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Song of Australia
The centuries found me to nations unknown –
My people have crowned me and made me a throne;
My royal regalia is love, truth, and light –
A girl called Australia – I've come to my right.
Though no fields of conquest grew red at my birth,
My dead were the noblest and bravest on earth;
Their strong sons are worthy to stand with the best –
My brave Overlanders ride west of the west.
My cities are seeking the clean and the right;
My Statesmen are speaking in London to-night;
The voice of my Bushmen is heard oversea;
My army and navy are coming to me.
By all my grim headlands my flag is unfurled,
My artists and singers are charming the world;
The White world shall know its young outpost with pride;
The fame of my poets goes ever more wide.
By old tow'r and steeple of nation grown grey
The name of my people is spreading to-day;
Through all the old nations my learners go forth;
My youthful inventors are startling the north.
In spite of all Asia, and safe from her yet,
Through wide Australasia my standards I'll set;
A grand world and bright world to rise in an hour –
The Wings of the White world, the Balance of Power.
Through storm, or serenely – whate'er I go through –
God grant I be queenly! God grant I be true!
To suffer in silence, and strike at a sign,
Till all the fair islands of these seas are mine.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Knights Of The Never Never
When I rode with young Sid Kidman out across the Yarrowie Plain
In that year the Long Drought ended, and the northlands smiled again
As we took the old Tarcowie track and on to Booleroo,
His keen eye scanned the country, and we yarned of men we knew:
Mal Murray and Jim Spicer, of Jasser and Judell,
Bill Mitchell and old stagers whom I still remember well;
And he told of chance-missed fortunes when the game was in his grasp,
Of life along The Barrier with German Charlie Rasp.
Now, back in Kidman country where the grizzled bushmen are,
In many a stark out-station, o'er many a shanty bar,
The drovers' drawling voices talk about 'Old Sid' today:
'Bushmen like him ain't raised no more,' the grizzled veterans say,
For o'er the furthest saltbush lands his questing mind went out
To glimpse high opportunity where others saw black drought.
Shrewd-eyed, yet greatly daring, laughing he ventured forth
To stake his luck, his judgment 'gainst swift treacheries 'up north.'
'I mind the time I rode with him,' a wizened stockman says.
'He knowed that country like a map, an' all the tricks an' ways.
'Aye, and he knowed the cattle game.' The voices drone and drawl,
Till, 'The time I rode for Kidman,' is the burden of them all.
'Deserved his luck? Too right he did, seein' how he began;
But times like them don't come again for us or any man.
Them meddlin' airyplans an' sich brings old days to an end.'
And so they mourn, no magnate, but a bushman and a friend.
So the best-known bushman passes in the fullness of his years;
And, with his passing, so an olden order disappears
Sid Kidman, Jimmy Tyson - rugged princes of Outback,
Who sought their fortunes far afield along the arid track;
Strong men who, taking heart of grace, unflinchingly rode forth
To play a rough, grim game, and win, against the stubborn North;
To become a land's tradition, future figures of romance,
Busmen who fought and loved their bush; the men who took a chance.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!