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Success

Did you see that man riding past,
With shoulders bowed with care?
There’s failure in his eyes to last,
And in his heart despair.
He seldom looks to left or right,
He nods, but speaks to none,
And he’s a man who fought the fight—
God knows how hard!—and won.
No great “review” could rouse him now,
No printed lies could sting;
No kindness smooth his knitted brow,
Nor wrong one new line bring.
Through dull, dumb days and brooding nights,
From years of storm and stress,
He’s riding down from lonely heights—
The Mountains of Success.

He sees across the darkening land
The graveyards on the coasts;
He sees the broken columns stand
Like cold and bitter ghosts;
His world is dead while yet he lives,
Though known in continents;
His camp is where his country gives
Its pauper monuments.

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Skyline Riders

Against the light of a dawning white
My Skyline Riders stand—
There is trouble ahead for a dark year dead
And the selfish wrongs of a land;
There are hurrying feet of fools to repeat
The follies of Nineteen Eight,
But darkly still on each distant hill
My riders watch and wait.
My Skyline Riders are down and gone
As far as the eye can see,
And the horses stand in the shades of dawn
Where a single man holds three.
We feel the flush and we feel the thrill
Of the coming of Nineteen Nine,
For my Skyline Riders are over the hill
And into the firing line.

The skyline lifts while a storm-cloud lowers—
What’s that? A shot! All’s well!
There is news out there for this land of ours
That the tattling rifles tell.
A “thud” and a “thud” and a flash like blood!
There is light on the land at last!
Australian guns on the nearer hills
Are talking about the past.

O, a lonely place in the days gone by
Was the long first firing line,
Where we fought as strangers, you and I,
For the land that was yours and mine.
There was time to dream in the firing line,
There was time to starve and die,
When the only things in that world of mine
Were my Native Land and I.

O, a lonely place was the firing line
When the gaps were wide between—
Hundreds of miles, in this land of mine
And never a soldier seen.
The dying must die and the dead were left
Unmarked by the deadly tired—
When struck to the heart in a firing line
Where never a shot was fired.

O, a lonely place was the firing line
In the days of the dearth of men,
But hundreds and hundreds of soldiers’ sons
Have flocked to the line since then
We left it weak in the hour of pride,
When our rule seemed firmly set,
But danger threatened the firing line,
And there’s deadly danger yet.

Proud of virtue, and proud of sin,
Or proud ’neath a cruel wrong;
Proud in failure or proud to win—
Oh, the pride of man is strong!
Proud of gold or of being without
Or proud of women and wine—
But get you down from your horse of pride
And into the firing line.

Pride in poverty—all the same—
There’s work for all men to do,
With wrong to fight there is deathless fame
To win in a land so new.
Preacher and drunkard! and sportsman and bard!
In the dawning of Nineteen Nine—
Saints and sinners! ride hard! ride hard!
They are pressed in the Firing Line.

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wych Elm

Green is the wych-elm
Torn is the tiding,
Ghosts in the old country
Surely are riding,
Deep lie the shadows
On dull days in waiting,
Trace the old harmonies
Long in creating,
Sharp is the memory,
Dark is the will,
Lost for all seasons
In some rippling rill.

Long did he wander,
He that in I
Took to the meadows,
Gazed at the sky,
Rambled by rivers and
Rolled in the corn,
He that in I was
When we were new-born,
Fled by the wych-elm
Where age and old sin
Awaited his passing
That he would come in.

He that came in as
The I that went by him
Smiled in some greeting
That caught my tongue tying,
Reached for the reins of
His dapple-grey gelding,
Rode through the seasons
That never had ending,
Squandered the meadows
And trampled the corn,
Serving the wych-elm of
Both of us born.

Now I return with
The lines in our faces,
Searching for shadows of
Both of our traces,
Hoping for comfort or
Words of some kindness,
Lost in the echoing
Creed of my blindness,
Shadows of him that I
Tore from within me,
Left by the wych-elm
To steal that he lent me.

Green is the wych-elm
Torn is the tiding,
Ghosts of the old country
Surely are riding,
Out by the meadow
A child that waylays me,
Speaks to me once, and that:
‘You have betrayed me! ’
Turns at the river to
Gaze at the sky,
Rides away slowly,
He that was I.

Nothing is left for
My bitter eye brightly,
Nothing but shades that
Return to me nightly,
Seasons that flickered, that
Galloped and fled me,
Schemes and ambitions that
Always misled me…
But no-one could ever do
More to dismay me
Than he that was I, saying:
‘You have betrayed me! ’

5 April 1978

poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Riding Round the Lines

Dust and smoke against the sunrise out where grim disaster lurks
And a broken sky-line looming like unfinished railway works,
And a trot, trot, trot and canter down inside the belt of mines:
It is General Greybeard Shrapnel who is riding round his lines.

And the scarecrows from the trenches, haggard eyes and hollow cheeks,
War-stained uniforms and ragged that have not been off for weeks;
They salute him and they cheer him and they watch his face for signs;
Ah! they try to read old Greybeard while he’s riding round the lines.

There’s a crack, crack, crack and rattle; there’s a thud and there’s a crash;
In the battery over yonder there is something gone to smash,
Then a hush and sudden movement, and its meaning he divines,
And he patches up a blunder while he’s riding round his lines.

Pushing this position forward, bringing that position back,
While his officers, with orders, ride like hell down hell’s own track;
Making hay—and to what purpose?—while his sun of winter shines,
But his work is just beginning when he’s ridden round his lines.

There are fifty thousand rifles and a hundred batteries
All a-playing battle music, with his fingers on the keys,
And if for an hour, exhausted, on his camp bed he reclines,
In his mind he still is riding—he is riding round his lines.

He’s the brains of fifty thousand, blundering at their country’s call;
He’s the one hope of his nation, and the loneliest man of all;
He is flesh and blood and human, though he never shews the signs:
He is General Greybeard Shrapnel who is fixing up his lines.

It is thankless work and weary, and, for all his neighbour knows,
He may sometimes feel as if he doesn’t half care how it goes;
But for all that can be gathered from his eyes of steely blue
He might be a great contractor who has some big job to do.

There’s the son who died in action—it may be a week ago;
There’s the wife and other troubles that most men have got to know—
(And we’ll say the grey-haired mother underneath the porch of vines):
Does he ever think of these things while he’s riding round his lines?

He is bossed by bitter boobies who can never understand;
He is hampered by the asses and the robbers of the land,
And I feel inclined to wonder what his own opinions are
Of the Government, the country, of the war and of the Czar.

He’s the same when he’s advancing, he’s the same in grim retreat;
For he wears one mask in triumph and the same mask in defeat;
Of the brave he is the bravest, he is strongest of the strong:
General Greybeard Shrapnel never shows that anything is wrong.

But we each and all are lonely, and we have our work to do;
We must fight for wife and children or our country and our screw
In the everlasting struggle to the end that fate destines;
In the war that men call living we are riding round our lines.

I ride round my last defences, where the bitter jibes are flung,
I am patching up the blunders that I made when I was young,
And I may be digging pitfalls and I may be laying mines;
For I sometimes feel like Shrapnel while I’m riding round my lines.

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Out Of The Blue

Written by ian bairnson
Out of the blue
I come sailing
Through the years
Through the years
What do I do?
Now that Ive seen
All our hopes
And all of our fears
And Im riding a lonely highway
Im the man from out of the blue
Yes Im riding a lonely highway
Im the man from out of the blue
I travel far
Yet no distance
Im still here
Always here
So follow the call
To our senses
Still theres hope
Behind the fear
And Im riding a lonely highway
cause Im the man from out of the blue
And Im riding a lonely highway
Im the man from out of the blue
Yes Im riding a lonely highway
Im the man from out of the blue

song performed by by Alan Parsons Project
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hats Off

The stage is set tonight down in Nashville
It's been a long, hard ride into town
And thanks to some cowboys and heros
My chance to sing has finally come around
The first song I ever sang was haggard
Momma sang to me I saw the Light
I'd turn my radio up louder
To hear Johnny Cash walk the line
Waylon sang a song about Texas
Willie's "Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain"
Bocephus sings a song about dixie.
Lefty taught us all how to sing.
Hats off to hard riding cowboys
Riding some where tonight
Hats off to hard riding cowboys
Wanted, dead or alive
Charlie ran the devil out of Georgia
Skynyrd sang sweet home Alabam
The Ahlman brothers taught us how to ramble
And to Tucker boys showed us how to jam.
Hats off to hard riding cowboys
Riding some where tonight
Hats off to hard riding cowboys
Wanted, dead or alive
The stage is set tonight up in Heaven
Rebas band is there with Patsy Cline
And all around are cowboys and cowgirls
And thanks to them the music's still alive
Hats off to hard riding cowboys
Flying somewhere tonight
Hats off to hard fighting cowboys
Wanted, dead or alive
Hats off to hard riding cowboys
Flying somewhere tonight
Hats off to hard fighting cowboys
Wanted, dead or alive

song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Let It All Burn

Riding the waves of premonitions.
Maybe your right, maybe your wrong.
I no longer care.
You gave up on me long ago.
And now I'm giving up on you.

The broken hearted are departing.
Setting sail for a new found trust.
I don't blame you, I've just had enough.
Trying to cross the divide.
Trying to see eye to eye.
But the flames just carry to high.
Their might be clearing in the sky but I can't find it.