A Vision Splendid
Half waking and half dreaming,
While starry lamps hung low
I saw a vision splendid
Upon the darkness glow.
The Capital Australian,
With waving banners plumed -
A shining flower of marble -
Magnificently bloomed.
Beside a snow-fed river
'Twas built in fashion rare -
Upon a lofty mountain,
All in a valley fair.
The stately ships were sailing,
Like brides with flowing trains,
To seek its secret harbor
Amidst Australian plains.
And all around it flourished
Luxuriantly free,
The giant gum and mangrove,
The crimson desert-pea.
And I beheld a building
That made a stately show -
The National Australian
Head Poetry Bureau.
I gazed upon that Building
With trembling joy aghast;
The long-felt want of ages
Was filled (I thought) at last.
No more the Native Poet
Need wildly beat his head
For lofty lyric measures
To buy him beer and bed.
Now he would lodge right nobly
And sleep serene, secure,
All in a chamber filled with
Adhesive furniture.
For never foot of Bailiff
Should pass his threshold o'er,
And never knock of landlord
Sound direful on his door.
The State should also aid him
To build his lofty rhyme
On lordly eggs-and-bacon,
And sausages sublime.
And he should drink no longer
Cheap beer at common bar,
But royal wine of Wunghnu
At two-and-nine the jar.
It was a vision splendid,
And brighter still did grow
When I was made the Chief of
The Poetry Bureau.
They clad me all in purple,
They hung me with festoons,
My singing-robes were spangled
With aluminium moons.
And, as a sign of genius
Above the common kind,
A wreath of gilded laurel
Around my hat they twined.
They also gave me power to
The grain sift from the chaff,
And choose at my large pleasure
My own poetic staff.
Then straightaway I appointed
To chant by day and night,
The brilliant young Australian
Who sang 'The Land of Light.'
I also gave in fashion
Hilariously free,
The Girl and Horse Department
In charge of Ogilvie.
And on the roof-ridge Brady
Sang salt-junk chanties great
To cheer the stout sea-lawyers
Who sail the Ship of State.
And tender-hearted Lawson
Sang everybody's wrongs;
And Brennan, in the basement,
Crooned weird, symbolic songs.
And on the throne beside me,
Above the common din,
He sang his Songs of Beauty,
My friend, the poet Quinn.
Our own Australian artists
Made beautiful its halls -
The mighty steeds of Mahony
Pranced proudly on the walls.
Tom Roberts, he was there, too,
With painted portraits fine
Of men of light and leading -
Me, and some friends of mine.
And Souter's Leering Lady,
'Neath hat and over fan,
With Souter's cat was ogling
His check-clothed gentleman.
And Fischer, Ashton, Lister,
With beetling genius rife -
Pardieu! I was their Patron,
And set them up for life.
And from each dusky corner,
In petrified new birth,
Glared busts of Me and Barton,
By Nelson Illingworth.
And nine fair Muses dwelt there,
With board and lodging free;
Six by the States were chosen,
And I selected three.
And there we turned out blithely
Australian poems sound,
To sell in lengths like carpet,
And also by the pound.
For Paddy Quinn, the Statesman,
Had made a law which said
That native authors only
On pain of death be read.
O, brother bards, I grieve that
Good dreams do not come true;
You see how very nobly
I would have done to you!
But, ah! the vision vanished,
And took away in tow
The National Australian
Head Poetry Bureau.
poem by Victor James Daley
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Related quotes
Well, I'm half Australian, half English and I live in London. That is the only reason I came upon this story. My Australian mother, Meredith Hooper, was invited in late 2007 by some Australian friends to make up a token Australian audience in a tiny fringe theater play reading of an unproduced, unrehearsed play called 'The King's Speech.'
quote by Tom Hooper
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The Squatter Of The Olden Time
I'll sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,
Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,
Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made great
Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots and shoes,
And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and snooze,
And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums choose
Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears them all,
Even to the scabby wanderer you'd think no good at all;
For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the small
Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time.
And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see,
His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily;
The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P.,
He darkly hints that Thompson's run from scab is scarcely free
This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time.
And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he,
But finds with grief he's not received as he had hoped to be.
His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too free,
And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they chance to see
This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Streaking The Australian Way
Streaking
Do we do on a lonely campus night
Tvs a drag and theyre turning off the city lights
I remember the days of the party raids
And sitting on combs was a silly craze
We got a new one
And its called
Streaking the old australian way
Streaking
Were bringing back the age
Streaking
The old australian way
Streaking
Its not what you call your regular high school course
Its a little like lady godiva without the horse
You just need a crowd and some confidence
Theres nothing special to wear so theres no expense
Everybody can do it
So lets go streaking
The old australian way
Were bringing back the age
Streaking
The old australian way
Me and my lady are going to get away
Then go streaking night and day
We felt for awhile there was nothing new to try
You dont have to smoke it but it still gets you high
You just need a mg to get away
And maybe a nice warm sunny day
Anybody can do it
So lets go streaking the old australian way
Were bringing back the age
Streaking
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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AAA......Please free Betty Please.....NEWS FLASH....AAA
The world’s largest fast food chain is to move its
Australian operation toward using free-range eggs.
McDonalds has already started using only free-range
Eggs in other countries and now its Australian arm
Has confirmed it will happen here. They use 70 million p.a.
Retail giant Woolworths reaffirmed last night it
Was reducing its reliance on cage eggs in line
With customer trend toward free-range and
Barn-laid products.
This is not a Poem but poetry to my ears
Finally the most dumb statement from the
Australian Egg Corporation
“The scientific world had still yet to form a
Conclusive argument that the welfare of chickens
Suffered in cages” and “we shouldn’t humanise
These things”..................... My answer
Ken e Hall
My Haiku Animalist
Animal cruelty
Strips their animality while
Animalizing oneself
Oxford Dictionary- ref Animalist...........Animal Liberationist
Animility......The nature or behaviour of animals
Animalize......Make a person bestial
poem by Ken e Hall
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Republican Pioneers
We're marching along, we're gath'ring strong'
We place on our right reliance,
We fling in the air, for all who care,
Our first loud notes of defiance!
We fling in the air,
For all who care,
Our first loud notes of defiance!
Laugh long and loud, you toady crowd,
At the men you call benighted,
In spite of your sneers, we are pioneers
Of "Australian States United"!
In spite of your sneers, We are pioneers
Of "Australian States United"!
Not long we'll stand as an outlaw band,
And be in our country lonely,
For soon to the sky shall ring our cry,
Our cry of "Australia only"!
For soon to the sky
Shall mount our cry,
Our cry of "Australia only"!
And we'll sleep sound in Australian ground,
'Neath the blue-cross flag star lighted,
When it freely waves o'er the grass-grown graves
Of the pioneers united!
When it floats and veers
O'er the pioneers
Of "Australian States United"!
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Australian people want to help build this country into a great nation. This budget... has not realized the capacity of the Australian people. It has underestimated them. It has let us down.
quote by Lionel K. Murphy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Miranda
Though she's Australian by birth she says what's birth right anyway
I'm a citizen of Planet Earth that's what Miranda say
'Tis power hungry men that gave us passports and our right to freely travel us denied
You may call this your Country but you don't own the Countryside.
She says because of our Government I'm not proud to be Australian they lock up refugees
Poor Stateless and Homeless people who arrive in boats from overseas
We celebrate war that leads to dispossession but war victims we disown
The war winners write the war history and one side of the war story only known
Miranda is in her mid fifties gray haired, graceful and tall
And she feels proud to be a member of the society of 'A fair go for all'
One of those selfless people who speaks out for Human rights
On the hills of justice and morality she has climbed to great heights.
She may be Australian by birth but of that she is not proud
And at the Anzac Day parade she was not one of the crowd
To cheer on the old soldiers as they paraded up and down
With their war medals pinned to their coats through the main streets of the Town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I just think Australia tends to make very good movies, so if someone hands me an Australian or an American film script I would guess the Australian film would be more intriguing.
quote by Barbara Hershey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Australian Bards And Bush Reviewers
While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse
The gambling and the drink which are your country's greatest curse,
While you glorify the bully and take the spieler's part --
You're a clever southern writer, scarce inferior to Bret Harte.
If you sing of waving grasses when the plains are dry as bricks,
And discover shining rivers where there's only mud and sticks;
If you picture `mighty forests' where the mulga spoils the view --
You're superior to Kendall, and ahead of Gordon too.
If you swear there's not a country like the land that gave you birth,
And its sons are just the noblest and most glorious chaps on earth;
If in every girl a Venus your poetic eye discerns,
You are gracefully referred to as the `young Australian Burns'.
But if you should find that bushmen -- spite of all the poets say --
Are just common brother-sinners, and you're quite as good as they --
You're a drunkard, and a liar, and a cynic, and a sneak,
Your grammar's simply awful and your intellect is weak.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The National Game Of Australia
The National game of Australia is Australian Rules Football
And the Aussies who love their game say 'tis the greatest game of all
Soccer, Rugby Union and Rugby League and Cricket have their roots elsewhere
But no truer Aussie sportsman than an Aussie Rules footy player,
A game born on Australian soil it surely is Australia's own
And the legend of great footy players in their deaths has even grown
In September at the famed M C G in Melbourne on A F L Grand Final Day
Close to one hundred thousand people flock to watch Australia's best teams play
Though many like both codes of rugby and cricket and soccer a game that is played Worldwide
Australia's National game is Aussie Rules to many that's a source of pride
The National Game of Australia and it's great claim to fame
Is that it was born and bred in Australia and is the only true Australian Game
And it surely is a true Aussie as Aussie as can be
And though some others may like introduced games far better with what I say many would agree.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Son of the Soil
Said the Preacher “All is Vanity!”—appending as a reason
That the things we find our pleasure in are bound to pass and pall;
But it seems to me that whatso'er endureth for a season
Isn't half as vain as whatso'er hath never been at all.
When you find that what you've hitherto been wont to make a boast of
Must be numbered with the ejects that from muddled brains proceed—
When you find that in respect thereof there isn't ev'n a ghost of
Fact to back it up—ah, then, you may cry “Vanity,” indeed.
From my tend'rest years I've plumed myself on being an Australian—
An Australian pure and simple, of the most authentic brand;
Scotchman, Englishman, and Irishman alike to me were alien;
I was sibber to King Billy through our common mother-land.
To the pride of local genesis my being was surrendered,
The worthiest of immigrants I looked upon with scorn
As exotic interlopers under foreign skies engendered,
Though transplanted to my country fifty years ere I was born.
What although they wove the fabric of Australia's starry banner
From the fibre of their being till the tissue was complete,—
'Twas for us, the young, to wave it in our own emphatic manner
In the face of all things ancient, European and effete!
“Ours the fitter hand to hold the reins,” I sedulously boasted;
And whenever at the festal board occasion would allow,
“Australia for the Australians!” with a hip-hooray I toasted . . . .
And to-day I learn I'm no more an Australian than a Chow.
Would to heav'n I'd been content to play the “Native” single-handed,
Nor sought to be enrolled in that accursèd A.N.A., *
But the vain ambition seized me to be registered and branded
As an organised Australian—and I gave myself away.
Not long to crush my fondest pride the ruthless Council tarried;
Yester eve I made my overtures, the answer came at morn—
“Dear Sir, at last night's meeting 'twas unanimously carried
“That a person born at Battersea is not Australian-born.”
“At Battersea?” “At Battersea?”—Unwitting of objection
I had hardly even looked at my certificate of birth,
Which, now “Returned herewith,” brought dimly back to recollection
A tale of my nativity on t'other side the earth.
How my mother (rest her soul) by wayward appetences fretted
Cried aloud for the Old Country and a breath of English air;
How my father, ripe for holiday, her last caprice abetted. . . . .
And I, a mere expectancy, went them unaware.
And though the self-same year in shining dells of myrtle found me,
Where the wattle shed its perfume and the lories flashed their gems,
And the white acacia blossoms flaked the verdure allaround me—
I had been born in London, on the Surrey side of Thames.
Oh, vanity of vanities, the birth I made a boast of!
Oh, unsubstantial eject of an inadvertent brain!
And the self-confounding sentiment I made so brave a toast of
Gr-r. I danced on my certificate—and even that was vain.
* * * * *
I have slept upon the question. I have faced the problem squarely
At the favoured hour of wisdom when the darkness turns to grey.
I have reckoned up “nativity” impartially and fairly,
And I've come to the conclusion they are fools, the A.N.A.
If begotten of and from the soil, what lack I to be native?
What matters where my skin first felt the chill of mundane airs,
If my origin was here, in this alluvium procreative
Whose substance reached me through two generations of forbears?
That an accidental deviousness in time of incubation
Should make my whence irrelevant, and pin me to Whereat—
Do they really mean to play on me with calm deliberation
A pyramidal, orbicular absurdity like that!
But no matter. Let them hug their narrow canons of admission:
The A.N.A. are not the only natives in the land.
There is yet another outlet for my dominant ambition;
I will hie me to King Billy; he will take me by the hand.
He will lead me to his tribe, on slight preliminary payment;
As a resurrected ancestor my status shall be fixed;
As a native of the natives I will rid me of my raiment;
I will rub me with goanna grease and charcoal intermixed.
I'll adorn my head with feathers, and to decorate my body
I will grave it o'er with diagrams, and fill the grooves with clay.
I will capture me a lubra by the suasion of a waddy—
And who'll be native, then, my high and mighty A.N.A.?
* Australian Natives' Association.
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Our Maecenas
What! Don't you our Mæcenas know
The man who started, years ago,
Our Wild Australian Author show?
You don't? Your ignorance sublime
Exceeds - to use a Boston rhyme -
The taciturnity of time.
Well, there he is, across the way -
Tall, thin, and growing somwhat grey -
He has good reason, you will say.
He's entering a bookshop. Fine!
He buys a book. Don't make a sign!
Don't speak! Don't breathe! It may be mine!
Alas! The cover isn't blue;
It's green - it's Quinn's - I always knew
His taste was never sound and true!
We all have hobbies. Some endure,
Some pass. Australian Literature
Is his. He likes it straight and pure.
Those breezy gentlemen you see
Walk up the street so spaciously,
He started them; he started me.
My word! My oath, if that you wish!
I would have now been selling fish,
Or something hot and sausageish -
And friends of mine, with names renowned
Would now be driving picks in ground,
And hoisting New South Wales around,
If he - the Lord of the Event -
Had not appeared, pre-subsequent,
And given us encouragement.
He's now, you see, just skin and bone,
Yet once he weighed quite fourteen stone -
When he left coves like us alone.
And he was - breathe it hoarse and low -
A man of substance. This I know -
But that was several years ago.
Now was he thus to leanness brought?
What tragic Fate his sorrow wrought?
Alas! he read the books he bought!
And now he's growing grey and old:
But while he lives, we'll say: 'Behold!
One copy of our works is sold!'
He is the apple of our eye;
His health to us is precious. Why?
We have to live; he dare not die.
poem by Victor James Daley
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The Australian Sunrise
The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea,
And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free,
The lustrous purple blackness of the soft Australian night,
Waned in the gray awakening that heralded the light;
Still in the dying darkness, still in the forest dim
The pearly dew of the dawning clung to each giant limb,
Till the sun came up from ocean, red with the cold sea mist,
And smote on the limestone ridges, and the shining tree-tops kissed;
Then the fiery Scorpion vanished, the magpie's note was heard,
And the wind in the she-oak wavered, and the honeysuckles stirred,
The airy golden vapour rose from the river breast,
The kingfisher came darting out of his crannied nest,
And the bulrushes and reed-beds put off their sallow gray
And burnt with cloudy crimson at dawning of the day.
poem by James Lister Cuthbertson
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I woke up to a lullaby
I woke up to a lullaby
The birds sang a song for me
They sang their hearts out all the while
Dancing on the maple tree
Each bird sang a different song
That melted into one
A song full of promises
For the day that’s just begun
They sang of sorrow
Of happiness and mirth
The sang of marriage
And of birth
They sang of people laughing
And of them crying
They sang of sickness
They sang of dying
This little song
They sang for me
Made me think
Made me free
That Great Waiting Silence
Where shall we go for prophecy? Where shall we go for proof?
The holiday street is crowded, pavement, window and roof;
Band and banner pass by us, and the old tunes rise and fall—
But that great waiting silence is on the people all!
Where is the cheering and laughter of the eight-hour days gone by?
When the holiday heart was careless, and the holiday spirit high—
The friendly jostling and banter, the wit and the jovial call?
But that great waiting silence is over the people all.
Oh! but my heart beats faster—and a gush that was nearly tears:
Clatter of hammers on iron! and Australian Engineers!
Goods from Australian workshops—proud to the world at last
(And I see, in a flash from the future, Australian guns go past).
The morning sun-glare, softened by a veil, like frosted glass—
There is no breath of a head-breeze as the Labour banners pass,
There seems no sign of a danger or a change for the workers now—
But for some great, new-born spirit the banners seem to bow.
Where shall we go for our platforms? Where shall we go, indeed?
Shall we follow the cackle of women that follow the jesting Reid,
Through indifferent-seeming cities—and the browned men straight and tall?
But that great waiting silence is on the people all.
Twist and tangle and mystify, bully, and weep and bluff;
Marry the truth to a glaring lie, and say it is good enough;
Boast of your vice and villainy—in your virtue rant and bawl—
But that great waiting silence is over the people all!
Brothers, who work with shovel or pen, labour by day and night:
Brothers, who think of the hearts of men, ponder and speak and write;
Work for Australia’s destiny, content till you hear the call,
For the spirit that builds a nation is over the people all.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Australian Engineers
Ah, well! but the case seems hopeless, and the pen might write in vain;
The people gabble of old things over and over again.
For the sake of the sleek importer we slave with the pick and the shears,
While hundreds of boys in Australia long to be engineers.
A new generation has risen under Australian skies,
Boys with the light of genius deep in their dreamy eyes---
Not as of artists or poets with their vain imaginings,
But born to be thinkers and doers, and makers of wonderful things.
Born to be builders of vessels in the Harbours of Waste and Loss,
That shall carry our goods to the nations, flying the Southern Cross;
And fleets that shall guard our seaboard---while the
East is backed by the Jews---
Under Australian captains, and manned by Australian crews.
Boys who are slight and quiet, but boys who are strong and true,
Dreaming of great inventions---always of something new;
With brains untrammelled by training, but quick where reason directs---
Boys with imagination and keen, strong intellects.
They long for the crank and the belting, the gear and the whirring wheel,
The stamp of the giant hammer, the glint of the polished steel,
For the mould, and the vice, and the turning-lathe
---they are boys who long for the keys
To the doors of the world's mechanics and science's mysteries.
They would be makers of fabrics, of cloth for the continents---
Makers of mighty engines and delicate instruments,
It is they who would set fair cities on the western plains far out,
They who would garden the deserts---it is they who would conquer the drought!
They see the dykes to the skyline, where a dust-waste blazes to-day,
And they hear the lap of the waters on the miles of sand and clay;
They see the rainfall increasing, and the bountiful sweeps of grass,
And all the year on the rivers long strings of their barges pass.
. . . . . . .
But still are the steamers loading with our timber and wood and gold,
To return with the costly shoddy stacked high in the foreign hold,
With cardboard boots for our leather, and Brum-magem goods and slops
For thin, white-faced Australians to sell in our sordid shops.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Beauty O beauty I am in love with you
Beauty O beauty I am in love with you
When you are found in the common face
My heart can barely wait to take your place
I see your look in the common race
For there you have placed
In a love that bares no disgrace
Cupid is blind this is true
So do not blame him when he strike you
And a man you find not fair
For half of beauty is within
This you can not see till you woo
And his inner beauty will overthrow
All of your misconceived notions
About what beauty mends
Beauty my man beauty
The common face capture me
The common love I can not see
But this love of the common he
Is what most that moves me
I have no shame to call upon the name
Of gay love tied with a ring
For love of beauty is beyond the dictate of the state
For they are only man made rules
And has not the true power to school
Common beauty can be seen on any street
And the bars where you go to meet
The common men is yout yo greet
Some say that beauty be not common
But they are but fools to think this so
For well does the true poet knows
That beauty is white as the snow
Beauty is black as the night
Beauty is yellow as the sun flower’s petal
Beauty is bronze as the metal
Beauty is red as the blossom of the crape myrtle
Beauty, O beauty its true that you do
To who you care to do
For all the races are filled with you
Beauty by like a tender touch
That in the night will come to irrupt
Beauty be soft, beauty be roughs
To pull back the skin of the silk
And expose the kernels of our love
Beauty o, beauty
Found in women and in men
We know that each of the same sex can comprehend
That a man can find beauty in a man.
poem by David E. Patton
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Edward Harrington
With the best writers of his era Edward Harrington did rate
The farmer's son from Shepparton was a poetic great
He wrote the stirring ballads that poetry lovers love to recite
A poem of his recited at many a poetry night.
As a young man Edward Harrington went off to fight in war
And through the remainder of his life he carried the mental scar
Of his terrible experiences in Palestine far away
And the mental scar remained with him until his dying day.
His great ballads of the Australian bush rangers Dan Morgan and the Kelly gang are sung
By ballad singers who heard them when they themselves were young,
Australia's most notorious in verse he glorified
The men who hid from the law in the rugged country side.
He was one of Australia's last famous men of rhyme
The poems of Edward Harrington have withstood the test of time
And those who knew the great poet said he was sensitive and shy
And fame and adulation he did not seem to enjoy.
In 1965 in his seventieth year Edward Harrington passed away
But his poems are still recited and his songs are sung today
The farmer's son from Shepparton a prince of poetry
One of Australia's finest and few as great as he.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Boots
We've travelled per Joe Gardiner, a humping of our swag
In the country of the Gidgee and Belar.
We've swum the Di'mantina with our raiment in a bag,
And we've travelled per superior motor car,
But when we went to Germany we hadn't any choice,
No matter what our training or pursuits,
For they gave us no selection 'twixt a Ford or Rolls de Royce
So we did it in our good Australian boots.
They called us "mad Australians"; they couldn't understand
How officers and men could fraternise,
Thay said that we were "reckless", we were "wild, and out of hand",
With nothing great or sacred to our eyes.
But on one thing you could gamble, in the thickest of the fray,
Though they called us volunteers and raw recruits,
You could track us past the shell holes, and the tracks were all one way
Of the good Australian ammunition boots.
The Highlanders were next of kin, the Irish were a treat,
The Yankees knew it all and had to learn,
The Frenchmen kept it going, both in vict'ry and defeat,
Fighting grimly till the tide was on the turn.
And our army kept beside 'em, did its bit and took its chance,
And I hailed our newborn nation and its fruits,
As I listened to the clatter on the cobblestones of France
Of the good Australian military boots.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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I'm a proud Australian, a very, very proud Australian.
quote by Steve Irwin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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