Henry Lawson

The fields are fair in autumn yet, and the sun's still shining there,
But we bow our heads and we brood and fret, because of the masks we wear;
Or we nod and smile the social while, and we say we're doing well,
But we break our hear...

I
TE this grinding poverty— To toil, and pinch, and borrow,
And be for ever haunted by The spectre of to-morrow
It breaks the strong heart of a man, It crushes out his spirit—Do what he will, do what he can, However high his merit...

I am back from up the country — very sorry that I went — Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent;
I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track,
Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back<...

The squatter saw his pastures wide Decrease, as one by one The farmers moving to the west Selected on his run;
Selectors took the water up And all the black soil round;
The best grass-land the squatter had Was spoilt by Ross's Ground

Day of ending for beginnings
Ocean hath another innings,     Ocean hath another score;
And the surges sing his winnings,
And the surges shout his winnings,

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,

A son of elder sons I am, Whose boyhood days were cramped and scant,
Through ages of domestic sham And family lies and family cant
Come, elder brothers mine, and bring Dull loads of care that you have won,
And gather round me while ...

In these days of peace and money, free to all the Commonweal,
There are ancient dames in Buckland wearing wedding rings of steel;
Wedding rings of steel and iron, worn on wrinkled hands and old,
And the wearers would not give them, ...

They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;
For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet My window-sill is level with the faces in the street — Drifting past, driftin...

The night too quickly passes And we are growing old,
So let us fill our glasses And toast the Days of Gold;
When finds of wondrous treasure Set all the South ablaze,
And you and I were faithful mates All through the roaring days

Oh, the track through the scrub groweth ever more dreary, And lower and lower his grey head doth bow;
For the swagman is old and the swagman is weary— He’s been tramping for over a century now
He tramps in a worn-out old “side spring” an...

The men who camp with
Are mostly quiet men:
And one may use a rifle,
And one may use a pen,

A cloud of dust on the long white road, And the teams go creeping on Inch by inch with the weary load;
And by the power of the green-hide goad The distant goal is won
With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust, And necks to the yokes bent ...

The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow,
For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go;
Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side — And tired of all...

They'd parted but a year before—she never thought he’d come,
She stammer’d, blushed, held out her hand, and called him ‘Mister Gum
’How could he know that all the while she longed to murmur ‘John
’He called her ‘Miss le Brook,’ and ...

They say that I never have written of love,
As a writer of songs should do;
They say that I never could touch the strings With a touch that is firm and true;
They say I know nothing of women and men In the fields where Love's roses ...