#AustralianWriters
I’m lyin’ on the barren ground tha… And dunno if my legs or back or he… I’ve got no spirits left to rise a… I’m too knocked up to light a fire… Oh it’s trampin’, trampin’, tra-a-…
THE Separated Women Go lying through the land, For they have plenty dresses, And money, too, in hand; They married brutes and drunkards
WE must admit that the Centennial celebrations in Sydney were not wholly useless. The glorious occasion called forth from every daily, weekly and monthly periodical, every advertising m...
Fools can parrot-cry the prophet w… And the blind can see the danger w… Truth was never cynicism, death or… “Told-you-so” is not a warning—Pa… Blame will aid no man nor country…
So I sit and write and ponder, wh… Seeing visions “over yonder” of th… In the corner– not a vision– but a… Stand a box of ammunition and a ri… And in this, the living present, l…
I am back from up the country—very… Seeking for the Southern poets’ l… I have lost a lot of idols, which… Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and… Further out may be the pleasant sc…
It was somewhere in September, an… When I came, in search of 'copy’,… 'Come-and-have-a-drink’ we’ll call… And ‘twas raining, for a wonder, u… ’Neath the public-house verandah…
On the moonlighted decks there are… While smoothly the steamer is hold… And the old folks are chatting on… And the lads and the lassies go st… Some gaze half-entranced on the be…
I met her on the Lachlan Side— A darling girl I thought her, And ere I left I swore I’d win The free-selector’s daughter. I milked her father’s cows a month…
And now a son has come again To keep the peace or strike the bl… And have a long, great, glorious r… Through calm or tempest, weal or w… And strange things set me wonderin…
The old year went, and the new ret… The cheque was spent that the shea… and the sheds were all cut out; The publican’s words were short an… and the publican’s looks were blac…
Weary old wife, with the bucket an… ‘How’s your son Jack? and where i… Haggard old eyes that turn to the… ‘Boys will be boys, and he’s gone… Grief without tears and grief with…
The Valley’s full of misty cloud, Its tinted beauty drowning, The Eucalypti roar aloud, The mountain fronts are frowning. The mist is hanging like a pall
’Tis sunrise over Watson, Where I sailed out to sea, On that wild run to London That wrecked and ruined me. The beauty of the morning
'Twixt the coastline and the borde… In the days before the bushman was… An’ they say the local meeting was… Which was ended pretty often by an… An’ 'tis said the city talent very…