#AustralianWriters
I’m sittin’ 'ere, Mick - sittin’… Feelin’ ‘arf glum, ’arf sorter - r… Thinkin’ strange, crooked thorts o… ’The 'eads is bowed thro’ all a co… An’ wond’rin - wond’rin 'in a kind…
Stuffed with tradition and trammel… Cramped in their studies, they sne… At the strange, new passions young… Thro’ a sunlit land, and a tale un… Of youth’s ambition - new-minted g…
In the old town traditions - as gr… One epic tale immortalises Lah-di… Clerk to a local wheat-buyer in th… Some deemed him just a ‘masher,’ b… With his waxed moustache, his mono…
So nice it is of you to call . . . Yes; Monday week we done it; Right 'igh-clarse weddin’ - church… Cost Bill a bit to run it. An’ wotjer think ‘e ups and sez
Bill Barcoo was a station ‘and -… And grafted all the year like Pha… But all ‘is pay, I grieve ter say… This station 'and Was drinky in his views;
Now is the day when arrant fools Play outworn tricks on sober men! But, for the thoughtful soul that… His mind to conning o’er again Past folly, that he may see clear
She danced thro’ life as light as… The grace of Columbine, charm of… These, and that blithesome quality… With memory of her linger by us ye… A fairy, slipping thro’ a world ma…
Avaunt! What news is this I hear Of portent grim and sinister? Is he, whose words insult mine ear… A mere, upstart Prime Minister? Odds fish! These fellows hithert…
What (said the poet) should we car… For all this mad world’s phantasie… For rumours rife upon the air Of terrors looming overseas? If so, the soul were plagued alway
The Sailor I’d like to be a sailor– a sailor… Calling out, “Ship ahoy!” in manl… I’d learn to box the compass, and… I’d sniff and sniff the briny bree…
It knocks me can in, this ere game… A bloke gets born, grows up, looks… Dreams dilly dreams, then wakes to… An’ fambly round ‘im - all ’is you… An’, gazin’ back, sees in 'is yout…
Rashly I shot an arrow in the air… And, as my shaft into the zenith s… I knew ’twas bound to fall some ti… And wondered if ‘twould dropp upon… A certain friend of mine who loite…
Mrs Dibbs - Polly Dibbs, Standing at a tub, Washing other people’s clothes - Rub-Rub-Rub. Poor, old, skinny arms
Where the sunlight, burning down, Lights her luscious orange groves, Lights the river and the town; Where the placid Murray roves; Where each shining summer gives
When the scheming Fusion few Sought to snare the Lib’ral crew, It was plain for all to view That they wobbled. And when later in the day