1916
#AustralianWriters
She’s milking in the rain and dark… As did her mother in the past. The wretched shed of poles and bar… Rent by the wind, is leaking fast. She sees the “home-roof” black and…
Fight through ignorance, want, and… Through the griefs that crush the… Push your way to a fortune fair, And the smiles of the world you’ll… Long, as a boy, for the chance to…
Oh, for the fire that used to glow In those my days of old! I never thought a man could grow So callous and so cold. Ah, for the heart that used to ach…
The colours of the setting sun Withdrew across the Western land— He raised the sliprails, one by on… And shot them home with trembling… Her brown hands clung—her face gre…
NOW, Yankee inventors can beat a… And German professors may take a… For their colours we’re going to… They’ve invented a wonderful plo… The scientists call it 'the late…
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…
“Call that a yarn!” said old Tom… “What rot! I’ll lay my hat I’ll sling you a yarn worth more n… Such pumped-up yarns as that.” And thereupon old Tommy “slew”
They were men of many nations, the… They were men in many places, and… Men of many types and faces, but,… They were men I met in trouble, a… Some were friends, but most were s…
OH! the folly, the waste, and the… They are seeking a site for a city… Whose love for their ease grows gr… They are seeking a site for a city… In ignorance, deafness, blindness,…
There are scenes in the distance w… On the desolate flats where gaunt… Where the brooding old ridge rises… From his dark lonely gullies of st… There are voice-haunted gaps, ever…
It is New Year’s Day and I rise… The Bards have commenced to fill… They’re patting their binjies with… That a binjied bard is a bard inde… Old chaps,
The rooster is a brainless dude, a… The hen’s an awful fool we know,… She’ll flutter, cackling, anywhe… And try to hatch a door-knob, too,… The turkey is of small account, we…
I listened through the music and t… And all the hollow noises of that… I heard beyond the music and beyon… The steady tramp of thousands that… Tramp! tramp! tramp!
I hate the pen, the foolscap fair, The poet’s corner, and the page, For Grief and Death are written t… In every land and every age. The poets sing and play their part…
I cannot blame old Israel yet, For I am not a sage— I shall not know until I get The son of my old age. The mysteries of this Vale of Tea…