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Title: Verses popular and humorous

Author: Henry Lawson

Release date: May 14, 2016 [eBook #52066]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES POPULAR AND HUMOROUS ***

POPULAR AND HUMOROUS VERSES

VERSES
POPULAR AND HUMOROUS

BY
HENRY LAWSON
Author of “When the World was Wide and Other Verses,”
“While the Billy Boils,” and “On the Track and
Over the Sliprails”

“A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co.!”

Sydney
ANGUS AND ROBERTSON
London: The Australian Book Company
38 West Smithfield, E.C.
1900

Sydney:
Websdale, Shoosmith and Co., Printers,
117 Clarence Street.

PREFACE

My acknowledgments of the courtesy of the editors and proprietors of the newspapers in which most of these verses were first published are due and are gratefully discharged on the eve of my departure for England. Chief among them is the Sydney Bulletin; others are the Sydney Town and Country Journal, Freeman’s Journal, and Truth, and the New Zealand Mail.

A few new pieces are included in the collection.

H. L.

Sydney, March 17th, 1900.

THE PORTS OF THE OPEN SEA
	PAGE
Down here where the ships loom large in	1
THE THREE KINGS
The East is dead and the West is done, and again our course lies thus:—	5
THE OUTSIDE TRACK
There were ten of us there on the moonlit quay,	8
SYDNEY-SIDE
Where’s the steward?—Bar-room steward? Berth? Oh, any berth will do—	10
THE ROVERS
Some born of homely parents	13
FOREIGN LANDS
You may roam the wide seas over, follow, meet, and cross the sun,	18
MARY LEMAINE
Jim Duff was a ‘native,’ as wild as could be;	22
THE SHAKEDOWN ON THE FLOOR
Set me back for twenty summers—	25
REEDY RIVER
Ten miles down Reedy River	28
OLD STONE CHIMNEY
The rising moon on the peaks was blending	31
SONG OF THE OLD BULLOCK-DRIVER
Far Back in the days when the blacks used to ramble	35
THE LIGHTS OF COBB AND CO.
Fire lighted, on the table a meal for sleepy men,	39
HOW THE LAND WAS WON
The future was dark and the past was dead	45
THE BOSS OVER THE BOARD
When he’s over a rough and unpopular shed,	48
WHEN THE LADIES COME TO THE SHEARING SHED
‘The ladies are coming,’ the super says	52
THE BALLAD OF THE ROUSEABOUT
A rouseabout of rouseabouts, from any land—or none—	55
YEARS AFTER THE WAR IN AUSTRALIA
The big rough boys from the runs out back were first where the balls flew free,	60
THE OLD JIMMY WOODSER
The old Jimmy Woodser comes into the bar,	67
THE CHRIST OF THE ‘NEVER’
With eyes that seem shrunken to pierce	69
THE CATTLE-DOG’S DEATH
The plains lay bare on the homeward route,	71
THE SONG OF THE DARLING RIVER
The skies are brass and the plains are bare,	73
RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS
The valley’s full of misty cloud,	75
A MAY NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS
’Tis a wonderful time when these hours begin,	76
THE NEW CHUM JACKAROO
Let bushmen think as bushmen will,	78
THE DONS OF SPAIN
The Eagle screams at the beck of trade, so Spain, as the world goes round,	81
THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM
The shipping office clerks are ‘short,’ the manager is gruff—	84
ANTONY VILLA
Over there, above the jetty, stands the mansion of the Vardens,	90
SECOND CLASS WAIT HERE
On suburban railway stations—you may see them as you pass—	96
THE SHIPS THAT WON’T GO DOWN
We hear a great commotion	99
THE MEN WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN
When God’s wrath-cloud is o’er me	101
THE WAY OF THE WORLD
When fairer faces turn from me,	103
THE BATTLING DAYS
So, sit you down in a straight-backed chair, with your pipe and your wife content,	105
WRITTEN AFTERWARDS
So the days of my tramping are over,	108
THE UNCULTURED RHYMER TO HIS CULTURED CRITICS
Fight through ignorance, want, and care—	111
THE WRITER’S DREAM
A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;	113
THE JOLLY DEAD MARCH
If I ever be worthy or famous—	121
MY LITERARY FRIEND
Once I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine,	125
MARY CALLED HIM ‘MISTER’
They’d parted but a year before—she never thought he’d come,	127
REJECTED
She says she’s very sorry, as she sees you to the gate;	130
O’HARA, J.P.
James Patrick O’Hara, the Justice of Peace,	134
BILL AND JIM FALL OUT
Bill and Jim are mates no longer—they would scorn the name of mate—	138
THE PAROO
It was a week from Christmas-time,	142
THE GREEN-HAND ROUSEABOUT
Call this hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!—you don’t know what it means.	146
THE MAN FROM WATERLOO
It was the Man from Waterloo,	151
SAINT PETER
Now, I think there is a likeness	155
THE STRANGER’S FRIEND
The strangest things, and the maddest things, that a man can do or say,	158
THE GOD-FORGOTTEN ELECTION
Pat M‘Durmer brought the tidings to the town of God-Forgotten:	162
THE BOSS’S BOOTS
The shearers squint along the pens, they squint along the ‘shoots;’	168
THE CAPTAIN OF THE PUSH
As the night was falling slowly down on city, town and bush,	174
BILLY’S ‘SQUARE AFFAIR’
Long Bill, the captain of the push, was tired of his estate,	181
A DERRY ON A COVE
’Twas in the felon’s dock he stood, his eyes were black and blue;	185
RISE YE! RISE YE!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! claim your rights with fire and steel!	187
THE BALLAD OF MABEL CLARE
Ye children of the Land of Gold,	190
CONSTABLE M‘CARTHY’S INVESTIGATIONS
Most unpleasantly adjacent to the haunts of lower orders	196
AT THE TUG-OF-WAR
’Twas in a tug-of-war where I—the guvnor’s hope and pride—	205
HERE’S LUCK!
Old Time is tramping close to-day—you hear his bluchers fall,	208
THE MEN WHO COME BEHIND
There’s a class of men (and women) who are always on their guard—	211
THE DAYS WHEN WE WENT SWIMMING
The breezes waved the silver grass,	214
THE OLD BARK SCHOOL
It was built of bark and poles, and the floor was full of holes	216
TROUBLE ON THE SELECTION
You lazy boy, you’re here at last,	220
THE PROFESSIONAL WANDERER
When you’ve knocked about the country—been away from home for years;	222
A LITTLE MISTAKE
’Tis a yarn I heard of a new-chum ‘trap’	225
A STUDY IN THE “NOOD”
He was bare—we don’t want to be rude—	228
A WORD TO TEXAS JACK
Texas Jack, you are amusin’. By Lord Harry, how I laughed	231
THE GROG-AN’-GRUMBLE STEEPLECHASE
’Twixt the coastline and the border lay the town of Grog-an’-Grumble	237
BUT WHAT’S THE USE
But what’s the use of writing ‘bush’—	242

VIGNETTES BY FRANK P. MAHONY

Portrait of the Author	facing title page
The Lights of Cobb and Co.	title page
My Literary Friend	page xvi.

“Once I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine,
And I showed the printer’s copy to a critic friend of mine,
First he praised the thing a little....”
page 125.

THE PORTS OF THE OPEN SEA

Down here where the ships loom large in
The gloom when the sea-storms veer,
Down here on the south-west margin
Of the western hemisphere,
Where the might of a world-wide ocean
Round the youngest land rolls free—
Storm-bound from the world’s commotion,
Lie the Ports of the Open Sea.

By the bluff where the grey sand reaches
To the kerb of the spray-swept street,
By the sweep of the black sand beaches
From the main-road travellers’ feet,
By the heights like a work Titanic,
Begun ere the gods’ work ceased,
By a bluff-lined coast volcanic
Lie the Ports of the wild South-east.

By the steeps of the snow-capped ranges,
By the scarped and terraced hills—
Far away from the swift life-changes,
From the wear of the strife that kills—
Where the land in the Spring seems younger
Than a land of the Earth might be—
Oh! the hearts of the rovers hunger
For the Ports of the Open Sea.

But the captains watch and hearken
For a sign of the South Sea wrath—
Let the face of the South-east darken,
And they turn to the ocean path.
Ay, the sea-boats dare not linger,
Whatever the cargo be;
When the South-east lifts a finger
By the Ports of the Open Sea.

South by the bleak Bluff faring,
North where the Three Kings wait,
South-east the tempest daring—
Flight through the storm-tossed strait;
Yonder a white-winged roamer
Struck where the rollers roar—
Where the great green froth-flaked comber
Breaks down on a black-ribbed shore.

For the South-east lands are dread lands
To the sailor in the shrouds,
Where the low clouds loom like headlands,
And the black bluffs blur like clouds.
When the breakers rage to windward
And the lights are masked a-lee,
And the sunken rocks run inward
To a Port of the Open Sea.

But oh! for the South-east weather—
The sweep of the three-days’ gale—
When, far through the flax and heather,
The spindrift drives like hail.
Glory to man’s creations
That drive where the gale grows gruff,
When the homes of the sea-coast stations
Flash white from the dark’ning bluff!

When the swell of the South-east rouses
The wrath of the Maori sprite,
And the brown folk flee their houses
And crouch in the flax by night,
And wait as they long have waited—
In fear as the brown folk be—
The wave of destruction fated
For the Ports of the Open Sea.
. . . . . . . . . .
Grey cloud to the mountain bases,
Wild boughs that rush and sweep;
On the rounded hills the tussocks
Like flocks of flying sheep;
A lonely storm-bird soaring
O’er tussock, fern and tree;
And the boulder beaches roaring
The Hymn of the Open Sea.

THE THREE KINGS [A]

[A] Three sea-girt pinnacles off North Cape, New Zealand.

The East is dead and the West is done, and again our course lies thus:—
South-east by Fate and the Rising Sun where the Three Kings wait for us.
When our hearts are young and the world is wide, and the heights seem grand to climb—
We are off and away to the Sydney-side; but the Three Kings bide their time.

‘I’ve been to the West,’ the digger said: he was bearded, bronzed and old;
‘Ah, the smothering curse of the East is wool, and the curse of the West is gold.
‘I went to the West in the golden boom, with Hope and a life-long mate,
‘They sleep in the sand by the Boulder Soak, and long may the Three Kings wait.’

‘I’ve had my fling on the Sydney-side,’ said a black-sheep to the sea,
‘Let the young fool learn when he can’t be taught: I’ve learnt what’s good for me.’
And he gazed ahead on the sea-line dim—grown dim in his softened eyes—
With a pain in his heart that was good for him—as he saw the Three Kings rise.

A pale girl sits on the foc’sle head—she is back, Three Kings! so soon;
But it seems to her like a life-time dead since she fled with him ‘saloon.’
There is refuge still in the old folks’ arms for the child that loved too well;
They will hide her shame on the Southern farm—and the Three Kings will not tell.

’Twas a restless heart on the tide of life, and a false star in the skies
That led me on to the deadly strife where the Southern London lies;
But I dream in peace of a home for me, by a glorious southern sound,
As the sunset fades from a moonlit sea, and the Three Kings show us round.

Our hearts are young and the old hearts old, and life on the farms is slow,
And away in the world there is fame and gold—and the Three Kings watch us go.
Our heads seem wise and the world seems wide, and its heights are ours to climb,
So it’s off and away in our youthful pride—but the Three Kings bide our time.

THE OUTSIDE TRACK

There were ten of us there on the moonlit quay,
And one on the for’ard hatch;
No straighter mate to his mates than he
Had ever said: ‘Len’s a match!’
’Twill be long, old man, ere our glasses clink,
’Twill be long ere we grip your hand!—
And we dragged him ashore for a final drink
Till the whole wide world seemed grand.

For they marry and go as the world rolls back,
They marry and vanish and die;
But their spirit shall live on the Outside Track
As long as the years go by.

The port-lights glowed in the morning mist
That rolled from the waters green;
And over the railing we grasped his fist
As the dark tide came between.

We cheered the captain and cheered the crew,
And our mate, times out of mind;
We cheered the land he was going to
And the land he had left behind.

We roared Lang Syne as a last farewell,
But my heart seemed out of joint;
I well remember the hush that fell
When the steamer had passed the point
We drifted home through the public bars,
We were ten times less by one
Who sailed out under the morning stars,
And under the rising sun.

And one by one, and two by two,
They have sailed from the wharf since then;
I have said good-bye to the last I knew,
The last of the careless men.
And I can’t but think that the times we had
Were the best times after all,
As I turn aside with a lonely glass
And drink to the bar-room wall.

But I’ll try my luck for a cheque Out Back,
Then a last good-bye to the bush;
For my heart’s away on the Outside Track,
On the track of the steerage push.

SYDNEY-SIDE

Where’s the steward?—Bar-room steward? Berth? Oh, any berth will do—
I have left a three-pound billet just to come along with you.
Brighter shines the Star of Rovers on a world that’s growing wide,
But I think I’d give a kingdom for a glimpse of Sydney-Side.

Run of rocky shelves at sunrise, with their base on ocean’s bed;
Homes of Coogee, homes of Bondi, and the lighthouse on South Head;
For in loneliness and hardship—and with just a touch of pride—
Has my heart been taught to whisper, ‘You belong to Sydney-Side.’

Oh, there never dawned a morning, in the long and lonely days,
But I thought I saw the ferries streaming out across the bays—
And as fresh and fair in fancy did the picture rise again
As the sunrise flushed the city from Woollahra to Balmain.

And the sunny water frothing round the liners black and red,
And the coastal schooners working by the loom of Bradley’s Head;
And the whistles and the sirens that re-echo far and wide—
All the life and light and beauty that belong to Sydney-Side.

And the dreary cloud-line never veiled the end of one day more,
But the city set in jewels rose before me from ‘The Shore.’
Round the sea-world shine the beacons of a thousand ports o’ call,
But the harbour-lights of Sydney are the grandest of them all!

Toiling out beyond Coolgardie—heart and back and spirit broke,
Where the Rover’s Star gleams redly in the desert by the ‘soak’—
But says one mate to the other, ‘Brace your lip and do not fret,
We will laugh on trains and ’buses—Sydney’s in the same place yet.’

Working in the South in winter, to the waist in dripping fern,
Where the local spirit hungers for each ‘saxpence’ that we earn—
We can stand it for a season, for our world is growing wide,
And they all are friends and strangers who belong to Sydney-Side.

‘T’other-siders! T’other-siders!’ Yet we wake the dusty dead;
It is we that send the backward province fifty years ahead;
We it is that ‘trim’ Australia—making narrow country wide—
Yet we’re always T’other-siders till we sail for Sydney-side.

Verses popular and humorous

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