He had offices in Sydney, not so many years ago,
And his shingle bore the legend 'Peter Anderson and Co.',
But his real name was Careless, as the fellows understood —
And his relatives decided that he wasn't any good.
'Twas their gentle tongues that blasted any 'character' he had —
He was fond of beer and leisure — and the Co. was just as bad.
It was limited in number to a unit, was the Co. —
'Twas a bosom chum of Peter and his Christian name was Joe.

'Tis a class of men belonging to these soul-forsaken years:
Third-rate canvassers, collectors, journalists and auctioneers.
They are never very shabby, they are never very spruce —
Going cheerfully and carelessly and smoothly to the deuce.
Some are wanderers by profession, 'turning up' and gone as soon,
Travelling second-class, or steerage (when it's cheap they go saloon);
Free from 'ists' and 'isms', troubled little by belief or doubt —
Lazy, purposeless, and useless — knocking round and hanging out.
They will take what they can get, and they will give what they can give,
God alone knows how they manage — God alone knows how they live!
They are nearly always hard-up, but are cheerful all the while —
Men whose energy and trousers wear out sooner than their smile!
They, no doubt, like us, are haunted by the boresome 'if' or 'might',
But their ghosts are ghosts of daylight — they are men who live at night!

Peter met you with the comic smile of one who knows you well,
And is mighty glad to see you, and has got a joke to tell;
He could laugh when all was gloomy, he could grin when all was blue,
Sing a comic song and act it, and appreciate it, too.
Only cynical in cases where his own self was the jest,
And the humour of his good yarns made atonement for the rest.
Seldom serious — doing business just as 'twere a friendly game —
Cards or billiards — nothing graver.  And the Co. was much the same.

They tried everything and nothing 'twixt the shovel and the press,
And were more or less successful in their ventures — mostly less.
Once they ran a country paper till the plant was seized for debt,
And the local sinners chuckle over dingy copies yet.

They'd been through it all and knew it in the land of Bills and Jims —
Using Peter's own expression, they had been in 'various swims'.
Now and then they'd take an office, as they called it, — make a dash
Into business life as 'agents' — something not requiring cash.
(You can always furnish cheaply, when your cash or credit fails,
With a packing-case, a hammer, and a pound of two-inch nails —
And, maybe, a drop of varnish and sienna, too, for tints,
And a scrap or two of oilcloth, and a yard or two of chintz).
They would pull themselves together, pay a week's rent in advance,
But it never lasted longer than a month by any chance.

The office was their haven, for they lived there when hard-up —
A 'daily' for a table cloth — a jam tin for a cup;
And if the landlord's bailiff happened round in times like these
And seized the office-fittings — well, there wasn't much to seize —
They would leave him in possession.  But at other times they shot
The moon, and took an office where the landlord knew them not.
And when morning brought the bailiff there'd be nothing to be seen
Save a piece of bevelled cedar where the tenant's plate had been;
There would be no sign of Peter — there would be no sign of Joe
Till another portal boasted 'Peter Anderson and Co.'

And when times were locomotive, billiard-rooms and private bars —
Spicy parties at the cafe — long cab-drives beneath the stars;
Private picnics down the Harbour — shady campings-out, you know —
No one would have dreamed 'twas Peter —
   no one would have thought 'twas Joe!
Free-and-easies in their 'diggings', when the funds began to fail,
Bosom chums, cigars, tobacco, and a case of English ale —
Gloriously drunk and happy, till they heard the roosters crow —
And the landlady and neighbours made complaints about the Co.
But that life! it might be likened to a reckless drinking-song,
For it can't go on for ever, and it never lasted long.

      .    .    .    .    .

Debt-collecting ruined Peter — people talked him round too oft,
For his heart was soft as butter (and the Co.'s was just as soft);
He would cheer the haggard missus, and he'd tell her not to fret,
And he'd ask the worried debtor round with him to have a wet;
He would ask him round the corner, and it seemed to him and her,
After each of Peter's visits, things were brighter than they were.
But, of course, it wasn't business — only Peter's careless way;
And perhaps it pays in heaven, but on earth it doesn't pay.
They got harder up than ever, and, to make it worse, the Co.
Went more often round the corner than was good for him to go.

'I might live,' he said to Peter, 'but I haven't got the nerve —
I am going, Peter, going — going, going — no reserve.
Eat and drink and love they tell us, for to-morrow we may die,
Buy experience — and we bought it — we're experienced, you and I.'
Then, with a weary movement of his hand across his brow:
'The death of such philosophy's the death I'm dying now.
Pull yourself together, Peter; 'tis the dying wish of Joe
That the business world shall honour Peter Anderson and Co.

'When you feel your life is sinking in a dull and useless course,
And begin to find in drinking keener pleasure and remorse —
When you feel the love of leisure on your careless heart take holt,
Break away from friends and pleasure, though it give your heart a jolt.
Shun the poison breath of cities — billiard-rooms and private bars,
Go where you can breathe God's air and see the grandeur of the stars!
Find again and follow up the old ambitions that you had —
See if you can raise a drink, old man, I'm feelin' mighty bad —
Hot and sweetened, nip o' butter — squeeze o' lemon, Pete,' he sighed.
And, while Peter went to fetch it, Joseph went to sleep — and died
With a smile — anticipation, maybe, of the peace to come,
Or a joke to try on Peter — or, perhaps, it was the rum.

      .    .    .    .    .

Peter staggered, gripped the table, swerved as some old drunkard swerves —
At a gulp he drank the toddy, just to brace his shattered nerves.
It was awful, if you like.  But then he hadn't time to think —
All is nothing!  Nothing matters!  Fill your glasses — dead man's drink.

      .    .    .    .    .

Yet, to show his heart was not of human decency bereft,
Peter paid the undertaker.  He got drunk on what was left;
Then he shed some tears, half-maudlin, on the grave where lay the Co.,
And he drifted to a township where the city failures go.
Where, though haunted by the man he was, the wreck he yet might be,
Or the man he might have been, or by each spectre of the three,
And the dying words of Joseph, ringing through his own despair,
Peter 'pulled himself together' and he started business there.

But his life was very lonely, and his heart was very sad,
And no help to reformation was the company he had —
Men who might have been, who had been, but who were not in the swim —
'Twas a town of wrecks and failures — they appreciated him.
They would ask him who the Co. was — that queer company he kept —
And he'd always answer vaguely — he would say his partner slept;
That he had a 'sleeping partner' — jesting while his spirit broke —
And they grinned above their glasses, for they took it as a joke.
He would shout while he had money, he would joke while he had breath —
No one seemed to care or notice how he drank himself to death;
Till at last there came a morning when his smile was seen no more —
He was gone from out the office, and his shingle from the door,
And a boundary-rider jogging out across the neighb'ring run
Was attracted by a something that was blazing in the sun;
And he found that it was Peter, lying peacefully at rest,
With a bottle close beside him and the shingle on his breast.
Well, they analysed the liquor, and it would appear that he
Qualified his drink with something good for setting spirits free.
Though 'twas plainly self-destruction — ''twas his own affair,' they said;
And the jury viewed him sadly, and they found — that he was dead.

On a lonely selection far out in the West
An old woman works all the day without rest,
And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome,
'Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.'

She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs,
She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows,
And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack,
'Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come back.'

It is five weary years since her old husband died;
And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed
'Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can,
An' it's strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.'

Whenever the scowling old sundowners come,
And cunningly ask if the master's at home,
'Be off,' she replies, 'with your blarney and cant,
Or I'll call my son Andy; he's workin' beyant.'

'Git out,' she replies, though she trembles with fear,
For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near;
But she says to herself, when she's like to despond,
That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond.

Ah, none of her children need follow the plough,
And some have grown rich in the city ere now;
Yet she says:  'They might come when the shearing is done,
And I'll keep the ould place if it's only for one.'

Tall, and stout, and solid-looking,
  Yet a wreck;
None would think Death's finger's hooking
  Him from deck.
Cause of half the fun that's started —
  'Hard-case' Dan —
Isn't like a broken-hearted,
  Ruined man.

Walking-coat from tail to throat is
  Frayed and greened —
Like a man whose other coat is
  Being cleaned;
Gone for ever round the edging
  Past repair —
Waistcoat pockets frayed with dredging
  After 'sprats' no longer there.

Wearing summer boots in June, or
  Slippers worn and old —
Like a man whose other shoon are
  Getting soled.
Pants?  They're far from being recent —
  But, perhaps, I'd better not —
Says they are the only decent
  Pair he's got.

And his hat, I am afraid, is
  Troubling him —
Past all lifting to the ladies
  By the brim.
But, although he'd hardly strike a
  Girl, would Dan,
Yet he wears his wreckage like a
  Gentleman!

Once — no matter how the rest dressed —
  Up or down —
Once, they say, he was the best-dressed
  Man in town.
Must have been before I knew him —
  Now you'd scarcely care to meet
And be noticed talking to him
  In the street.

Drink the cause, and dissipation,
  That is clear —
Maybe friend or kind relation
  Cause of beer.
And the talking fool, who never
  Reads or thinks,
Says, from hearsay:  'Yes, he's clever;
  But, you know, he drinks.'

Been an actor and a writer —
  Doesn't whine —
Reckoned now the best reciter
  In his line.
Takes the stage at times, and fills it —
  'Princess May' or 'Waterloo'.
Raise a sneer! — his first line kills it,
  'Brings 'em', too.

Where he lives, or how, or wherefore
  No one knows;
Lost his real friends, and therefore
  Lost his foes.
Had, no doubt, his own romances —
  Met his fate;
Tortured, doubtless, by the chances
  And the luck that comes too late.

Now and then his boots are polished,
  Collar clean,
And the worst grease stains abolished
  By ammonia or benzine:
Hints of some attempt to shove him
  From the taps,
Or of someone left to love him —
  Sister, p'r'aps.

After all, he is a grafter,
  Earns his cheer —
Keeps the room in roars of laughter
  When he gets outside a beer.
Yarns that would fall flat from others
  He can tell;
How he spent his 'stuff', my brothers,
  You know well.

Manner puts a man in mind of
  Old club balls and evening dress,
Ugly with a handsome kind of
  Ugliness.

      .    .    .    .    .

One of those we say of often,
  While hearts swell,
Standing sadly by the coffin:
  'He looks well.'

      .    .    .    .    .

We may be — so goes a rumour —
  Bad as Dan;
But we may not have the humour
  Of the man;
Nor the sight — well, deem it blindness,
  As the general public do —
And the love of human kindness,
  Or the GRIT to see it through!

If you fancy that your people came of better stock than mine,
If you hint of higher breeding by a word or by a sign,
If you're proud because of fortune or the clever things you do —
Then I'll play no second fiddle:  I'm a prouder man than you!

If you think that your profession has the more gentility,
And that you are condescending to be seen along with me;
If you notice that I'm shabby while your clothes are spruce and new —
You have only got to hint it:  I'm a prouder man than you!

If you have a swell companion when you see me on the street,
And you think that I'm too common for your toney friend to meet,
So that I, in passing closely, fail to come within your view —
Then be blind to me for ever:  I'm a prouder man than you!

If your character be blameless, if your outward past be clean,
While 'tis known my antecedents are not what they should have been,
Do not risk contamination, save your name whate'er you do —
'Birds o' feather fly together':  I'm a prouder bird than you!

Keep your patronage for others!  Gold and station cannot hide
Friendship that can laugh at fortune, friendship that can conquer pride!
Offer this as to an equal — let me see that you are true,
And my wall of pride is shattered:  I am not so proud as you!

The creek went down with a broken song,
     'Neath the sheoaks high;
The waters carried the song along,
     And the oaks a sigh.

The song and the sigh went winding by,
     Went winding down;
Circling the foot of the mountain high,
     And the hillside brown.

They were hushed in the swamp of the Dead Man's Crime,
     Where the curlews cried;
But they reached the river the self-same time,
     And there they died.

And the creek of life goes winding on,
     Wandering by;
And bears for ever, its course upon,
     A song and a sigh.

So you're writing for a paper?  Well, it's nothing very new
To be writing yards of drivel for a tidy little screw;
You are young and educated, and a clever chap you are,
But you'll never run a paper like the CAMBAROORA STAR.
Though in point of education I am nothing but a dunce,
I myself — you mayn't believe it — helped to run a paper once
With a chap on Cambaroora, by the name of Charlie Brown,
And I'll tell you all about it if you'll take the story down.

On a golden day in summer, when the sunrays were aslant,
Brown arrived in Cambaroora with a little printing plant
And his worldly goods and chattels — rather damaged on the way —
And a weary-looking woman who was following the dray.
He had bought an empty humpy, and, instead of getting tight,
Why, the diggers heard him working like a lunatic all night:
And next day a sign of canvas, writ in characters of tar,
Claimed the humpy as the office of the CAMBAROORA STAR.

Well, I cannot read, that's honest, but I had a digger friend
Who would read the paper to me from the title to the end;
And the STAR contained a leader running thieves and spielers down,
With a slap against claim-jumping, and a poem made by Brown.
Once I showed it to a critic, and he said 'twas very fine,
Though he wasn't long in finding glaring faults in every line;
But it was a song of Freedom — all the clever critic said
Couldn't stop that song from ringing, ringing, ringing in my head.

So I went where Brown was working in his little hut hard by:
'My old mate has been a-reading of your writings, Brown,' said I —
'I have studied on your leader, I agree with what you say,
You have struck the bed-rock certain, and there ain't no get-away;
Your paper's just the thumper for a young and growing land,
And your principles is honest, Brown; I want to shake your hand,
And if there's any lumping in connection with the STAR,
Well, I'll find the time to do it, and I'll help you — there you are!'

Brown was every inch a digger (bronzed and bearded in the South),
But there seemed a kind of weakness round the corners of his mouth
When he took the hand I gave him; and he gripped it like a vice,
While he tried his best to thank me, and he stuttered once or twice.
But there wasn't need for talking — we'd the same old loves and hates,
And we understood each other — Charlie Brown and I were mates.
So we worked a little 'paddock' on a place they called the 'Bar',
And we sank a shaft together, and at night we worked the STAR.

Charlie thought and did his writing when his work was done at night,
And the missus used to 'set' it near as quick as he could write.
Well, I didn't shirk my promise, and I helped the thing, I guess,
For at night I worked the lever of the crazy printing-press;
Brown himself would do the feeding, and the missus used to 'fly' —
She is flying with the angels, if there's justice up on high,
For she died on Cambaroora when the STAR began to go,
And was buried like the diggers buried diggers long ago.

      .    .    .    .    .

Lord, that press!  It was a jumper — we could seldom get it right,
And were lucky if we averaged a hundred in the night.
Many nights we'd sit together in the windy hut and fold,
And I helped the thing a little when I struck a patch of gold;
And we battled for the diggers as the papers seldom do,
Though when the diggers errored, why, we touched the diggers too.
Yet the paper took the fancy of that roaring mining town,
And the diggers sent a nugget with their sympathy to Brown.

Oft I sat and smoked beside him in the listening hours of night,
When the shadows from the corners seemed to gather round the light —
When his weary, aching fingers, closing stiffly round the pen,
Wrote defiant truth in language that could touch the hearts of men —
Wrote until his eyelids shuddered — wrote until the East was grey:
Wrote the stern and awful lessons that were taught him in his day;
And they knew that he was honest, and they read his smallest par,
For I think the diggers' Bible was the CAMBAROORA STAR.

Diggers then had little mercy for the loafer and the scamp —
If there wasn't law and order, there was justice in the camp;
And the manly independence that is found where diggers are
Had a sentinel to guard it in the CAMBAROORA STAR.
There was strife about the Chinamen, who came in days of old
Like a swarm of thieves and loafers when the diggers found the gold —
Like the sneaking fortune-hunters who are always found behind,
And who only shepherd diggers till they track them to the 'find'.

Charlie wrote a slinging leader, calling on his digger mates,
And he said:  'We think that Chinkies are as bad as syndicates.
What's the good of holding meetings where you only talk and swear?
Get a move upon the Chinkies when you've got an hour to spare.'
It was nine o'clock next morning when the Chows began to swarm,
But they weren't so long in going, for the diggers' blood was warm.
Then the diggers held a meeting, and they shouted:  'Hip hoorar!
Give three ringing cheers, my hearties, for the CAMBAROORA STAR.'

But the Cambaroora petered, and the diggers' sun went down,
And another sort of people came and settled in the town;
The reefing was conducted by a syndicate or two,
And they changed the name to 'Queensville', for their blood was very blue.
They wanted Brown to help them put the feathers in their nests,
But his leaders went like thunder for their vested interests,
And he fought for right and justice and he raved about the dawn
Of the reign of Man and Reason till his ads. were all withdrawn.

He was offered shares for nothing in the richest of the mines,
And he could have made a fortune had he run on other lines;
They abused him for his leaders, and they parodied his rhymes,
And they told him that his paper was a mile behind the times.
'Let the times alone,' said Charlie, 'they're all right, you needn't fret;
For I started long before them, and they haven't caught me yet.
But,' says he to me, 'they're coming, and they're not so very far —
Though I left the times behind me they are following the STAR.

'Let them do their worst,' said Charlie, 'but I'll never drop the reins
While a single scrap of paper or an ounce of ink remains:
I've another truth to tell them, though they tread me in the dirt,
And I'll print another issue if I print it on my shirt.'
So we fought the battle bravely, and we did our very best
Just to make the final issue quite as lively as the rest.
And the swells in Cambaroora talked of feathers and of tar
When they read the final issue of the CAMBAROORA STAR.

Gold is stronger than the tongue is — gold is stronger than the pen:
They'd have squirmed in Cambaroora had I found a nugget then;
But in vain we scraped together every penny we could get,
For they fixed us with their boycott, and the plant was seized for debt.
'Twas a storekeeper who did it, and he sealed the paper's doom,
Though we gave him ads. for nothing when the STAR began to boom:
'Twas a paltry bill for tucker, and the crawling, sneaking clown
Sold the debt for twice its value to the men who hated Brown.

I was digging up the river, and I swam the flooded bend
With a little cash and comfort for my literary friend.
Brown was sitting sad and lonely with his head bowed in despair,
While a single tallow candle threw a flicker on his hair,
And the gusty wind that whistled through the crannies of the door
Stirred the scattered files of paper that were lying on the floor.
Charlie took my hand in silence — and by-and-by he said:
'Tom, old mate, we did our damnedest, but the brave old STAR is dead.'

      .    .    .    .    .

Then he stood up on a sudden, with a face as pale as death,
And he gripped my hand a moment, while he seemed to fight for breath:
'Tom, old friend,' he said, 'I'm going, and I'm ready to — to start,
For I know that there is something — something crooked with my heart.
Tom, my first child died.  I loved her even better than the pen —
Tom — and while the STAR was dying, why, I felt like I did THEN.

      .    .    .    .    .

Listen!  Like the distant thunder of the rollers on the bar —
Listen, Tom! I hear the — diggers — shouting:  'Bully for the STAR!''

The brooding ghosts of Australian night have gone from the bush and town;
My spirit revives in the morning breeze,
   though it died when the sun went down;
The river is high and the stream is strong,
   and the grass is green and tall,
And I fain would think that this world of ours is a good world after all.

The light of passion in dreamy eyes, and a page of truth well read,
The glorious thrill in a heart grown cold of the spirit I thought was dead,
A song that goes to a comrade's heart, and a tear of pride let fall —
And my soul is strong! and the world to me is a grand world after all!

Let our enemies go by their old dull tracks,
   and theirs be the fault or shame
(The man is bitter against the world who has only himself to blame);
Let the darkest side of the past be dark, and only the good recall;
For I must believe that the world, my dear, is a kind world after all.

It well may be that I saw too plain, and it may be I was blind;
But I'll keep my face to the dawning light,
   though the devil may stand behind!
Though the devil may stand behind my back, I'll not see his shadow fall,
But read the signs in the morning stars of a good world after all.

Rest, for your eyes are weary, girl — you have driven the worst away —
The ghost of the man that I might have been is gone from my heart to-day;
We'll live for life and the best it brings till our twilight shadows fall;
My heart grows brave, and the world, my girl, is a good world after all.

You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves turn —
You could have watched the grass scorch brown had there been grass to burn.
In such a drought the strongest heart might well grow faint and weak —
'Twould frighten Satan to his home — not far from Dingo Creek.

The tanks went dry on Ninety Mile, as tanks go dry out back,
The Half-Way Spring had failed at last when Marshall missed the track;
Beneath a dead tree on the plain we saw a pack-horse reel —
Too blind to see there was no shade, and too done-up to feel.
And charcoaled on the canvas bag ('twas written pretty clear)
We read the message Marshall wrote.  It said:  'I'm taken queer —
I'm somewhere off of Deadman's Track, half-blind and nearly dead;
Find Crowbar, get him sobered up, and follow back,' it said.

'Let Mitchell go to Bandicoot.  You'll find him there,' said Mack.
'I'll start the chaps from Starving Steers, and take the dry-holes back.'
We tramped till dark, and tried to track the pack-horse on the sands,
And just at daylight Crowbar came with Milroy's station hands.
His cheeks were drawn, his face was white, but he was sober then —
In times of trouble, fire, and flood, 'twas Crowbar led the men.
'Spread out as widely as you can each side the track,' said he;
'The first to find him make a smoke that all the rest can see.'

We took the track and followed back where Crowbar followed fate,
We found a dead man in the scrub — but 'twas not Crowbar's mate.
The station hands from Starving Steers were searching all the week —
But never news of Marshall's fate came back to Dingo Creek.
And no one, save the spirit of the sand-waste, fierce and lone,
Knew where Jack Marshall crawled to die — but Crowbar might have known.

He'd scarcely closed his quiet eyes or drawn a sleeping breath —
They say that Crowbar slept no more until he slept in death.
A careless, roving scamp, that loved to laugh and drink and joke,
But no man saw him smile again (and no one saw him smoke),
And, when we spelled at night, he'd lie with eyes still open wide,
And watch the stars as if they'd point the place where Marshall died.

The search was made as searches are (and often made in vain),
And on the seventh day we saw a smoke across the plain;
We left the track and followed back — 'twas Crowbar still that led,
And when his horse gave out at last he walked and ran ahead.
We reached the place and turned again — dragged back and no man spoke —
It was a bush-fire in the scrubs that made the cursed smoke.
And when we gave it best at last, he said, 'I'LL see it through,'
Although he knew we'd done as much as mortal men could do.
'I'll not — I won't give up!' he said, his hand pressed to his brow;
'My God! the cursed flies and ants, they might be at him now.
I'll see it so in twenty years, 'twill haunt me all my life —
I could not face his sister, and I could not face his wife.
It's no use talking to me now — I'm going back,' he said,
'I'm going back to find him, and I will — alive or dead!'

      .    .    .    .    .

He packed his horse with water and provisions for a week,
And then, at sunset, crossed the plain, away from Dingo Creek.
We watched him tramp beside the horse till we, as it grew late,
Could not tell which was Bonypart and which was Marshall's mate.
The dam went dry at Dingo Creek, and we were driven back,
And none dared face the Ninety Mile when Crowbar took the track.

They saw him at Dead Camel and along the Dry Hole Creeks —
There came a day when none had heard of Marshall's mate for weeks;
They'd seen him at No Sunday, he called at Starving Steers —
There came a time when none had heard of Marshall's mate for years.
They found old Bonypart at last, picked clean by hungry crows,
But no one knew how Crowbar died — the soul of Marshall knows!

And now, way out on Dingo Creek, when winter days are late,
The bushmen talk of Crowbar's ghost 'what's looking for his mate';
For let the fools indulge their mirth, and let the wise men doubt —
The soul of Crowbar and his mate have travelled further out.
Beyond the furthest two-rail fence, Colanne and Nevertire —
Beyond the furthest rabbit-proof, barbed wire and common wire —
Beyond the furthest 'Gov'ment' tank, and past the furthest bore —
The Never-Never, No Man's Land, No More, and Nevermore —
Beyond the Land o' Break-o'-Day, and Sunset and the Dawn,
The soul of Marshall and the soul of Marshall's mate have gone
Unto that Loving, Laughing Land where life is fresh and clean —
Where the rivers flow all summer, and the grass is always green.

The world has had enough of bards who wish that they were dead,
'Tis time the people passed a law to knock 'em on the head,
For 'twould be lovely if their friends could grant the rest they crave —
Those bards of 'tears' and 'vanished hopes', those poets of the grave.
They say that life's an awful thing, and full of care and gloom,
They talk of peace and restfulness connected with the tomb.

They say that man is made of dirt, and die, of course, he must;
But, all the same, a man is made of pretty solid dust.
There is a thing that they forget, so let it here be writ,
That some are made of common mud, and some are made of GRIT;
Some try to help the world along while others fret and fume
And wish that they were slumbering in the silence of the tomb.

'Twixt mother's arms and coffin-gear a man has work to do!
And if he does his very best he mostly worries through,
And while there is a wrong to right, and while the world goes round,
An honest man alive is worth a million underground.
And yet, as long as sheoaks sigh and wattle-blossoms bloom,
The world shall hear the drivel of the poets of the tomb.

And though the graveyard poets long to vanish from the scene,
I notice that they mostly wish their resting-place kept green.
Now, were I rotting underground, I do not think I'd care
If wombats rooted on the mound or if the cows camped there;
And should I have some feelings left when I have gone before,
I think a ton of solid stone would hurt my feelings more.

Such wormy songs of mouldy joys can give me no delight;
I'll take my chances with the world, I'd rather live and fight.
Though Fortune laughs along my track, or wears her blackest frown,
I'll try to do the world some good before I tumble down.
Let's fight for things that ought to be, and try to make 'em boom;
We cannot help mankind when we are ashes in the tomb.

While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse
The gambling and the drink which are your country's greatest curse,
While you glorify the bully and take the spieler's part —
You're a clever southern writer, scarce inferior to Bret Harte.

If you sing of waving grasses when the plains are dry as bricks,
And discover shining rivers where there's only mud and sticks;
If you picture 'mighty forests' where the mulga spoils the view —
You're superior to Kendall, and ahead of Gordon too.

If you swear there's not a country like the land that gave you birth,
And its sons are just the noblest and most glorious chaps on earth;
If in every girl a Venus your poetic eye discerns,
You are gracefully referred to as the 'young Australian Burns'.

But if you should find that bushmen — spite of all the poets say —
Are just common brother-sinners, and you're quite as good as they —
You're a drunkard, and a liar, and a cynic, and a sneak,
Your grammar's simply awful and your intellect is weak.

Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide,
Came a ghost, and for a moment walked in silence by my side —
Now my heart was hard and bitter, and a bitter spirit he,
So I felt no great aversion to his ghostly company.
Said the Shade:  'At finer feelings let your lip in scorn be curled,
'Self and Pelf', my friend, has ever been the motto for the world.'

And he said:  'If you'd be happy, you must clip your fancy's wings,
Stretch your conscience at the edges to the size of earthly things;
Never fight another's battle, for a friend can never know
When he'll gladly fly for succour to the bosom of the foe.
At the power of truth and friendship let your lip in scorn be curled —
'Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world.

'Where Society is mighty, always truckle to her rule;
Never send an 'i' undotted to the teacher of a school;
Only fight a wrong or falsehood when the crowd is at your back,
And, till Charity repay you, shut the purse, and let her pack;
At the fools who would do other let your lip in scorn be curled,
'Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world.

'Ne'er assail the shaky ladders Fame has from her niches hung,
Lest unfriendly heels above you grind your fingers from the rung;
Or the fools who idle under, envious of your fair renown,
Heedless of the pain you suffer, do their worst to shake you down.
At the praise of men, or censure, let your lip in scorn be curled,
'Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world.

'Flowing founts of inspiration leave their sources parched and dry,
Scalding tears of indignation sear the hearts that beat too high;
Chilly waters thrown upon it drown the fire that's in the bard;
And the banter of the critic hurts his heart till it grows hard.
At the fame your muse may offer let your lip in scorn be curled,
'Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world.

'Shun the fields of love, where lightly, to a low and mocking tune,
Strong and useful lives are ruined, and the broken hearts are strewn.
Not a farthing is the value of the honest love you hold;
Call it lust, and make it serve you!  Set your heart on nought but gold.
At the bliss of purer passions let your lip in scorn be curled —
'Self and Pelf', my friend, shall ever be the motto of the world.'

Then he ceased and looked intently in my face, and nearer drew;
But a sudden deep repugnance to his presence thrilled me through;
Then I saw his face was cruel, by the look that o'er it stole,
Then I felt his breath was poison, by the shuddering of my soul,
Then I guessed his purpose evil, by his lip in sneering curled,
And I knew he slandered mankind, by my knowledge of the world.

But he vanished as a purer brighter presence gained my side —
'Heed him not! there's truth and friendship
   in this wondrous world,' she cried,
And of those who cleave to virtue in their climbing for renown,
Only they who faint or falter from the height are shaken down.
At a cynic's baneful teaching let your lip in scorn be curled!
'Brotherhood and Love and Honour!' is the motto for the world.'

     By Henry Lawson.

     By Henry Lawson.

A few other titles by Henry Lawson:

  Prose:                        Poetry:
   On the Track                  When I was King
   Over the Sliprails            Popular Verses
   Joe Wilson                    Humorous Verses
   Joe Wilson's Mates            Winnowed Verses