Popular Verses E-Book

Henry Lawson

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

In "Popular Verses," Henry Lawson captures the essence of Australian identity through poignant poetry that combines both realism and sentimentality. Written in the late 19th century, Lawson's verses mirror the struggles and triumphs of the Australian outback, employing a colloquial style that resonates with the vernacular of his time. The collection reveals a deep appreciation for the Australian landscape and its people, utilizing vivid imagery and emotional depth to discuss themes of hardship, resilience, and camaraderie among the working class. Lawson'Äôs lyrical dexterity invites readers to engage with the everyday experiences and sentiments that characterize life in rural Australia, thus establishing a firm literary context within the burgeoning Australian nationalism of the era. Henry Lawson (1867-1922), often dubbed the 'poet of the people,' was born in a time of great social and political change in Australia. Growing up in the bush amidst various hardships shaped his empathetic voice and ability to articulate the shared experiences of his contemporaries. His own life struggles, including challenges with health and economic adversity, deeply influenced his work, fostering a profound understanding of societal issues that he passionately conveyed through his poetry. "Popular Verses" is not only a celebration of Australian culture but also an invitation for readers to explore the rich tapestry of human emotions woven within its pages. This collection is a must-read for anyone interested in Australian literature, sociology, or poetry, as it provides an authentic glimpse into the soul of a nation and resonates with universal themes of perseverance and community.

Leseprobe

Henry Lawson

Popular Verses

Published by Good Press, 2022

[email protected]

EAN 4066338050731

Table of Contents

The Ports Of The Open Sea

The Three Kings

The Outside Track

Sydney-Side

The Rovers

Foreign Lands

Mary Lemaine

The Shakedown on the Floor

Reedy River

Old Stone Chimney

Song of the Old Bullock-Driver

The Lights of Cobb and Co.

How the Land was Won

The Boss Over the Board

When the Ladies Come to the Shearing Shed

The Ballad of the Rouseabout

Years After the War in Australia

The Old Jimmy Woodser

The Christ of the ‘Never’

The Cattle-Dog’s Death

The Song of the Darling River

Rain in the Mountains

A May Night on the Mountains

The New Chum Jackeroo

The Dons of Spain

The Bursting of the Boom

Antony Villa

Second Class Wait Here

The Ships That Won’t Go Down

The Men We Might Have Been

The Way of the World

The Battling Days

Written Afterwards

The Uncultured Rhymer To His Cultured Critics

The Writer’s Dream

The Jolly Dead March

THE END

The Ports Of The Open Sea

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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

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[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

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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.