Verses popular and humorous E-Book

Henry Lawson

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

In "Verses Popular and Humorous," Henry Lawson masterfully weaves together a tapestry of wit and social commentary, reflecting the unique Australian landscape at the turn of the 20th century. This collection of poems combines colloquial language with striking imagery, capturing the essence of life in rural Australia. Lawson'Äôs literary style is characterized by its accessibility and humor, making profound observations about the human condition and the socio-economic struggles of his time. His works resonate with the themes of mateship, hardship, and the quintessential Australian spirit, positioning him firmly within the literary context of Australian nationalism and identity. Henry Lawson, often regarded as one of Australia's greatest writers, was deeply influenced by his experiences as a struggling laborer and his commitment to the marginalized. Growing up in the harsh yet beautiful Australian outback, Lawson's personal life was imbued with themes of resilience and humor against adversity. These experiences shaped his literary voice, encompassing not just personal struggles but also the broader challenges faced by the Australian populace, especially in the context of burgeoning national identity during the Federation. This collection is recommended for readers who appreciate poetry that balances humor with poignant social critique. Lawson'Äôs ability to evoke laughter while addressing serious themes makes "Verses Popular and Humorous" a compelling read for those interested in Australian literature, cultural history, or simply the art of verse that entertains and enlightens.

Leseprobe

Henry Lawson

Verses popular and humorous

Published by Good Press, 2022

[email protected]

EAN 4057664590633

Table of Contents

PREFACE

VIGNETTES BY FRANK P. MAHONY

THE PORTS OF THE OPEN SEA

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 JACKAROO

THE DONS OF SPAIN

THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM

ANTONY VILLA A Ballad of Ninety-three

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

MY LITERARY FRIEND

MARY CALLED HIM ‘MISTER’

REJECTED

O’HARA, J.P.

BILL AND JIM FALL OUT

THE PAROO

THE GREEN-HAND ROUSEABOUT

THE MAN FROM WATERLOO (With kind regards to “Banjo.”)

SAINT PETER

THE STRANGER’S FRIEND

THE GOD-FORGOTTEN ELECTION

THE BOSS’S BOOTS

THE CAPTAIN OF THE PUSH

BILLY’S ‘SQUARE AFFAIR’

A DERRY ON A COVE

RISE YE! RISE YE!

THE BALLAD OF MABEL CLARE

CONSTABLE M‘CARTY’S INVESTIGATIONS

AT THE TUG-OF-WAR

HERE’S LUCK!

THE MEN WHO COME BEHIND

THE DAYS WHEN WE WENT SWIMMING

THE OLD BARK SCHOOL

TROUBLE ON THE SELECTION

THE PROFESSIONAL WANDERER

A LITTLE MISTAKE

A STUDY IN THE “NOOD”

A WORD TO TEXAS JACK

THE GROG-AN’-GRUMBLE STEEPLECHASE

BUT WHAT’S THE USE

PREFACE

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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.

VIGNETTES BY FRANK P. MAHONY

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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

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Down here where the ships loom large inThe gloom when the sea-storms veer,Down here on the south-west marginOf the western hemisphere,Where the might of a world-wide oceanRound 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 reachesTo the kerb of the spray-swept street,By the sweep of the black sand beachesFrom the main-road travellers’ feet,By the heights like a work Titanic,Begun ere the gods’ work ceased,By a bluff-lined coast volcanicLie 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 youngerThan a land of the Earth might be—Oh! the hearts of the rovers hungerFor the Ports of the Open Sea.

But the captains watch and hearkenFor 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 fingerBy 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 roamerStruck where the rollers roar—Where the great green froth-flaked comberBreaks down on a black-ribbed shore.

For the South-east lands are dread landsTo the sailor in the shrouds,Where the low clouds loom like headlands,And the black bluffs blur like clouds.When the breakers rage to windwardAnd the lights are masked a-lee,And the sunken rocks run inwardTo 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 creationsThat drive where the gale grows gruff,When the homes of the sea-coast stationsFlash white from the dark’ning bluff!

When the swell of the South-east rousesThe wrath of the Maori sprite,And the brown folk flee their housesAnd crouch in the flax by night,And wait as they long have waited—In fear as the brown folk be—The wave of destruction fatedFor the Ports of the Open Sea.. . . . . . . . . . Grey cloud to the mountain bases,Wild boughs that rush and sweep;On the rounded hills the tussocksLike flocks of flying sheep;A lonely storm-bird soaringO’er tussock, fern and tree;And the boulder beaches roaringThe 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 skiesThat 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 heHad 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 drinkTill 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 TrackAs long as the years go by.

The port-lights glowed in the morning mistThat rolled from the waters green;And over the railing we grasped his fistAs 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 toAnd 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 fellWhen the steamer had passed the pointWe drifted home through the public bars,We were ten times less by oneWho 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 hadWere the best times after all,As I turn aside with a lonely glassAnd 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

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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 againAs 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.

THE ROVERS

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Some born of homely parentsFor ages settled down—The steady generationsOf village, farm, and town:And some of dusky fathersWho wandered since the flood—The fairest skin or darkestMight hold the roving blood—

Some born of brutish peasants,And some of dainty peers,In poverty or plentyThey pass their early years;But, born in pride of purple,Or straw and squalid sin,In all the far world cornersThe wanderers are kin.

A rover or a rebel,Conceived and born to roam,As babies they will toddleWith faces turned from home;They’ve fought beyond the vanguardWherever storm has raged,And home is but a prisonThey pace like lions caged.

They smile and are not happy;They sing and are not gay;They weary, yet they wander;They love, and cannot stay;They marry, and are singleWho watch the roving star,For, by the family fireside,Oh, lonely men they are!

They die of peace and quiet—The deadly ease of life;They die of home and comfort;They live in storm and strife;No poverty can tie them,Nor wealth nor place restrain—Girl, wife, or child might draw them,But they’ll be gone again!

Across the glowing desert;Through naked trees and snow;Across the rolling prairiesThe skies have seen them go;They fought to where the oceanReceives the setting sun;—But where shall fight the roversWhen all the lands are won?

They thirst on Greenland snowfields,On Never-Never sands;Where man is not to conquerThey conquer barren lands;They feel that most are cowards,That all depends on ‘nerve,’They lead who cannot follow,They rule who cannot serve.

Across the plains and ranges,Away across the seas,On blue and green horizonsThey camp by twos and threes;They hold on stormy bordersOf states that trouble earthThe honour of the countryThat only gave them birth.

Unlisted, uncommissioned,Untaught of any school,In far-away world cornersUnconquered tribes they rule;The lone hand and revolver—Sad eyes that never quail—The lone hand and the rifleThat win where armies fail.

They slumber sound where murderAnd treachery are bare—The pluck of self-reliance,The pluck of past despair;Thin brown men in pyjamas—The thin brown wiry men!—The helmet and revolverThat lie beside the pen.

Through drought and desolationThey won the way Out Back;The commonplace and selfishHave followed on their track;They conquer lands for others,For others find the gold,—But where shall go the roversWhen all the lands are old?

A rover and a rebel—And so the worlds commence!Their hearts shall beat as wildlyTen generations hence;And when the world is crowded—’Tis signed and sealed by Fate—The roving blood will rise to makeThe countries desolate.

FOREIGN LANDS

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You may roam the wide seas over, follow, meet, and cross the sun,Sail as far as ships can sail, and travel far as trains can run;You may ride and tramp wherever range or plain or sea expands,But the crowd has been before you, and you’ll not find ‘Foreign Lands;’For the Early Days are over,And no more the white-winged roverSinks the gale-worn coast of England bound for bays in Foreign Lands.

Foreign Lands are in the distance dim and dream-like, faint and far,Long ago, and over yonder, where our boyhood fancies are,For the land is by the railway cramped as though with iron bands,And the steamship and the cable did away with Foreign Lands.Ah! the days of blue and gold!When the news was six months old—But the news was worth the telling in the days of Foreign Lands.

Here we slave the dull years hopeless for the sake of Wool and Wheat—Here the homes of ugly Commerce—niggard farm and haggard street;Yet our mothers and our fathers won the life the heart demands—Less than fifty years gone over, we were born in Foreign Lands.

When the gipsies stole the children still, in village tale and song,And the world was wide to travel, and the roving spirit strong;When they dreamed of South Sea Islands, summer seas and coral strands—Then the bravest hearts of England sailed away to Foreign Lands,‘Fitting foreign’—flood and field—Half the world and orders sealed—And the first and best of Europe went to fight in Foreign Lands.

Canvas towers on the ocean—homeward bound and outward bound—Glint of topsails over islands—splash of anchors in the sound;Then they landed in the forests, took their strong lives in their hands,And they fought and toiled and conquered—making homes in Foreign Lands,Through the cold and through the drought—Further on and further out—Winning half the world for England in the wilds of Foreign Lands.

Love and pride of life inspired them when the simple village heartsFollowed Master Will and Harry—gone abroad to ‘furrin parts’—

By our townships and our cities, and across the desert sandsAre the graves of those who fought and died for us in Foreign Lands—Gave their young lives for our sake(Was it all a grand mistake?)Sons of Master Will and Harry born abroad in Foreign Lands!