Henry Lawson Poems

  • 101.  
    Macleay Street looks to Mosman,
    Across the other side, With brave asphalted pavements
  • 102.  
    Oh, the track through the scrub groweth ever more dreary,
    And lower and lower his grey head doth bow; For the swagman is old and the swagman is wearyâ??
  • 103.  
    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 --
  • 104.  
    By homestead, hut, and shearing-shed,
    By railroad, coach, and track -- By lonely graves of our brave dead,
  • 105.  
    Across the stony ridges,
    Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover,
  • 106.  
    When fairer faces turn from me,
    And gayer friends grow cold, And I have lost through poverty
  • 107.  
    BLACKSOIL PLAINS were grey soil, grey soil in the drought.
    Fifteen years away, and five hundred miles out; Swag and bag and billy carried all our care
  • 108.  
    White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier
    As we glide to the grand old sea -- But the song of my heart is for none to hear
  • 109.  
    At suburban railway stations--you may see them as you pass--
    there are signboards on the platform saying 'Wait here second class,' And to me the whirr and thunder and the cluck of running-gear
  • 110.  
    The crescent moon and clock tower are fair above the wall
    Across the smothered lanes of â??Loo, the stifled vice and all, And in the shadow yonderâ??like cats that wait for scrapsâ??
  • 111.  
    Sing the strong, proud song of Labour,
    Toss the ringing music high; Libertyâ??s a nearer neighbour
  • 112.  
    WHEN I tell a tale of virtue and of injured innocence,
    Then my publishers and lawyers are the densest of the dense: With the blank face of an image and the nod of keep-it-dark
  • 113.  
    'Twixt the coastline and the border lay the town of Grog-an'-Grumble
    In the days before the bushman was a dull 'n' heartless drudge, An' they say the local meeting was a drunken rough-and-tumble,
  • 114.  
    A TRAMP was trampinâ?? on the roadâ??
    The afternoon was warm anâ?? muggyâ?? And by-and-by he chanced to meet
  • 115.  
    Oh, Scotty, have you visited the Picture Gallery,
    And did you see the portraits of the King and Queen and me? The portraits made by Longstaff, and the pictures done by Jack,
  • 116.  
    I HAVE written, long years I have written
    For the sake of my people and right, I was true when the iron had bitten
  • 117.  
    There was a Squatter in the landâ??
    So runs the truthful tale I tellâ?? There also were three cornstalks, and
  • 118.  
    IT IS well when youâ??ve lived in clover,
    To mourn for the days gone byâ?? Would I live the same life over
  • 119.  
    Bill and Jim are mates no longerâ??they would scorn the name of mateâ??
    Those two bushmen hate each other with a soul-consuming hate; Yet erstwhile they were as brothers should be (thoâ?? they never will):
  • 120.  
    They'd parted but a year beforeâ??she never thought heâ??d come,
    She stammerâ??d, blushed, held out her hand, and called him â??Mister Gum.â?? How could he know that all the while she longed to murmur â??John.â??
  • 121.  
    Ten miles down Reedy River
    A pool of water lies, And all the year it mirrors
  • 122.  
    To a town in Southern land
    Light of purse I come and lone; And I pause awhile, and stand
  • 123.  
    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,
  • 124.  
    OH! the folly, the waste, and the pity! Oh, the time that is flung behind!
    They are seeking a site for a city, whose eyes shall be always blind, Whose love for their ease grows greater, and whose care for their country lessâ??
  • 125.  
    â??TIS sunrise over Watson,
    Where I sailed out to sea, On that wild run to London
  • 126.  
    The squatter saw his pastures wide
    Decrease, as one by one The farmers moving to the west
  • 127.  
    Man, is the Sea your master? Sea, and is man your slave? â??
    This is the song of brave men who never know they are brave: Ceaselessly watching to save you, stranger from foreign lands,
  • 128.  
    The night came down throâ?? Deadmanâ??s Gap,
    Where the ghostly saplings bent Before a wind that tore the fly
  • 129.  
    The breezes waved the silver grass,
    Waist-high along the siding, And to the creek we ne'er could pass
  • 130.  
    SING us a song in this cynical age,
    Sing us a song, my friend, While the Flesh and the Devil are all the rage
  • 131.  
    Oh, I never felt so wretched, and things never looked so blue
    Since the days I gulped the physic that my Granny used to brew; For a friend in whom I trusted, entering my room last night,
  • 132.  
    With the frame of a man, and the face of a boy, and a manner strangely wild,
    And the great, wide, wondering, innocent eyes of a silent-suffering child; With his hideous dress and his heavy boots, he drags to Eternityâ??
  • 133.  
    Old Ivan McIvanovitch, with knitted brow of care,
    Has climbed up from the engine-room to get a breath of air; He slowly wipes the grease and sweat from hairy face and neck.
  • 134.  
    The President to Kingdoms,
    As in the Days of Old; The King to the Republic,
  • 135.  
    Tall and freckled and sandy,
    Face of a country lout; This was the picture of Andy,
  • 136.  
    Ben Boyd's Tower is watchingâ??
    Watching oâ??er the sea; Ben Boydâ??s Tower is waiting
  • 137.  
    In these days of peace and money, free to all the Commonweal,
    There are ancient dames in Buckland wearing wedding rings of steel; Wedding rings of steel and iron, worn on wrinkled hands and old,
  • 138.  
    It was somewhere in September, and the sun was going down,
    When I came, in search of `copy', to a Darling-River town; `Come-and-have-a-drink' we'll call it -- 'tis a fitting name, I think --
  • 139.  
    They proved we could not think nor see,
    They proved we could not write, They proved we drank the day away
  • 140.  
    Heed not the cock-sure tourist,
    Seeing with English eyes; Stroked at the banquet table
  • 141.  
    And they heard the tent-poles clatter,
    And the fly in twain was torn â?? 'Tis the soiled rag of a tatter
  • 142.  
    We set no right above hers,
    No earthly light nor star, She hath had many lovers,
  • 143.  
    Grown tired of mourning for my sinsâ??
    And brooding over meritsâ?? The other night with bothered brow
  • 144.  
    He'd been for years in Sydney "a-acting of the goat",
    His name was Joseph Swallow, "the Great Australian Pote", In spite of all the stories and sketches that he wrote.
  • 145.  
    He is coming! He is coming! without heralds, without cheers.
    He is coming! He is coming! and heâ??s been with us for years: And, if you should pause to wonder whoâ??s the man of whom I singâ??
  • 146.  
    Said Grenfell to my spirit, "Youâ??ve been writing very free
    Of the charms of other places, and you donâ??t remember me. You have claimed another native place and think itâ??s Natureâ??s law,
  • 147.  
    When my last long-beer has vanished and the truth is left unsaid;
    When each sordid care is banished from my chair and from my bed, And my common people sadly murmur: " 'Arry Lawson dead,"
  • 148.  
    The stamp of Scotland is on his face,
    But he sailed to the South a lad, And he does not think of the black bleak hills
  • 149.  
    You wonder why so many would be buried in the sea,
    In this world of froth and bubble, But I donâ??t wonder, for it seems to me
  • 150.  
    We must suffer, husband and father, we must suffer, daughter and son,
    For the wrong we have taken part in and the wrong that we have seen done. Let the bride of frivolous fashion, and of ease, be ashamed and dumb,
Total 572 poems written by Henry Lawson

Poem of the day

A. E. Housman Poem
When The Lad For Longing Sighs
 by A. E. Housman

When the lad for longing sighs,
Mute and dull of cheer and pale,
If at death's own door he lies,
Maiden, you can heal his ail.

Lovers' ills are all to buy:
The wan look, the hollow tone,
The hung head, the sunken eye,
...

Read complete poem

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