The poetry thread.

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I love this old poem. Written by Maya Angelou, an actress, writer, poet, civil rights activist. I like this quote by her...

"My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style".


Still I Rise.

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

by Maya Angelou
 
A bush Christening.
Banjo Paterson.

On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.

Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.

And his wife used to cry, `If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him.'
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.

Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
`What the divil and all is this christenin'?'

He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.

So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened --
`'Tis outrageous,' says he, `to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'

Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the `praste' cried aloud in his haste,
`Come out and be christened, you divil!'

But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
`I've a notion,' says he, `that'll move him.'

`Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy -- don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.

`Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name --
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout --
`Take your chance, anyhow, wid `Maginnis'!'

As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled `MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!

And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened `Maginnis'!
LOL, Good one.
I went to school near Gundagai, NSW. My older brother was in a play of the Bush christening. We learnt this stuff young, I would've been about 8.
The Play was done on the back of a flatbed truck, I always have a "flashback" of my brother running into the hollow log. ;)
 
Another favourite of mine. Always keep your chin up, no matter the situation! lol

When Your Pants Begin to Go.

WHEN you wear a cloudy collar and a shirt that isn't white,
And you cannot sleep for thinking how you'll reach to-morrow night,
You may be a man of sorrows, and on speaking terms with Care,
But as yet you're unacquainted with the Demon of Despair;
For I rather think that nothing heaps the trouble on your mind
Like the knowledge that your trousers badly need a patch behind.

I have noticed, when misfortune strikes the hero of the play,
That his clothes are worn and tattered in a most unlikely way;
And the gods applaud and cheer him while he whines and loafs around,
And they never seem to notice that his pants are mostly sound;
But, of course, he cannot help it, for our mirth would mock his care,
If the ceiling of his trousers showed the patches of repair.

You are none the less a hero if you elevate your chin
When you feel the pavement wearing through the leather, sock, and skin;
You are rather more heroic than are ordinary folk
If you scorn to fish for pity under cover of a joke;
You will face the doubtful glances of the people that you know;
But—of course, you're bound to face them when your pants begin to go.

If, when flush, you took your pleasures—failed to make a god of Pelf,
Some will say that for your troubles you can only thank yourself—
Some will swear you'll die a beggar, but you only laugh at that
While your garments hang together and you wear a decent hat;
You may laugh at their predictions while your soles are wearing low,
But—a man's an awful coward when his pants begin to go.

Though the present and the future may be anything but bright,
It is best to tell the fellows that you're getting on all right.
And a man prefers to say it—'tis a manly lie to tell,
For the folks may be persuaded that you're doing very well;
But it's hard to be a hero, and it's hard to wear a grin,
When your most important garment is in places very thin.

Get some sympathy and comfort from the chum who knows you best,
That your sorrows won't run over in the presence of the rest;
There's a chum that you can go to when you feel inclined to whine,
He'll declare your coat is tidy, and he'll say: ‘Just look at mine!’
Though you may be patched all over he will say it doesn't show,
And he'll swear it can't be noticed when your pants begin to go.

Brother mine, and of misfortune! times are hard, but do not fret,
Keep your courage up and struggle, and we'll laugh at these things yet.
Though there is no corn in Egypt, surely Africa has some—
Keep your smile in working order for the better days to come!
We will often laugh together at the hard times that we know,
And get measured by the tailor when our pants begin to go.



Now the lady of refinement, in the lap of comfort rocked,
Chancing on these rugged verses, will pretend that she is shocked.
Leave her to her smelling-bottle; 'tis the wealthy who decide
That the world should hide its patches 'neath the cruel cloak of pride;
And I think there's something noble, and I'll swear there's nothing low,
In the pride of Human Nature when its pants begin to go.

Henry Lawson.
 
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I CAMPED ONE NIGHT IN AN EMPTY HUT ON THE SIDE OF A LONELY HILL
I don't go much on empty huts but the night was an awful chill
So I boiled me Billy and had me tea and seen that the door was shut
Then I went to bed in an empty bunk by the side of the old slab hut
It must have been about 12 o'clock I was feeling cosy and warm when at the foot of me bunk I see a horrible ghostly form
It seemed in shape to be half an ape with a head like a chimpanzee
But wot the 'ell was it doing here and wot did it want from me?
You may say if you please that I had the d.ts or call me a crimson liar but I wish you had seen it as plain as me with its eyes like coals of fire!
Then it gave a moan and a horrible groan that cuddled me blood with fear and " there's only the two of us here" it ses "there's only the two of us here".
I had one eye on the old hut door and one on the awful brute, I only wanted to dress meself and get to the door and scoot . But I couldn't find where I'd left me boots so I hadn't a chance to clear
And "there's only the two of us here" it moans " there's only the two of us here"
I hadn't a thing to defend meself,not even a stick or stone and "there's only the two of us here" it ses again with a horrible groan.
I thought I'd better make some reply tho I reckoned me end was near
" By the holy smoke when I finds me boots there'll only be one of us here"
I gets me hands on me number tens and out through the door I scoots.
And I lit the hillside up with sparks from me blucher boots
And I've never slept in a hut since then,and I tremble and shake with fear
When I think of that horrible form what moaned , " there's only the two of us here".
EDWARD HARRINGTON
Slim Dusty turned it into a song

Slim had a way of turning a poem into a song that few can match. Here's the story of how Gordon Parsons came up with "A pub with no beer".

In 1943 local farmer Dan Sheehan rode 20 miles to town for a beer at the Day Dawn Hotel in Ingham. Beer was rationed during the war and the American servicemen had drunk the bar dry the night before. On hearing this from the publican Gladys Harvey, and unhappy about riding home dry, Dan penned a poem that he called the "Pub without Beer".

Side note; If you ever come across it, have a read of The Great Aussie Pub Crawl - by Douglas Baglin and Yvonne Austin. Printed in 1990, it's a book full of photos and stories of over 200 pubs throughout Australia. It's a good read and sadly...I know quite a few of these old pubs. lol

On January 1st 1944, the NQ Register published the poem in Ben Bowyangs column.

In 1956 songwriter Gordon Parsons was handed a scrap of paper at the Taylors Arms Hotel in NSW with the poem as an ‘anonymous’ verse. He revamped it and presented it as a song to Slim who recorded it on the back of "Saddle Boy" on April Fools Day 1957. Confusion of the songs origin reigned for years until Slim acknowledged Dan's claim in his book "The Country Mile".

The Original Day Dawn Hotel was owned by the Harvey family and was partly demolished and rebuilt as Lees Hotel. Recently Lees Hotel received Queensland Icon status through the Queensland Heritage Trust and was formally recognised as the "Original Pub With No Beer".

The Original poem by Dan Sheehan...

A PUB WITHOUT BEER

It is lonely away from your kindred and all
In the bushland at night when the warrigals call,
It is sad by the sea where the wild breakers boom,
Or to look on a grave and contemplate doom,
But there's nothing on earth half as lonely and drear
As to stand in the bar of a pub without beer

Madam with her needles sits still by the door,
The boss smokes in silence, he is joking no more,
There's a faraway look on the face of the bum,
While the barmaid looks down at the paint on her thumb,
The cook has gone cranky and the yardman is queer,
Oh, a terrible place is a pub without beer.

Once it stood by the wayside all stately and proud,
'Twas a home to the loafer a joy to the crowd,
Now all silent the rooftree that often times rang
When the navvys were paid and the cane cutters sang,
Some are sleeping their last in a land far from here.
Oh, a terrible place is a pub without beer.

They can hang to their coupons for sugar and tea,
And the shortage of sandshoes does not worry me,
And though benzine and razors be both frozen stiff,
What is wrong with the horse and the old fashioned ziff,
‘Mid the worries of war there's but one thing I fear,
‘Tis to stand in the bar of a pub without beer.

Oh, you brew of brown barley, what charm is shine,
‘Neath thy spell men grow happy and cease to repine,
The cowards become brave and the weak become strong
The dour and the grumpy burst forth into song,
If there's aught to resemble high heaven down here,
'Tis the place of joy where they ladle out beer.


Ingham, 1944. Dan Sheehan.

Slim's song, A Pub With No Beer...

It's lonesome away from your kindred and all
By the campfire at night where the wild dingos call
But there's nothin' so lonesome, so dull or so drear
Than to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer

Now the publican's anxious tor the quota to come
There's a faraway look on the face of the bum
A The maid's gone all cranky and the cook's acting queer
What a terrible place is a pub with no beer

The stockman rides up with his dry, dusty throat
He breasts up to the bar, pulls a wad from his coat
But the smile on his face quickly turns to a sneer
When the barman says suddenly: "The pub's got no beer!"

There's a dog on the verandah, for his masters waits
But the boss is inside drinking wine with his mates
He hurries for cover and he cringes in tear
It's no place tor a dog round a pub with no beer

Then in comes the swagman all covered with flies
He throws down his roll, wipes the sweat from his eyes
But when he is told he say, "What's this I hear?
I've trudged fifty flamin' miles to a pub with no beer?"

Old Billy, the blacksmith, the first time in his life
Has gone home cold sober to his darling wife
He walks in the kitchen: she says: "You're early, me dear" Then he breakes down and tells her that the pub's got no beer

It's lonesome away from your kindred and all
By the campfire at night where the wild dingos call
But there's nothin‘ so lonesome, so dull or so drear
Then to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer


 
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The Chaos by Gerard Nolst Trenite

Dearest creature in creation
Studying English pronunciation,
I will teach you in my verse
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;
Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;
Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet,
Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!
Just compare heart, hear and heard,
Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain
(Mind the latter how it's written).
Made has not the sound of bade,
Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as vague and ague,
But be careful how you speak,
Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via
Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;
Woven, oven, how and low,
Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery:
Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,
Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,
Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing,
Same, examining, but mining,
Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire",
Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,
Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,
Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.
Gertrude, German, wind and wind,
Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather,
Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.
This phonetic labyrinth
Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured
To pronounce revered and severed,
Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,
Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet;
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
Blood and flood are not like food,
Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet,
Which exactly rhymes with khaki.
Discount, viscount, load and broad,
Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet?
Right! Your pronunciation's OK.
Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher?
Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.
Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,
Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision,
Now: position and transition;
Would it tally with my rhyme
If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy,
But cease, crease, grease and greasy?
Cornice, nice, valise, revise,
Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous,
Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,
You'll envelop lists, I hope,
In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it!
Affidavit, David, davit.
To abjure, to perjure. Sheik
Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.
We say hallowed, but allowed,
People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover,
Between mover, plover, Dover.
Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
Petal, penal, and canal,
Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit
Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",
But it is not hard to tell
Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron,
Timber, climber, bullion, lion,
Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
Has the a of drachm and hammer.
Pussy, hussy and possess,
Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants
Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.
Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,
Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker",
Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",
Making, it is sad but true,
In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,
Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic,
Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.
Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,
Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle,
Make the latter rhyme with eagle.
Mind! Meandering but mean,
Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny,
You say mani-(fold) like many,
Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,
Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring
Rhyme with herring or with stirring?
Prison, bison, treasure trove,
Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald
Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.
Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,
Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it,
And distinguish buffet, buffet;
Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,
Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling
Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.
Evil, devil, mezzotint,
Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention
To such sounds as I don't mention,
Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,
Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included,
Though I often heard, as you did,
Funny rhymes to unicorn,
Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely,
I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.
No. Yet Froude compared with proud
Is no better than McLeod.

But mind trivial and vial,
Tripod, menial, denial,
Troll and trolley, realm and ream,
Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely
May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,
But you're not supposed to say
Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid
Worthless documents? How pallid,
How uncouth he, couchant, looked,
When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite,
Paramour, enamoured, flighty,
Episodes, antipodes,
Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser,
Don't peel 'taters with my razor,
Rather say in accents pure:
Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly,
Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,
Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,
Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you
More than r, ch or w.
Say then these phonetic gems:
Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham,
There are more but I forget 'em-
Wait! I've got it: Anthony,
Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit
Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;
With and forthwith, one has voice,
One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger;
Then say: singer, ginger, linger.
Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,
Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very,
Parry, tarry fury, bury,
Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,
Job, Job, blossom, bosom, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners,
Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners
Holm you know, but noes, canoes,
Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little,
We say actual, but victual,
Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,
Put, nut, granite, and unite.

Reefer does not rhyme with deafer,
Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,
Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific;
Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,
Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and vomit,
Next omit, which differs from it
Bona fide, alibi
Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,
Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion with battalion,
Rally with ally; yea, ye,
Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.
Never guess-it is not safe,
We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary,
Crevice, but device, and eyrie,
Face, but preface, then grimace,
Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.

Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;
Ear, but earn; and ere and tear
Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often
Which may be pronounced as orphan,
With the sound of saw and sauce;
Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting?
Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.
Respite, spite, consent, resent.
Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,
Monkey, donkey, clerk and jerk,
Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour,
S of news (compare newspaper),
G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,
I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers,
Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.
Once, but nonce, toll, doll, but roll,
Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!-
Is a paling, stout and spiky.
Won't it make you lose your wits
Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel
Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,
Islington, and Isle of Wight,
Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather,
Saying lather, bather, father?
Finally, which rhymes with enough,
Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup...
My advice is: Give It Up!
 
THE LITTLE IRISH MOTHER

Have you seen the tidy cottage in the straggling, dusty street,
Where the roses swing their censers by the door?
Have you heard the happy prattle and the tramp of tiny feet
As the sturdy youngsters romp around the floor?
Did you wonder why the wiree* comes to sing his sweetest song ?
Did the subtle charm of home upon you fall?
Did you puzzle why it haunted you the while you passed along?--
There's a Little Irish Mother there; that's all.

When you watched the children toiling at their lessons in the school,
Did you pick a winsome girleen from the rest,
With her wealth of curl a-cluster as she smiled upon the stool,
In a simple Monday-morning neatness dressed?
Did you mark the manly bearing ofa healthy-hearted boy
As he stood erect his well-conned task to tell ?
Did you revel in the freshness with a pulse of wholesomejoy?--
There's a Little Irish Mother there as well.

There's a Little Irish Mother that a lonely vigil keeps
In the settler's hut where seldom stranger comes,
Watching by the home-made cradle where one more Australian sleeps
While the breezes whisper weird things to the gums,
Where the settlers battle gamely, beaten down to rise again,
And the brave bush wives the toil and silence share,
Where the nation is a-building in the hearts of splendid men--
There's a Little Irish Mother always there.

There's a Little Irish Mother--and her head is bowed and gray,
And she's lonesome when the evening shadows fall;
Near the fire she "do be thinkin'," all the "childer' are away,
And their silent pictures watch her from the wall.
For the world has claimed them from her; they are men and women
now,
In their thinning hair the tell-tale silver gleams;
But she runs her fingers, dozing, o'er a tousled baby brow--
It is "little Con" or "Bridgie" in her dreams.

There's a Little Irish Mother sleeping softly now at last
Where the tangled grass is creeping all around;
And the shades of unsung heroes troop about her from the past
While the moonlight scatters diamonds on the mound.
And a good Australian's toiling in the world of busy men
Where the strife and sordid grinding cramp and kill;
But his eyes are sometimes misted, and his heart grows brave again--
She's the Little Irish Mother to him still.

When at last the books are balanced in the settling-up to be,
And our idols on the rubbish-heap are hurled,
Then the Judge shall call to honour--not the "stars," it seems to me,
Who have posed behind the footlights of the world;
But the king shall doff his purple, and the queen lay by her crown,
And the great ones of the earth shall stand aside
While a Little Irish Mother in her tattered, faded gown
Shall receive the crown too long to her denied.


John O'Brien.
 
My Country
The love of field and coppice
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins.
Strong love of grey-blue distance,
Brown streams and soft, dim skies
I know, but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror
The wide brown land for me!

The stark white ring-barked forests,
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon,
Green tangle of the brushes
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops,
And ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When, sick at heart, around us
We see the cattle die
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the rainbow gold,
For flood and fire and famine
She pays us back threefold.
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze ...

An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand
though Earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.


©Dorothea MacKellar
 
Scots of the Riverina

Henry Lawson, 1917


  • The boy cleared out to the city from his home at harvest time —
    They were Scots of the Riverina, and to run from home was a crime.
    The old man burned his letters, the first and last he burned,
    And he scratched his name from the Bible when the old wife's back was turned.

    A year went past and another. There were calls from the firing-line;
    They heard the boy had enlisted, but the old man made no sign.
    His name must never be mentioned on the farm by Gundagai —
    They were Scots of the Riverina with ever the kirk hard by.

    The boy came home on his "final", and the township's bonfire burned.
    His mother's arms were about him; but the old man's back was turned.
    The daughters begged for pardon till the old man raised his hand —
    A Scot of the Riverina who was hard to understand.

    The boy was killed in Flanders, where the best and bravest die.
    There were tears at the Grahame homestead and grief in Gundagai;
    But the old man ploughed at daybreak and the old man ploughed till the mirk —
    There were furrows of pain in the orchard while his housefolk went to the kirk.

    The hurricane lamp in the rafters dimly and dimly burned;
    And the old man died at the table when the old wife's back was turned.
    Face down on his bare arms folded he sank with his wild grey hair
    Outspread o'er the open Bible and a name re-written there.
 
Scots of the Riverina

Henry Lawson, 1917


  • The boy cleared out to the city from his home at harvest time —
    They were Scots of the Riverina, and to run from home was a crime.
    The old man burned his letters, the first and last he burned,
    And he scratched his name from the Bible when the old wife's back was turned.

    A year went past and another. There were calls from the firing-line;
    They heard the boy had enlisted, but the old man made no sign.
    His name must never be mentioned on the farm by Gundagai —
    They were Scots of the Riverina with ever the kirk hard by.

    The boy came home on his "final", and the township's bonfire burned.
    His mother's arms were about him; but the old man's back was turned.
    The daughters begged for pardon till the old man raised his hand —
    A Scot of the Riverina who was hard to understand.

    The boy was killed in Flanders, where the best and bravest die.
    There were tears at the Grahame homestead and grief in Gundagai;
    But the old man ploughed at daybreak and the old man ploughed till the mirk —
    There were furrows of pain in the orchard while his housefolk went to the kirk.

    The hurricane lamp in the rafters dimly and dimly burned;
    And the old man died at the table when the old wife's back was turned.
    Face down on his bare arms folded he sank with his wild grey hair
    Outspread o'er the open Bible and a name re-written there.
Always brings a tear to the eye Moz....
 
Always brings a tear to the eye Moz....

It's a beauty isn't it, mate? I know it must have been an extremely hard life back in those early days, but the romantic (possibly) in me wishes I could somehow experience it. This short poem is powerful when you regard it from all the different angles...or through the eyes of the different people mentioned in it. It's all too easy now days, regardless of what those with a "victim mentality" will tell you.
 
A poem where the Dad isn't a jerk: (working title)
Written by globaleagle.
Minutes ago.

In a time from long ago,
when no one did complainin'.
A Scottish boy did leave his farm,
Without so much explainin'.

He knew that upon his father's land
His days were filled with chore
But the radio did tell the town
The world had gone to war.

"I know my family needs me dear,"
He sat, young and strong and free.
But there's a greater purpose here,
To king and my country.

So off he marched, he knew not where,
He ignored all feelings of dread.
And on Flanders field he soon did land.
Minutes later, he was dead.

And when his family got the news,
Their hearts did fill with sorrow.
HIs Dad did cry, and then he sighed,
The fields still need their furrow.
 
A poem where the Dad isn't a jerk: (working title)
Written by globaleagle.
Minutes ago.

In a time from long ago,
when no one did complainin'.
A Scottish boy did leave his farm,
Without so much explainin'.

He knew that upon his father's land
His days were filled with chore
But the radio did tell the town
The world had gone to war.

"I know my family needs me dear,"
He sat, young and strong and free.
But there's a greater purpose here,
To king and my country.

So off he marched, he knew not where,
He ignored all feelings of dread.
And on Flanders field he soon did land.
Minutes later, he was dead.

And when his family got the news,
Their hearts did fill with sorrow.
HIs Dad did cry, and then he sighed,
The fields still need their furrow.
100 years from now I can see your head on a $10 note GE.
Not that I'll be here to see it but you get my drift.......
 
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2 1 1 13 4
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3 2 1 -3 4
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3 1 2 -5 2
3 1 2 -15 2
3 1 2 -22 2
3 1 2 -36 2
2 0 2 -56 2
3 0 3 -64 0
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