The poetry thread.

[mozgrame]

Responsibility

Responsibility’s a word that’s out of use today
When people see an evil act they’d rather turn away
It’s no one’s fault when Johnny steals a CD from a shop
His parents aren’t the ones to blame, they cannot make him stop

The social workers pat his hand and say that he’s repressed
They say we mustn’t punish him in case he gets depressed
Then Johnny goes and steals a car and plays with the police
The court case is a waste of time and ends in his release

So Johnny goes and smokes some dope, gets high on speed and crack
He never had his limits set so there’s no turning back
He’s no respect for anyone and least of all himself
If he had a conscience once before he left it on the shelf

A robbery with arms goes wrong and Johnny winds up dead
They blame it on the drugs of course for messing with his head
His parents blame the teachers who had always both hands tied
The papers blame society ‘cos poor old Johnny died

The social workers still get paid and take another case
They haven’t got the time to care they must pick up the pace
The blame gets passed around and round but every thing’s the same
For no one has the guts to say that Johnny was to blame

For everyone is given choice in how they can behave
With Johnny’s choice now limited to lying in a grave
And all because he never learned in order to live free
We all must learn the meaning of responsibility

Marc Glasby

 

[mozgrame]

The Stockman’s Bar

I had wandered into the Stockmans’ Bar
on that Thursday afternoon.
It was late in the day, and come what may
the first "coldie" would be real soon.
Kausey and I had seen the Ekka
and now we faced the bar:
Two Carlton mid strengths ordered then –
mindful of the car.

I had the money in my hand -
the Barman reached to grab,
when a lovely young woman beside me said:
"put it on my tab!!"
Kausey and I laughed out loud,
thinkin’ it a joke,
then I thought "I must be dreamin"
and hoped I’d not be woke!

Her name was Kate; a country girl
from south of Grafton bred.
Worked around Rockhampton,
"then travelled south," she said.
Young and lovely, lean and fit,
dark eyes, and mind so clever,
Kausey and I, drank real slow
so the drink would last forever.

A genuine interest in our work
was evident, that day.
Kate told us of her brother,
on a farm out Springsure way.
We shared a "Bushie" poem
about old fashioned ways
and she said her father worked with words,
in his latter days.

She also had an interest,
in our drinking taste –
relaxed and easy conversation:
certainly no haste.
A Marketing Executive,
was how Kate came across,
then the pieces fell in place:
Fosters group, her Boss!

We shouted Kate a beer in turn
and then went on our way.
We all expressed our pleasure
at the time we’d spent that day.
Thank you, Kate, for the drink
and the time in conversation –
while Fosters works with folks like you,
they’ll do well across the nation.

Dennis Scanlon

 

[mozgrame]

Liquid Knowledge

I never attended a college,
I wasn't the type to adhere,
A diploma of infinite knowledge,
I swig from a bottle of beer.

So give me a taste of that mellow,
Old nectar they brew in a can,
And I'll be a graduate fellow,
And speak like an eloquent man.

There's a chance you've possibly met me,
Or otherwise seen me around,
I lurk where the amber is plenty,
And a suitable ear can be found.

I always have an opinion,
I'm the loudest bird in the coop,
Master of all my dominion,
While sipping the lunatic soup.

I'm commonly known for my candour,
The absolute wisdom I feel,
My humour and poetic banter,
A few empty bottles reveal.

I quote in the fashion of Homer,
Exhort with a natural flair,
And draw on the common misnomer,
That brains can be found anywhere.

Steven Smith.

 

[mozgrame]

Pockets
Around the many farming sheds stories come and go,
Of how some people get the names they keep,
Like a shearer known as 'stitch' because he always had to sew,
The wounds he made while shearing others sheep.

The publican was 'Lofty', though he wasn't very tall,
And 'Hessian', was always getting sacked,
Another one that comes to mind was Johnny 'knuckles' Hall,
A mountain of a man with little tact.

In a town called Boggy Creek, where muddy waters wind,
A young man took a fancy to a lass,
He tried his best to win her, but her father had declined,
Thinking him unsuitable and crass.

Perseverance as they say, will always conquer all,
So it was the case in Boggy Creek,
He'd finally arranged to take the girl out to the ball,
On Friday night to end the working week.

To gain her father's trust he was made to swear an oath,
To keep his filthy hands in his pocket,
Then admiring a shotgun her father showed him both,
Barrels on the thing and how to cock it!

The remainder of the week saw him puffing out his chest,
While scheming to avoid a fatal shot,
'What he doesn't know won't hurt him', he quietly confessed,
I'll play the gentleman although I'm not.

Convenience was not a word that quickly springs to mind,
In Boggy Creek the latest hits around,
Were Tilly lamps and lavatories, of the 'Long Drop' kind,
Where refuse disappears without a sound.

Friday night arrives and he's set to make his mark,
Boorishly swaggering up the road,
In Polished boots and gaberdine like a Doctor's Clerk,
His wallet nearly bursting with it's load.

He stops awhile and rolls a smoke to calm his inner fears,
While sitting in the 'long drop' on the hill,
With her father's friendly warning still ringing in his ears,
His wallet somehow falls into the swill.

Rolling up his shirtsleeves as a quick resource,
While observing the wallets slow descent,
He looks into the quagmire, and holds his breath of course,
Then dives his arms into the effluent.

Panicking, he blindly grasps at any solid mass,
With hungry creatures clinging to his arms,
Putrefying discharge and choking methane gas,
A smelly cocktail dripping from his palms.

He finds the soggy wallet but the problem is the smell,
His only choice to hide his hands from view,
So he keeps them in his pockets resolving not to tell,
Hopefully the girl won't have a clue.

He meets the farmer's daughter a feisty little wench,
Who's eager for some wild and hot romance,
But he had no cure or antidote to mask the dreadful stench,
Emanating slowly from his pants.

The ball is a disaster from beginning to the end,
The plans he made were left in utter ruin,
Forced into a corner to pathetically defend,,
The girl's advances when he was a 'shoe in'.

She finally confesses that she's been on better dates,
He wasn't quite the type she thought he'd be,
And he can't control the ribbing that he's getting from his mates,
By following 'fathers' orders to the tee.

He ended up by marrying another girl he met,
Her father owned a piggery we heard,
But down in Boggy Creek they never would forget,
The young man who so blindly kept his word.

Locally they still recount 'the wallet in the hole',
Perhaps it's just a tale of rotten luck,
One thing is for certain though, he never told a soul,
But somehow the name of 'pockets' stuck.

© Steven Smith

 

[mozgrame]

Conroy’s Boxing Troupe
Conroy ran a boxing troupe of dubious renown,
A melting pot of ruffians and sods,
Whose primary objective was to take a punter down,
By trickery, and stacking up the odds.

His ranks were full of cutthroats, prisoners on release,
And cheats who couldn’t ‘cut it’ in the sport,
Who’d only stay about the place long enough to fleece,
The townsfolk, or defend themselves in court.

A wizard with a megaphone he’d suck the locals in,
To fighting in an up and coming bout,
With a solitary golden tooth and sly satanic grin,
“Who’d like to fight the champion?” he’d shout.

It sometimes took a while to find a challenger in the crowd,
So he’d always plant a ‘dummy’ in the throng,
Who’d goad the mob by ‘acting up’ and taunting out aloud,
Until the next contender came along.

When it came to complex strategies he’d often utilise,
The dirtiest of tactics for the show,
Like a towel dipped in liniment to blur a fighters eyes,
Or a weighted glove to strike a knockout blow.

Occasionally, to raise the odds, his boys would take a fall,
Primarily, to get the betting started,
A strongly built disciple of that adage known to all,
about the fool and his money being parted’.

Some time ago, he’d robbed a town, appearing ‘on the square’,
The locals crying foul, as well they might,
With victorious bravado, he was eager to declare,
“Is there not a man remaining who can fight?”

“Oh come now boys, I’ll offer you a chance to end the fuss,
I’m as fair a man as any that you’ve met,
If a bloke can go the distance with anyone of us,
I’ll happily return the money bet.”

Secure in the ability of henchmen by his side,
He fails to read the writing on the wall,
And just when he’s about to leave he sees the crowd divide,
As a new contender steps into the hall.

Standing like a mountain, ‘Lofty’ dwarfs him like an elf,
And Conroy’s forced to try and play an ace,
So he mutters to his boys, “I’ll have to fight this bloke myself”,
“Just be ready with the towel to wipe his face”.

Declaring with some opulence, “Forget about the rules,
The last man standing up will win the bout,
I never was the type to suffer politics or fools”,
As he dons his loaded gloves for extra clout.

They met a little later, Conroy feigns to shake his hand,
Then swings a raking left towards his head,
But lofty is his equal in matters under-hand,
Punching him below the belt instead.

Gripping both his kneecaps and sinking to the ground,
While his villains seek amendment to ‘the rule’,
Conroy painfully emits an incoherent type of sound,
While groping in the corner for his stool.

It was very nearly over, before it had begun,
As Lofty’s dancing round like Fred Astaire,
Conroy’s on his feet again, and far from being done,
Sneaks up behind and whacks him with the chair.

They dodge each other’s punches, Conroy kicks him in the shin,
Then tries to bite his nose off in a clinch,
And lofty lands an elbow aimed directly at his chin,
Neither of the pair would give an inch.

The golden tooth is souvenired, while lying in the ring,
A vicious head butt evens up the game,
Lofty throws a ‘kidney punch’ as all the locals sing,
Parochially, while chanting out his name.

It was difficult, at times, to tell who had the upper hand,
Conroy, in the end, was holding sway,
“Lofty’s nearly done” he said, then whispers to his band,
“Now’s the time to send the towel his way”.

Lofty had sustained a savage beating round the eye,
And from his left he couldn’t see a thing,
So when they tossed the towel to him it clearly whistled bye,
And lobbed into the centre of the ring!

Conroy sat there motionless, rooted to the spot,
He’d clearly snatched defeat from victory’s jaws,
By throwing in the towel he’d have to give back all he’d got,
While Lofty’s chaired away to warm applause.

Conroy ran a boxing troupe of dubious renown,
A melting pot of ruffians and sods,
Whose primary objective was getting out of town,
Without handing back a cent from stacking odds.

© Steven Smith.

 

[Sillybus]

What if the sky wants to be red not blue? What if it waits an entire day for the sun to set just to catch a quick glimpse of the colour it yearns to be only to see it vanish as quickly as it appeared?

 

[mozgrame]

What if a caterpillar truly wants nothing more, than to remain a caterpillar? To live its life in the safety of the foliage. Each day amazed and nourished by the small garden of Eden it inhabits.

One day, as the rain continues, he has an idea. To escape the rain, he forms himself into a chrysalis.

Warm, dry, safe, exhausted. Bliss.

He awakens from his long slumber. The chrysalis seems to have shrunken. He tries to move, the chrysalis breaks and tears open. "What has happened to me??".

"My legs are long a spindly, what are these things protruding from my back?" He catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a large dew drop. "I am grotesque!"

He spends the next 9 days fluttering endlessly in search of the one thing he will never again have. He flutters in heavy sadness, he rests in the depths of despair. Longing for nothing more than to be as he was. Finally, his suffering and anguish draws to an end as he lightly touches down on a fern leaf near the forest floor.

He slowly lowers and raises his unwanted wings once more, and sighs as the forest surrounding him darkens much too early, and way to quickly in the day. A single broken hearted tear rolls from his eye, and although the world is now black, he can feel the warmth of the sun.

Warm, dry, safe, exhausted. Death.

Blissful release from an existence unwanted.

 

[mozgrame]

Queensland Mounted Infantry
There’s a very well-built fellow,with a swinging sort of stride.
About as handy sort as I have ever seen.
A rough and tumble fellow that is born to fight and ride
And he’s over here a-fighting for the Queen.

He’s Queensland Mounted Infantry -- compounded ‘orse and foot.
He’ll climb a cliff or gallop down a flat.
He’s cavalry to travel but he’s infantry to shoot.
And you’ll know him by the feathers in his hat!

Banjo Paterson

 

[mozgrame]

The Road to Old Man's Town

The fields of youth are filled with flowers,
The wine of youth is strong:
What need have we to count the hours?
The summer days are long.

But soon we find to our dismay
That we are drifting down
The barren slopes that fall away
Towards the foothills grim and grey
That lead to Old Man's Town.

And marching with us on the track
Full many friends we find:
We see them looking sadly back
For those who've dropped behind

But God forfend a fate so dread --
Alone to travel down
The dreary road we all must tread,
With faltering steps and whitening head,
The road to Old Man's Town!

Banjo Paterson.

 

[mozgrame]

Australian Scenery
The Mountains

A land of sombre, silent hills, where mountain cattle go
By twisted tracks, on sidelings deep, where giant gum trees grow
And the wind replies, in the river oaks, to the song of the stream below.

A land where the hills keep watch and ward, silent and wide awake
As those who sit by a dead campfire, and wait for the dawn to break,
Or those who watched by the Holy Cross for the dead Redeemer's sake.

A land where silence lies so deep that sound itself is dead
And a gaunt grey bird, like a homeless soul, drifts, noiseless, overhead
And the world's great story is left untold, and the message is left unsaid.

The Plains

A land as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow
Or the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go
Like shifting symbols of hope deferred -- land where you never know.

Land of plenty or land of want, where the grey Companions dance,
Feast or famine, or hope or fear, and in all things land of chance,
Where Nature pampers or Nature slays, in her ruthless, red, romance.

And we catch a sound of a fairy's song, as the wind goes whipping by,
Or a scent like incense drifts along from the herbage ripe and dry
-- Or the dust storms dance on their ballroom floor, where the bones of
the cattle lie.

Banjo Paterson.

 

[globaleagle]

I sit here where I've sat before,
Just once or twice, maybe more.
It's morning now, a mystic delight,
And the dew drops play with the first rays of light.

The fog it swirls down from our mountain.
The only noise is a nearby fountain.
Sweet morning's warmth, it comforts me,
A feeling of pure serenity.

My peace is broken by my sigh.
So many things I've yet to try.
This scene it is deceiving me.
Oh why wont today just let me be?

I hear my name, dont spin around!
I'll try to avoid this pain I've found.
There's no escape, I turn, I dread.
But how I wished I'd run, I'd fled.

A sea of people all stand with me.
I think alone I'd rather be.
I kneel down beside the stone,
That marks the place of my lovers home.

My heart it is as cold as steel,
It's warmth again, I'll never feel.
But no matter where I go from here,
You will be close, I'll feel you near.

 

[mozgrame]

I remember everything about you,
your voice, your smile, your touch,
the way you walked, the way you talked,
the way you looked at me, meant so much.

I remember all the words you said to me,
some funny, some kind, some wise,
all of the things you did for me,
I see now with different eyes.

I remember every moment we shared,
seems like only yesterday,
or maybe it was eons ago,
It's really hard to say.

You are gone from me now,
but one thing they can't take away,
your memory resides inside my heart,
and lights up my darkest days.

 

[mozgrame]

IF I COULD VISIT FOR A WHILE
by Richard John Scarr

All my prayers lead up to Heaven.
And if I could use them like mold
I'd shape them like a spiralling stairway.
And climb to Heaven's Gates of Gold.

There I'd knock and tell the Angels
How much I miss your loving smile.
And how lonely I have been without you.
And could I visit for a while.

I'd say: "I won't outstay my welcome.
If I could spend some time with you.
Just softly holding hands the way we used to.
And spend a pleasant hour or two."

If I could see your face once more,
and feel the comfort of your touch.
If I could have the chance to tell you,
that I still love you very much.

If I could hold you for a moment
and look into those loving eyes.
I'd return to earth and never question
the where's and who's, or our goodbyes.

I'd just wait until I too could leave
and cross the great divide.
And the time I visit there with you,
would keep me till I'm by your side.

 

[mozgrame]

Hey @Moondog ; I found this poem quite by accident. This is from a book I found at a local book shop. Henry Lawson, A CAMP-FIRE YARN, complete works 1885 - 1887. This particular poem is from 1887. It may, or may not resonate with your Ma...

It is pre headed with a short blurb from the Melbourne newspaper...

"A party of Irish immigrants arrived at Melbourne wharf the other day. The first thing one of them, a young man, did was to open hid box and take out a hard baked sod which he gave to an old woman (evidently the Mother of some of them) who received them on the wharf. She kissed it and 'blessed herself'. It was part and parcel with the grand ould sod to which her heart strings clung".
- Melbourne Newspaper.

Only A Sod

It's only a sod, but ’twill break me ould heart
Nigh hardened wid toilin’ and carin’,
And make the ould wounds in it tingle and smart.
It’s only a sod, but it’s parcel and part
Of strugglin’, sufferin’ Erin.

It’s only a sod, but it rakes the ould pain —
The ould love in me heart that still lingers,
That Time has been soothing and docth’ring in vain;
And now he must soothe it and heal it again
Wid his kindly and gentle ould fingers.

It’s only a sod, but I see a big ship
Through the gallopin’ waters come tearin’,
And a lass that looks back on the horizon dip,
Wid eyes full of tears and a thrimblin’ lip,
On the last that she saw of ould Erin.

It’s only a sod, but wid care it will keep
Till me brooms and me brushes are silint
Put it into me arms ere they bury me deep,
And tell them old Biddy the “slavey” does sleep
’Neath a sod from the bogs of ould Irlint.

 

[mozgrame]

Sweeney


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 --
And 'twas raining, for a wonder, up at Come-and-have-a-drink.

'Neath the public-house verandah I was resting on a bunk
When a stranger rose before me, and he said that he was drunk;
He apologised for speaking; there was no offence, he swore;
But he somehow seemed to fancy that he'd seen my face before.

`No erfence,' he said. I told him that he needn't mention it,
For I might have met him somewhere; I had travelled round a bit,
And I knew a lot of fellows in the bush and in the streets --
But a fellow can't remember all the fellows that he meets.

Very old and thin and dirty were the garments that he wore,
Just a shirt and pair of trousers, and a boot, and nothing more;
He was wringing-wet, and really in a sad and sinful plight,
And his hat was in his left hand, and a bottle in his right.

His brow was broad and roomy, but its lines were somewhat harsh,
And a sensual mouth was hidden by a drooping, fair moustache;
(His hairy chest was open to what poets call the `wined',
And I would have bet a thousand that his pants were gone behind).

He agreed: `Yer can't remember all the chaps yer chance to meet,'
And he said his name was Sweeney -- people lived in Sussex-street.
He was campin' in a stable, but he swore that he was right,
`Only for the blanky horses walkin' over him all night.'

He'd apparently been fighting, for his face was black-and-blue,
And he looked as though the horses had been treading on him, too;
But an honest, genial twinkle in the eye that wasn't hurt
Seemed to hint of something better, spite of drink and rags and dirt.

It appeared that he mistook me for a long-lost mate of his --
One of whom I was the image, both in figure and in phiz --
(He'd have had a letter from him if the chap were living still,
For they'd carried swags together from the Gulf to Broken Hill.)

Sweeney yarned awhile and hinted that his folks were doing well,
And he told me that his father kept the Southern Cross Hotel;
And I wondered if his absence was regarded as a loss
When he left the elder Sweeney -- landlord of the Southern Cross.

He was born in Parramatta, and he said, with humour grim,
That he'd like to see the city ere the liquor finished him,
But he couldn't raise the money. He was damned if he could think
What the Government was doing. Here he offered me a drink.

I declined -- 'TWAS self-denial -- and I lectured him on booze,
Using all the hackneyed arguments that preachers mostly use;
Things I'd heard in temperance lectures (I was young and rather green),
And I ended by referring to the man he might have been.

Then a wise expression struggled with the bruises on his face,
Though his argument had scarcely any bearing on the case:
`What's the good o' keepin' sober? Fellers rise and fellers fall;
What I might have been and wasn't doesn't trouble me at all.'

But he couldn't stay to argue, for his beer was nearly gone.
He was glad, he said, to meet me, and he'd see me later on;
He guessed he'd have to go and get his bottle filled again,
And he gave a lurch and vanished in the darkness and the rain.

. . . . .

And of afternoons in cities, when the rain is on the land,
Visions come to me of Sweeney with his bottle in his hand,
With the stormy night behind him, and the pub verandah-post --
And I wonder why he haunts me more than any other ghost.

Still I see the shearers drinking at the township in the scrub,
And the army praying nightly at the door of every pub,
And the girls who flirt and giggle with the bushmen from the west --
But the memory of Sweeney overshadows all the rest.

Well, perhaps, it isn't funny; there were links between us two --
He had memories of cities, he had been a jackeroo;
And, perhaps, his face forewarned me of a face that I might see
From a bitter cup reflected in the wretched days to be.

. . . . .

I suppose he's tramping somewhere where the bushmen carry swags,
Cadging round the wretched stations with his empty tucker-bags;
And I fancy that of evenings, when the track is growing dim,
What he `might have been and wasn't' comes along and troubles him.

Henry Lawson :

 

[rifraff]

It ain't Homer or Shakespeare or even Banjo.

Come and listen to a story about a man named Jed
A poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed,
And then one day he was shootin at some food,
And up through the ground came a bubblin crude.

Oil that is, black gold, Texas tea.

Well the first thing you know ol Jed's a millionaire,
Kinfolk said "Jed move away from there"
Said "Californy is the place you ought to be"
So they loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly

Hills, that is. Swimmin pools, movie stars.


Well now its time to say good by to Jed and all his kin.
And they would like to thank you folks fer kindly droppin in.
You're all invited back a gain to this locality
To have a heapin helpin of their hospitality

Hillybilly that is. Set a spell, Take your shoes off.

Y'all come back now, y'hear?.

source: http://www.lyricsondemand.com/tvthemes/beverlyhillbillieslyr

!00 years from now will be just as legendary

 

[mozgrame]

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain;
The day is past, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

My tale was heard and yet it was not told,
My fruit is fallen, yet my leaves are green,
My youth is spent and yet I am not old,
I saw the world and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,
And now I live and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I looked for life and found it was a shade,
I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I was but made;
My glass is full, and now my glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

by Chidiock Tichborne

 

[Harvies elbow]

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

 

[mozgrame]

My Land And I

They have eaten their fill at your tables spread,
Like friends since the land was won;
And they rise with a cry of "Australia's dead!"
With the wheeze of "Australia's done!"
Oh, the theme is stale, but they tell the tale
(How the weak old tale will keep!)
Like the crows that croak on a splintered rail,
That have gorged on a rotten sheep.

I would sing a song in your darkest hour
In your darkest hour and mine –
For I see the dawn of your wealth and power,
And I see your bright star shine.
The little men yelp and the little men lie,
And they spread the lies afar;
But we heed them never, my Land and I,
For we know how small they are.

They know you not in a paltry town –
In the streets where great hopes die –
Oh, heart that never a flood could drown,
And never a drought could dry!
Stand forth from the rim where the red sun dips,
Strong son of the land's own son –
With the grin of grit on your drought-chapped lips
And say, is your country done?

Stand forth from the land where the sunset dies,
By the desolate lonely shed,
With the smile of faith in your blighted eyes,
And say, is your country dead?
They see no future, they know no past –
The parasite cur and clown,
Who talk of ruin and death to last
When a man or a land is down.

God sends for answer the rain, the rain,
And away on the western lease,
The limitless plain grows green again,
And the fattening stock increase.
We'll lock your rivers, my land, my land,
Dig lakes on the furthest run –
While down in the corners where houses stand,
They drivel, "Australia's done!"

The parasites dine at your tables spread
(As my enemies did at mine),
And they croak and gurgle, "Australia's dead"
While they guzzle Australian wine.
But we heed them never, my land, my land,
For we know how small they are,
And we see the signs of a future grand,
As we gaze on a rising star.

Henry Lawson.

 

[mozgrame]

The Road Not Taken.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

By Robert Frost.