Recently in Poems Category

(Died March 18, 1935)

She has put aside her lyre a little while
   She, the sweet singer, vendor of gay song;
She has put down her lyre, and with a smile
   Drifted to other fields, but not for long.

But not for long. Someday, where now she lingers
   She will grow weary, and will swiftly burn
To feel the strings again beneath her fingers,
   Then, like, a wandering minstrel, will return.  

She will return, with nuance and with laughter,
   Old echoes waking in the street and hill,
And all our kin and those who follow after
   Will know her note, and call her singer still!

First published in The Courier-Mail, 23 March 1935

You may talk of your glorious freedom,
   Your laws, and your charters of Right;
But where are they now when we need 'em,
   Alas! have they all ta'en to flight?

Shall we suffer the tyrants to drive us,
   Who call ourselves Britons and free; 
Shall we suffer them now to deprive us
   Of the standard of true liberty.

What! shall the Republic of letters
   By the chains of oppression be bound;
Shall opinion be galled by their fetters,
   And sink into darkness profound!

Arise! if there's spirit among us,
   Shall we turn from the contest and flee;
Arise against those who would wrong us,
   Hurrah! for the Press shall be free.

The Press shall be free, for we prize it --
   We are not afraid of a frown.
The truth! we shall never disguise it,       
   Hurrah! we will not be put down.

First published in The Argus, 1 May 1849

Give thy thoughts to the world, oh poet!
   They are thine for the good of all--
The mighty who care to read them,
   The lowly in peasant hall.
Send them forth, in the name of Heaven,
   The gems from thy poet mind;
And let them be pure and holy,
   And true, and loving, and kind.

Give thy thoughts to the world, oh poet!
   It is not for thee to know
The good of aught thou hast written;
   Thou only must onward go
In the strength of the One above thee;
   So, like crumbs on the waters cast,
Shall thy silvery music echo,
   And touch e'en the soul at last.

Give thy thoughts to the world, oh poet!
   Stay not for the voice of praise;
'Twill surely retard thy progress,
   And dazzle thy upward gaze.
This life is so frail and fleeting,
   Thou wilt find it short indeed
To tell of thy glorious visions--
   Time rides on so swift a steed.

Give thy thoughts to the world, oh, poet,
   However humble they be;
Thought is parent to thought, and who knows
   What others may garner from thee.
There's many a grand conception
   That cometh of lowly birth;
Mind ever from mind is building
   The new from the old on earth.

Give thy thoughts to the world, oh, poet--
   A song for the wild wood glen,
A hymn for the grand old ocean,
   A sigh for the woes of men,
A soothing word to the weary,
   Sweet warblings too for the child,
A smile for all human happiness,
   A sob for the heart's grief wild.

Give thy thoughts to the world, oh, poet;
   By thine own life's joys and tears
Thou wilt gain fresh inspiration,
   And light for the coming years.
Thy warbles must echo somewhere
   Abroad in the wilderness,
And surely amongst the many
   A few may listen, and bless.

First published in The South Australian Advertiser, 30 March 1869

He longed to be a Back-Blocks Bard,
And fame he wished to win --
He wrote at night and studied hard
(He read THE BULLETIN);
He sent in "stuff" unceasingly,
But couldn't get it through;
And so, at last, he came to me
To see what I could do.

The poet's light was in his eye,
He aimed to be a man;
He bought a bluey and a fly,
A brand new billy-can.
I showed him how to roll his swag
And "sling it" with the best;
I gave him my old water-bag,
And pointed to the west.

"Now you can take the train as far
As Blazes if you like --
The wealthy go by motor-car
(Some travellers go by bike);
They race it through without a rest,
And find it very tame --
But if you tramp it to the west
You'll get there just the same.

"(No matter if the hour is late,
The morning goes Out-Back),
You do not need a dog nor mate,
You'll find them on the track.
You must avoid such deadly rhymes
As 'self' and 'elf' and 'shelf'.
But were it as in other times,
I'd go with you myself.

"Those days are done for me, but ah!
On hills where you shall be,
The wattle and the waratah
Are good to smell and see.
But there's a scent, my heart believes,
That 'travellers' set higher
Than wattle -- 'tis the dried gum leaves
That light the evening fire.

"The evening fire and morning fire
Are one fire in the Bush.
(You'll find the points that you require
As towards the west you push.)
And as you pass by ancient ways,
Old camps, and mountain springs,
The spirits of the Roaring Days
Will whisper many things.

"The lonely ridge-and-gully belt --
The spirit of the whole
It must be seen; it must be felt --
Must sink into your soul!
The summer silence-creek-oaks' sigh --
The windy, rainy "woosh" --
'Tis known to other men, and I --
The Spirit of the Bush!

"So on, and on, through dust and heat,
When past the spurs you be --
And you shall meet whom you shall meet,
And see what you shall see,
You need not claim the stranger's due,
They yield it everywhere,
And mateship is a thing that you
Must take for granted there.

"And in the land of Lord-knows-where --
Right up and furthest out --
You find a new Australia there
That we know nought about.
Live as they live, fight as they fight,
Succeed as they succeed,
And then come back again and write
For all the world to read."

I've got a note from Hungerford,
'Tis written frank and fair;
The bushman's grim philosophy --
The bushman's grin are there.
And tramping on through rain and drought --
Unlooked for and unmissed --
I may have sent to furthest out
The Great Bush Novelist.

First published in For Australia (1906)

Great God be thank'd, that there are men like thee,
Who ever rise, in sovereignty of mind,
Lifting against the oppressors of our kind
The voice of genius, -- still most sovereignly,
When boldest waxeth their arch-villainy,
Who, with the tyrant's purpose, are combined;
I thank Almighty God, who intertwined
Justice and truth with man's nobility,
For such as thou, true poet! Nothing can
Enhance the gusts of joyance now that thrills me,
In knowing how thy heart beats in this cause;
Or what I owe thy kindness, Halloran.
Would mingle in the feeling which so fills me
With happy thankfulness, and pure applause.

First published in Australasian Chronicle, 24 January 1843

[Note: you can read Henry Halloran's original sonnet here.]

On Sunday, November 11, the Shrine of Remembrance to Victoria's fallen soldiers was dedicated in Melbourne.

Listening (said the old, grey Digger) . . .
With my finger on the trigger
   I was listening in the trenches on a dark night long ago,
And a lull came in the fighting,
Save a sudden gun-flash lighting
   Some black verge.  And I fell thinking of lost mates I used to know.

Listening, waiting, stern watch keeping,
I heard little whispers creeping
   In from where, 'mid fair fields tortured, No-man's land loomed out before.
And well I knew good mates were lying
There, grim-faced and death-defying,
   In that filth and noisome litter and the horror that was war.

List'ning so, a mood came o'er me;
And 'twas like a vision bore me
   To a deeper, lonelier darkness where the souls of dead men roam;
Where they wander, strife unheading;
And I heard a wistful pleading
   Down the lanes where lost men journey: "Come ye home!  Ah, come ye home!"

"Ye who fail, yet triumph failing"
   Ye who fall, yet falling soar
Into realms where, brother hailing
   Brother, bids farewell to war;
Ye for whom this red hell ended,
   With the last great, shuddering breath.
In the mute, uncomprehended,
   Dreamful dignity of death;
Back to your own land's sweet breast
Come ye home, lads -- home to rest."

Listening in my old bush shanty -
(Said grey Digger) living's scanty
   These dark days for won-out soldiers and I'd not the luck of some --
But from out the ether coming
I could hear a vast crowd's humming
   Hear the singing, then -- the Silence.  And I knew the Hour had come.

Listening, silent as I waited,
And the picture recreated,
   I could see the kneeling thousands by the Shrine's approaches there.
Then, above those heads low-bending,
Like an orison ascending,
   Saw a multitude's great yearning rise into the quivering air.

Listening so, again the seeming
Of a vision came; and dreaming
   There, I saw from out high Heaven spread above the great Shrine's dome,
From the wide skies overarching
I beheld battalions marching --
   Mates of mine!  My comrades, singing: Coming home!  Coming home!

"We who bore the cost of glory,
   We who paid the price of peace,
Now that, from this earth, war's story
   Shall, please God, for ever cease,
To this Shrine that you have lifted
   For a symbol and a sign
Of men's hearts, come we who drifted
   Thro' long years, oh, mates of mine!
To earth, my brothers' grieving blest
Now come we home, lads -- home to rest."

First published in The Herald, 12 November 1934

Note: today is Remembrance Day.

Who would not be a poet - to seclude
Himself in a bright, starry solitude,
   Away from earthly wretchedness, at will;
Where no unlovely thing might present be,
To dim the light of ideality,
   And Nature's glories might surround him still?
Who would not be a poet - to be blest
With the rich thoughts which they in words have drest:
To feel the fire of their undying hopes,
   To see all beauty with their gifted sight,
To hang o'er Byron's, Campbell's, Milton's, Pope's,
   And Spencer's page, with their divine delight?
Who would not e'n a poet's woes possess,
T' inherit that wild power which beautifies distress?

First published in Australasian Chronicle, 1 June 1841 

A Long Way After Gordon

Bring me a quart of colonial beer
And some doughy damper to make good cheer,
   I must make a heavy dinner;
Heavily dine and heavily sup,
Of indigestible things fill up,
Next month they run the Melbourne Cup,
   And I have to dream the winner.

Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham,
The rich ragout and the charming cham,
   I've got to mix my liquor;
Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg,
Hard and tough as a wooden peg,
And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg,
   'Twill make me dream the quicker.

Now that I'm full of fearful feed,
Oh, but I'll dream of a winner indeed,
   In my restless, troubled slumber;
While the nightmares race through my heated brain
And their devil riders spur amain,
The trip for the Cup will reward my pain,
   And I'll spot the winning number.

Thousands and thousands and thousands more,
Like sands on the white Pacific shore,
   The crowding people cluster;
For evermore it's the story old,
While races are bought and backers are sold,
Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold,
   In their thousands still they muster.

And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot,
"I'll lay the Cup! The double, if not!"
   "Five monkeys, Little John, sir!"
"Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!"
And so they shout through the live-long day,
And stick to the game that is sure to pay,
   While fools put money on, sir!

And now in my dream I seem to go
And bet with a "book" that I seem to know --
   A Hebrew moneylender;
A million to five is the price I get --
Not bad! but before I book the bet
The horse's name I clean forget,
   His number and even gender.

Now for the start, and here they come,
And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum
   Beat by a hand unsteady;
They come like a rushing, roaring flood,
Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood!
For Acme is making the pace so good
   They are some of 'em done already.

But round the track she begins to tire,
And a mighty shout goes up: "Crossfire!"
   The magpie jacket's leading;
And Crossfire challenges fierce and bold,
And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold,
But at length gives way to the black and gold,
   Which right to the front is speeding.

Carry them on and keep it up --
A flying race is the Melbourne Cup,
   You must race and stay to win it;
And old Commotion, Victoria's pride,
Now takes the lead with his raking stride,
And a mighty roar goes far and wide --
   "There's only Commotion in it!"

But one draws out from the beaten ruck
And up on the rails by a piece of luck
   He comes in a style that's clever;
"It's Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!"
"Go at 'em now while their courage fails;"
"Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!"
   "The blue and white for ever!"

Under the whip! With the ears flat back,
Under the whip! Though the sinews crack,
   No sign of the base white feather:
Stick to it now for your breeding's sake,
Stick to it now though your hearts should break,
While the yells and roars make the grandstand shake,
   They come down the straight together.
 
Trident slowly forges ahead,
The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red,
   The pace is undiminished;
Now for the Panics that never fail!
But many a backer's face grows pale
As old Commotion swings his tail
   And swerves -- and the Cup is finished. 

And now in my dream it all comes back:
I bet my coin on the Sydney crack,
   A million I've won, no question!
"Give me my money, you hook-nosed hog!
Give me my money, bookmaking dog!"
But he disappears in a kind of fog,
   And I woke with "the indigestion".

Note: Today is Melbourne Cup Day, the 150th running of the race.

The subtitle "A Long Way After Gordon" means that, in the poet's estimation, the verses are not the equal of Adam Lindsay Gordon's racing poetry.  The poem was published in The Bulletin just prior to the running of the 1886 Melbourne Cup. All the horses referred to in it, with the exception of Acme, started in the race, which was won by Arsenal.  Trident finished fourth.

We see the world's great heroes stand
   With steadfast hearts and shining shields;
Their fame is wafted o'er the land--
   The victors of a thousand fields.

The victors of a thousand fields
   Where moral courage won the day;
No dimness mars those shining shields--
   Their fame shall never pass away.

But had I some great poet's lyre  
   To stir the inmost souls of men
With passion's strength, with notes of fire,
   And write high thoughts with poet's pen,

I'd sing not of those names of pride
   Whose fame has o'er the welkin rung,
But of the millions who have died
   Unknown, unnoticed, and unsung.

All the world's heroes! Can we know?
   Those countless throngs who move along
Firm in the path they have to go;
   Who choose the right and spurn the wrong?  

Each noble thought, unselfish deed,
   Can never fade -- can never die;
The world may pass on without heed,  
   But angels write it down on high;

'Tis writ on scrolls of fire above, 
   And holy angels gently say:
"The record of each deed of love
   Can never fade or pass away."

The world rolls on and time declines
   With every day, with every hour;
Truth like a star eternal shines
   And goodness blossoms as a flower.

Yet, though unnoticed and unknown
   Some humble hero sinks to die,
His record stands in heaven alone,
   And heavenly records cannot lie.

First published in The Queenslander, 6 March 1886

In the harmony of ages floating from the dreamy Past,
In the old romantic legends where the seeds of song were cast,
In the pleasant fields of Fancy, whence the flowers of genius sprung,
Can we find a path untrodden? Can we find a song unsung?
Lamps of Genius burning brightly thro' the mists of bygone days,
With the light of strong endeavour ever mingling with their rays;
Dreams of dreamers, chants of singers made immortal in their song,
With a soft and tender cadence, or a passion fierce and strong;
Like the chimes from distant belfries, like the restless winds that blow
Northwards with tempestuous fury, southwards musically slow;
Like the thunderous roar of breakers bursting on a rocky strand,
Or the rhythmic rippling river murmuring softly thro' the land;
Sinking, soaring, swelling upwards sound their melodies sublime --
Sound the Voices of the Ages echoing thro' the Halls of Time.  
What is left us? Shall we wander midst the fields their feet have prest!
Sing again the songs they sang us in their passion of unrest!
Sing of Nature, 'neath whose influence all the poet's instinct stirs --
Feels the throbbing of his pulses beat in unison with hers;
When the Dawn's gray veil of vapour falls before the face of Day,
And the arrows of the sunshine drive the shadowy night away;
Like a goddess in her splendour, robed with many a roseate hue,
In the mantle of the morning, jewelled with the guttering dew!
Softer in the calm of sunset, mellower where the eye may see
Placid purple clouds, like islands, floating in a golden sea,
When the crimson-tinted sunlight sinks and pales in waning rays
And like rush of many waters come the thoughts of other days;
Till the creeping mists grow deeper and the evening air is still
With the awe of solemn shadows hanging darkly on the hill;
Till with wide and rapid pinions sweeps the Spirit of the Night,
And our thoughts are carried onwards in the current of its flight,
Through the wreathing mists of darkness where the midnight reigns alone
From the regions of the Finite to the bars of the Unknown.

All our songs are but the echoes of the chants long heard before;
All our loves and our ambitions like the wavebeats on the shore,
Coming, going, passing, ending with their restless hopes and fears,
Till at last in silence buried in the cenotaph of years.

First published in The Queenslander, 9 July 1887

The Editor wrote his political screed
   In ink that was fainter and fainter;
He rose to the call of his country's need,
And in spiderish characters wrote with speed,
   A column on "Cutting the Painter".

The "reader" sat in his high-backed chair,
   For literals he was a hunter;
But he stared aghast at the column long
Of the editorial hot and strong,
For the comp. inspired by some sense of wrong
   Had headed it "Gutting the Punter".

First published in The Sydney Sportsman, 24 April 1923

A noble mansion sure it was;
   All that such could be made; 
Adorn'd with tower and turret high,
   And lofty colonnade.
     
Around it, doubtless, widely spread,
   Lay lawns of smoothest green; 
And far beyond, in dense array, 
   Deep, still, green woods are seen.

And at the door brave lacqueys stood         
   In vestments trimmed with gold,
And toward the pile in glittering rows 
   Proud equipages roll'd.
 
And there in chamber damask-hung,
   And gay with mirrors bright, 
The infant bard -- the child of song -
   First woke to life and light.

Was it not so? Shake not thy head, 
   Nor treat my dream with scorn;
It was in such a house and room
   The Poet sure was born.
 
Where else could one foredoom'd to hold
   0'er human hearts such sway -
Where else so great a lord of thought
   Be usher'd into day?

Hard by the road a humble cot
   Uprears its roof of thatch,       
The walls tenacious clay secures,
   The crazy door a latch;

Here in a chamber rude and mean,
   Of aspect all forlorn,
Within a recess deep and dark,
   The glorious bard was born.

No festive boards for him were spread;
   Nor came there courtly throng,
In smiiles array'd, and gay attire, 
   To hail the child of song.

Stern poverty sat lording it 
   Within that drear abode,
And little dreamt its inmates of
   The gift had been bestow'd.

But proud would many a palace lord 
   Have been if such a lot,
Had fallen to him, as fell that day
   Upon the peasant's cot.

First published in The Moreton Bay Courier, 1 January 1848

A shabby volume on the ledge;
   An idle hand that drew it forth;
Like him who slumbered in the sedge,
   There dwelt the Prophet of the North.

Wayfarer! --- Erst with heavy tread
   The paths of Story wont to trace---
What glamour on thine eyes is shed;
   That fain thou lingerest in the place?

Methought the Masters all were gone,
   Or quenched their fires --- by age bestowed;  
Yet now, behold, a light hath shone;
   Once more a message is bestowed!

From shores held sterile there hath sailed
   A galleon filled with richest freight.
O truthful picture slow unveiled!
   O precious word long untranslate!

We gazed --- yet scarce might understand.
   We hearkened --- to the voice alone.
We praised the labour of his hand,
   And still his heart remained unknown.

We drank with him the joy of Spring;  
   In Cossack foray learnt to ride;
With him we heard the gipsies sing---
   The cannon by the Euxine tide.

Then --- sleepless in the hour when none
   Save humankind unslumbering lie---
When stars are pallid and the sun
   Unlit, and weaklings faint and die--  

With sudden skill we read the rune---
   All tremulous and yet elate---
"Dread thou no dole; crave thou no boon;
   Be Duty unto thee as Fate!"

First published in The Queenslander, 1 June 1889

"Let others traverse sea and land, and toll through various climes, I turn the world round with my hand, reading these poets' rhymes." -- LONGFELLOW.

Grant me, ye bards of olden times,
   Of these thy melodies,
That I may give unto these rhymes
The charm which bears your mellow chimes
   Across the centuries.

Give me of this that I may sing--    
   In pleasure hunting days--  
Of the pure pleasures that you bring
To him who listens, wondering,
   Enraptured with thy lays.

There is no theme of this our earth,
   Or of the heavens above,
But that ye sang me from my birth;
Betimes in sorrow, oft in mirth;
   Of vengeance or of love.

Ye sing tbe future, and I see
   With thy far-reaching eyes
The bright days in the years to be
Wherein man shall, unsullied, free,
   To his true stature rise.

Ye sing the hate that brings unrest;
   The love that tenderly,
From realms on high, to many a breast
Comes soothingly, a welcome guest,
   And sings of Arcady.

Of war ye sing, and then of peace,
   And back the soldiers roam;
Of Life's long marchings -- Death's release --
Of Voice that bids our marchings cease,
   And bugles sounding "Home."

Thus in my heart the melody
   Is ringing, and I pray
That never may the hollow glee
Which masks the suff'ring debauchee
   E'er tempt my thoughts away.

But as the years the ages throng,
   And the long aeons fly,
Oh, still may thy "undying song"
Uplift tbe right, stamp out the wrong,
   And lead men to the sky.

First published in The Queenslander, 28 May 1898

We won't give up the brave old AGE
   That's served us long and true;
We'll not forsake a good old friend
   For a doubtful one that's new.

Let others laud the new upstart,
   In faulty prose and doggerel rhyme;
We'll still stand by the good old AGE,
   For it has stood the test of time.

We'll not forsake the good old AGE,
   That valiant deeds has done;
That many a battel's fought for us,
   And noble victories won.  

We won't give up the good old AGE,
   That's won itself renown :
It aided men of worth to fame,
   And put vain upstarts down.

Then rally round the good old AGE,
   That's fought with might and main
For interests that are dear to us,
   And will do the same again.

First published in The Queanbeyan Age, 7 June 1879

   Where are they now? --- the poets of all time,
   Who charmed the world with melody and rhyme,
      And thoughts sublime and deep.
Think'st thou they have expired ? No. He who said  
Their torch is quenched, and they are cold and dead,
      Hath lied--they do but sleep. 

   And in another purer atmosphere,
   Their songs shall peal more sweetly and more clear
      Than e'en they did on earth,
And gath'ring strength from what we cannot see
Shall swell in one great burst of harmony,
      With wider nobler girth.

First published in The Queenslander, 10 March 1883

ln recent weeks, though most other civilised countries admit them freely, Australian political and bureaucratic censors have banned world famous plays, films, books, and now, a British-born woman whom Britain herself has no power, or desire, to exclude.

Tho' censorious sages, in fierce moral rages
On History's pages press, heavy of hand;
When it comes to suppressin' we are, we're confessin'
A boon an' a blessin' to this pious land.
A Savonarola, a Cromwell, whose mole a
Poor artist saved whole, a Comstock or a Knox--
These were hefty joy-biffers; but, classed as sin-sniffers
Our temp'rament differs. We're out of the box!

We're pure politicians; we feels our positions;
We feels that conditions in this 'oly land
Is clean, if bucolic. All frivolous frolic,
All views vitriolic, if furrin' is banned.
Tho' merely elected, we feels we're expected,
When sin is detected approaching our shore,
To sieze it an' sock it; before they can dock it
We ruthlessly lock it outside of our door.

With horror we're smitten when Britain, admittln'
The stuff that is written by sin-sodden blokes,
Condones evil-livers. It gives us the shivers;
Our righteousness quivers to hark at their jokes.
They falsely befriend us an' seek for to send us
Them works wot would end us in dreadful desire.
Tho' we scarce understand 'em, ere ever they lan's 'em
We scans 'em an' bans 'em an' burns 'em with fire.

Tho' tardy at dealin' with evils revealin'
The need for appealin' to local reform,
We're apt to get winkin' an' bashfully shrinkin'
When critics unthinkin' starts raisin' a storm.
We're good at forgettin' that murder an' sweatin'
An' startin'-price bettin' leaves much to be done.
The land may be swimmin' in sin over- brimmin' ...
But books, plays an' wimmin', we bans 'em like fun.

We bans 'em! We bars 'em ere ever they lan's 'em.
Then, "CENSORED!" we bran's 'em. An' dooty is done.

First published in The Herald, 13 November 1936

(After reading an Anthology of Modern Verse.)

Soon Tennyson may have his dream come true --
That time would change the language so that he
Should find himself with Chaucer totally
Eclipsed -- a fossil curious to view,
Not understood save by the student-few.
Rhyme has gone out, and bored posterity
Dubs it B.F. (Before Freud), sic, B.C.
Verse has a rendezvous with all things new.
Nathless, vide: "Old soldiers never die,
They simply fade away." Old poets still 
Subconsciously in ghostly conclave meet,
As when, inserted like a Cyclop's eye,
A phrase or line filched from an ancient quill,
Illumes some modern poet's dark conceit.

First published in The Sunday Herald, 24 April 1949

He twangs a loud note on his harsh-stringed lyre,
   And startles all the world with riotous sound;
His rough-hewn verse is all ablaze with fire
   Of genius, bursting boldly through the bound
Set by convention to a man's desire;
   He scorns with easy steps to tread along
The gentle slope, but strives to clamber higher
   Up perilous passes of the Mount of Song.

He has not learned the art of Watson's grace,
   Nor yet the trick of Dobson's dainty touch;
   He has not Swinburne's skill of rhythm, nor such
Melodious mastery of word and phrase:
   But with the strong voice of his stalwart race
Imperially he sings the Empire's praise.

First published in The Queenslander, 27 July 1895

She plays her harp by hidden rills,
   The sweet shy Muse who dwells
In secret hollows of the hills,
   And green untrodden dells.

Her voice is as the voice of streams
   That under myrtles glide;
Our Kendall saw her face in dreams,
   And loved her till he died.

At times, by some green-eyelashed pool,
   She lies in slumber deep;
Her slender hands are white and cool
   As are the hands of sleep.

And, when the sun of Summer flaunts
   His fire the hills along,
She keeps her secret sunless haunts,
   And sings a shadowy song.

She weaves a wild, sweet magic rune,
   When o'er the tree-tops high
The silver sickle of the moon
   Shines in a rose-grey sky.

But in the dawn, the soft red dawn,
   When fade the stars above,
She walks upon a shining lawn,
   And sings the song of Love.

But, lo, the Muse with flashing eyes,
   And backward-streaming hair!
She grips her steed with strong brown thighs,
   Her panting breasts are bare.

In trances sweet, or tender dreams,
   She has not any part ---
Her blood runs like the blood that streams
   Out of the mountain's heart.

Her lips are red; the pride of life
   Her heart of passion thrills;
She is the Muse whose joy is strife,
   Whose home is on the hills.

Her voice is as a clarion clear,
   And rings o'er the hill and dell;
She sings a song of gallant cheer ---
   Dead Gordon knew her well.

She checks her steed upon a rise ---
   The wind uplifts his mane ---
And gazes far with flashing eyes
   Across the rolling plain.

Who comes in solemn majesty
   Through haze of throbbing heat?
It is the Desert Muse, and she
   Is veiled from head to feet.

Yet men the Mountain Muse will leave,
   And leave the Muse of Streams,
To follow her from dawn to eve ---
   And perish with their dreams.

She passes far beyond their ken,
   With slow and solemn pace,
Over the bleaching bones of men
   Who died to see her face.

Her secrets were to some revealed
   Who loved her passing well ---
But death with burning fingers sealed
   Their lips ere they could tell.

In silence dread she walks apart ---
   Yet I have heard men say
The song that slumbers in her heart
   Will wake the world some day.

She is the Muse of Tragedy,
   And walks on burning sands;
The greatest of the Muses Three
   In our Australian lands.

First published in The Lone Hand, 1 August 1907

"The flamin' cows!" 'e ses; 'e did, an' worse;
   'Twas 'orrible the langwidge that 'e used.
It made me blood run cold to 'ear 'im curse;
   An' me that taken-back-like an' confused;
   W'ile them poor beasts 'e belted an' abused.
"They couldn't shift," 'e ses, "a blanky 'earse!
                     The flamin' cows!"

"The flamin' cows!" You oughter 'eard 'im curse.
   You would a bin that shocked. . . . An' the idear!
'Im usin' such remarks about a 'earse;
   An' 'is own brother buried not a year.
   "Not move a blanky 'earee!" 'e ses. My dear,
You 'ardly could imagine langwidge worse.
                     "The flamin' cows!"

"The flamin' cows!" Wot would the parson say?
   An' 'im so friendly-like with 'im an' 'er.
I pity 'er; I do, 'cos, in 'er way.
   She is respectable. But 'i! It's fur
   From me, as you well know, to cast a slur,
On anyone; but wot I 'eard that day. . . .
                     "The flamin' cows!"

"The flamin' cows!" I know quite well that we
   Ain't wot you'd call thin-skinned; and nasty pride
Is wot I never 'ad.... But 'er! ... W'y she --
   She's allus that stuck-up an' full o' side;
   A sorter thing I never could abide.
An' all the time 'er 'usband.... Goodness me!
                     "The flamin' cows!"

"The flamin' cows!" O' course 'e never knowed
   That I was list'nin' to 'im all the w'ile.
'E muster bin a full hour on the road;
   An', Lord, you could 'a' 'eard 'im for a mile.
   Jes' cos they stuck 'im in that boggy sile:
"If they ain't blanky swine," 'e ses, "I'm blowed!
                     The flamin' cows!"

"The flamin' cows!" W'y, if it 'ad occurred,
   An' me not 'eard, I'd 'ardly think it true.
An', you know well, I wouldn't breathe a word
   Against a livin' soul, I don't care 'oo;
   Not if the Queen of Hingland arst me to.
But, oh! that langwidge! If you only 'eard!
                     "The flamin' cows!"

"The flamin' cows!" 'e ses, an' more besides.
   An' fancy! 'Im! To think that 'e would swear!
W'y "Blarst!" 'e sez... Yes! "Blarst the'r blanky 'ides!"
   (Oh, you may well throw up your 'ands an' stare!)
   Yes - "Blarst," 'e ses, "the'r blanky 'ides an' 'air!
I'll out the blanky skin off er the'r sides!
                     The flamin' cows!"

First published in The Bulletin, 22 July 1909

They tell you the poet is useless and empty the sound of his lyre,
That science has made him a phantom, and thinned to a shadow his fire:
Yet reformer has never demolished a dungeon or den of the foe
But the flame of the soul of a poet pulsated in every blow.

They tell you he hinders with tinklings, with gags from an obsolete stage,
The dramas of deed and the worship of Laws in a practical age:
But the deeds of to-day are the children of magical dreams he has sung,
And the Laws are ineffable Fires that from niggardly heaven he wrung!

The bosoms of women he sang of are heaving to-day in our maids:
The God that he drew from the Silence our woes or our weariness aids:
Not a maxim has needled through Time, but a poet had feathered its shaft,
Not a law is a boon to the people but he has dictated its draft.

And why do we fight for our fellows? For Liberty why do we long?
Because with the core of our nerve-cells are woven the lightnings of song!
For the poet for ages illumined the animal dreams of our sires,
And his Thought-Become-Flesh is the matrix of all our unselfish desires!

Yea, why are we fain for the Beautiful? Why should we die for the Right?
Because through the forested æons, in spite of the priests of the Night,
Undeterred by the faggot or cross, uncorrupted by glory or gold,
To our mothers the poet his Vision of Goodness and Beauty has told.

When, comrades, we thrill to the message of speaker in highway or hall,
The voice of the poet is reaching the silenter poet in all:
And again, as of old, when the flames are to leap up the turrets of Wrong,
Shall the torch of the New Revolution be lit from the words of a Song!

First published in The Bulletin, 13 January 1910

Sing the song of the reckless, who care not what they do;
Sing the song of a sinner and the song of a writer, too --
Down in a pub in the alleys, in a dark and dirty hole,
With every soul a drunkard and the boss with never a soul.

Uncollared, unkempt, unshaven, sat the writer whose fame was fair,
And the girls of the streets were round him, and the bullies and bludgers there;
He was one of themselves and they told him the things that they had to tell --
He was studying human nature with his brothers and sisters in hell.

He was neither poor nor lonely, for a place in the world he'd won,
And up in the heights of the city he'd a thousand friends or none;
But he knew that his chums could wait awhile, that he'd reckon with foes at last,
For he lived far into a future that he knew because of the past.

They remembered the man he had been, they remembered the songs he wrote,
And some of them came to pity and some of them came to gloat:
Some of them shouted exulting -- some whispered with bated breath
That down in a den in the alleys he was drinking himself to death.

Thus said the voice of the hypocrites -- and the true hearts sighed with pain,
'Oh! he never will write as he used to write! He never will write again;'
A poet had written his epitaph in numbers of sad regret,
And the passing-notice was pigeon-holed, and the last review was set.

But the strength was in him to rise again to a greater height, he knew,
For the sake of the friends who were true to him and the work that he had to do;
He was sounding the depths that he had to know, he was gathering truths for his craft,
And he heard the chatter of little men -- and he turned to his beer and laughed.

First published in When I Was King and Other Verses by Henry Lawson, 1905

Note: it's that time of year when I head off for a few days up-country with the family for all things festive. I'll be back before the end of the year. In the meantime here's a poem from C.J. Dennis which captures some of the essence of the frenzied rush to Christmas.

I must go down to the shops again, to the crowded shops go I
And all I have is a long list of the gifts that I must buy,
And a few bob in the old kick and a mere spot of credit;
For he'll trust me, so the boss said, but I hate the way he said it.

I must go down to the shops again, for the call of Christmastide
Is a stern call and a hard call that may not be denied.
And all I ask is a fair choice at reasonable prices
And a hard heart for bland blokes with blandishing devices.

I must go down to the shops again. There's gifts for Mum and Dad
And Jim's gift and Joe's gift and toy for Peter's lad.
Then all I want are gloves for Clare? And June? I'll send her roses,
And -- who's next? The list says -- I've lost it! Holy Moses!

But I must go down to the shops again, to the shops and the milling crowd
On a hot day and a fierce day when the skies know ne'er a cloud;
And all I ask is a fair spin 'mid the masses overheating
And the loud bawl of the bored babe, and the toy drums beating.

I must go down to the shops again, for I would be counted still
With the kind coves of the free hand in this season of goodwill;
And all I ask is a stout heart to carry on undaunted
While we scour town for the salt-pot that we know Aunt Annie wanted.

I must go down to the shops again, for they'll ply me, sure as fate
With the pink tie and the puce sock, and I must reciprocate.
But all I ask is a long seat when the weary trek is finished
And enough left for the Yule feast ere the bank-roll be diminished.

First published in The Herald, 4 December 1935

Poets are a joyous race,
   O'er the laughing earth they go,
Shedding charms o'er many a place
   Nature never favoured so.
Still to each divinest spot,
   Led by some auspicious star,
Scattering flowers where flowers are not,
   Making lovelier those that are.

Poets are a gifted race!
   If their gifts aright they knew;
Fallen splendour, perished grace,
   Their enchantments can renew.
They have power o'er day and night,
   Life, with all its joys and cares --
Earth, with all its bloom and blight
   Tears and transport - all are theirs!

Poets are a wayward race!
   Loneliest still when least alone,
They can find in every place
   Joys and sorrows of their own.
Grieved or glad by fitful starts,
   Pangs they feel that no one shares,
And a joy can fill their hearts
   That can fill no hearts but theirs!

Poets are a mighty race!
   They can reach to times unborn,
They can brand the vile and base
   VVith undying hate and scorn!
They can ward Detraction's blow --
   They oblivion's tide can stem --
And the good and brave must owe
   Immortality to them!

First published in The Argus, 3 April 1849

Of all the maxims I retain
Within the precincts of my brain
   There's one I'm quoting daily;
Which maxim of immortal truth,
Distasteful to my callow youth,
   Was uttered by Disraeli.

Lord Beasconsfield, as he became
(Beneath this English titled name
   His ancestry concealing).
Said lightly -- meaning to express
Love's attitude to lowliness --
   "Man serves a woman kneeling."

With passioned prayer and tender plaint
He pays his homage to the saint,
   And soulful sighs he heaves her:
But -- note the words I now repeat --
But "when he gets upon his feet
   He walks away," and leaves her.

The lady, though she storm or scoff,
Cannot prevent his walking off
   Abstractedly, or gaily;
The passion-flower is born to die,
And man is bound to justify
   The maxim of Disraeli.

It worried me when'er I knelt,
For, all the times, I always felt
   That soon I must be going;
And from one's knees it's hard to rise
If tears from sweet Belinda's eyes
   Are picturesquely flowing.

But as I knew we had to part,
The scruples in my honest heart
   I never failed to smother.
Such loves are holy. In the past
Each seemed more holy than the last --
   Then, why not try Another?

And were the lady staunch and true,
Or just a flirt, the sky was blue
   And all the hours were golden.
For love's divinest ecstacies
To her who kept him on his knees
   The lover was beholden.

Perchance the dream would sweetly end,
And she would call me "dearest friend,"
   Or treat me "as a brother,"
And softly speak with smile serene
Of all the raptures that had been --
   Then, why not chase Another?

Ah! like the moons that wax and wane,
The roses died and bloomed again,
   And fresh young charms each gal'ad.
Inflamed by new poetic fire
I gratified my new desire
   To write another ballad.

And now I lilt the easy lay
Of one who knelt, and walked away
   When love had spent its fever,
The maxim printed on my mind
Forbade me (who says Love is blind?)
   To be a self-deceiver.

First published in The Bulletin, 11 February 1909

He had wander'd wide in his minstrel pride,
   When Spring was upon his breast;
And his way was afar o'er turf and tide,
   For he sought a minstrel's rest!
From the fields of his home his brows were crown'd,
   A kindred's hands onwreathe'd them;
But in knightly courts my songs shall sound,
   Be honour'd the hard that breath'd them,
The world shall learn to prize the name
   Of them she loves in story!
So spake the voice of life's first fame,
   And he went in his spirit's glory.

He had wander'd long; but there came from far,
   With his tresses gray through years,
And a soul where blight had wrought its war,
   An aged man in tears.
On his bending form, with chords unstrung,
   A wither'd branch thrown o'er it,
The silenc'd charms of his loneness hung,
   And weary was he that bore it.
His freezing hand essay'd in part;
   'Twas vain - no voice was spoken!
Spent on the strings his struggling heart, --
   His heart, with his harp, was broken!

First published in The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 3 August 1830

While Albion's poets sweetly sing,
   And breathe the soul inspiring ode,
From the fair land where freedom dwells
   And commerce finds a safe abode;
Shall Austral's minstrel ne'er awake
   The song of the Southern star
Nor in his own calm summer eve
   Awake the light guitar.

While Scotia's ministrels swell their lyres
   To lays of their stern native land,
And Erin's harp responsive rings,
   From her green isle's more verdant strand;
Shall Austral's muse lie ever still
   Nor lisp an echo from afar?
Nor to the lays of the sunny clime
   Awake the light guitar.

Nor shall the lovers tale be told
   In weak words of moving void;
But the thrilling chords waft his plaint,
   In language not to be denied.
And Yarra's banks shall list his lay
   Whilst borne on the calm evening air,
Amidst Accasia's rich perfume
   He wakes the light guitar.

But bark, what murmurs fill the air,
   We bear the galling yoke no more
The cherished boon though long denied,
   Shall quickly reach our gladden'd shore;
And freedom's name shall fire the song,
   We bear the trammelled chains no more!
And bards to the new choral strain
   Shall wake the light guitar.

First published in The Melbourne Argus, 27 June 1848

I'm sittin' 'ere, Mick -- sittin' 'ere today,
Feelin' arf glum, 'arf sorter -- reverent.
   Thinkin' strange, crooked thorts of 'ow they say:
   "The 'eads is bowed thro' all a continent";
An' wond'rin' -- wond'rin' in a kind of doubt
   If other coves is feelin' like I do,
Tryin' to figure wot it's all about,
   An' -- if it's meanin' anythin' to you.

Silence ....... The hour strikes soon thro' all the land
An' 'eads bend low.  Old, mate, give me your 'and.
      Silence -- for you, Mick, an' for blokes like you
      To mark the Day -- the Day you never knoo.

The Day you never knoo, nor we forget ....
   I can't tell why I'm sittin' 'ere this way,
Scrawlin' a message that you'll never get --
   Or will you?  I dunno.  It's 'ard to say.
P'raps you'll know all about it, where you are,
   An' think, "Ah well, they ain't too bad a lot."
An' tell them other digs, up on your star
   That now, or nevermore, they ain't fergot.

Silence ....... Not 'ere alone, Mick -- everywhere --
In city an' country 'eads are bare.
      An', in this room, it seems as if I knoo
      Some friend 'oo came -- Old cobber!  Is it you?

My 'eart is full, Mick ..... 'Struth! I ain't the bloke
   As well you know, to go all soft an' wet.
Fair's fair, lad.  Times I've known when you 'ave spoke
   Like you was tough an' 'ard as 'ell -- an' yet
Somethin' behind your bluff an' swagger bold
   Showed all them narsty sentiments was kid.
It was that thing inside yeh, lad, wot told.
   It made you go an' do the thing you did.

Silence ...... There's mothers, Mick, you never knoo
No mother.  But they're prayin' for you too.
      In every 'eart -- The Boys! The Boys are there,
      The Boys ...... That very name, lad, is a pray'r.

The Boys!  Old cobber, I can see 'em still:
   The drums are rollin' an' the sunlight gleams
On bay'nits.  Men are marchin' with a will
   On to the glory of their boy'ood's dreams.
Glory?  You never found it that, too much.
   But, lad, you stuck it -- stuck it with the rest,
An' if your bearin' 'ad no soulful touch,
   'Twas for OUR souls that you went marchin' -- West.

Silence ...... The children too, Mick -- little kids,
Are standin'.  Not becos their teacher bids:
      They've knoo no war; but they 'ave stopped their play
      Becos they know, they feel it is The Day.

So may it be thro' all the comin' years.
   But sorrow's gone, lad.  It's not that we know.
The sobbin's passed, 'ole cobber, an' the tears.
   An' well we un'erstand you'd 'ave it so.
But somethin's deeper far than that 'as come,
   Somethin' a mind can't get within its bounds,
Somethin' I can't explain.  A man is dumb
   When 'e thinks .... Listen!  'Ear the bugles sound!

Silence!
      *                    *
      *                    *
      *                    *

Well, Mick, ole cock, I dunno why I've wrote,
   It's just to ease a thing inside wot says
"Sit down, you sloppy coot, an' write a note
   To that old cobber of the olden days.
E'll know -- for sure 'e'll know."  So lad, it's done,
   Work's waitin', an' a man can't get in wrong;
Our goal is still ahead.  But yours is won:
   That's the one thing we know, lad, so -- So long!

Silence ...... It's over, Mick; so there you are.
I know you're 'appy up there on your star,
      Believe us lad, that star shall never fall
      While one is left to say "Gawd keep 'em all!"

First published in The Herald , 11 November 1927

[Today is Remembrance Day.]

   The poet at his window sat,
      A pen was in his hand;
   Beside him dozed the household cat,
      And peace was on the land;
The autumn sunshine, streaming in, was beautiful and bland.

   Far off, the breakers moan
      Along the shore, rock-starred;
   It seemed as if their monotone
      Was calling to the bard --
While, down below, his landlady was tidying-up the yard.

   He looked abroad, and then above,
      Toward the dazzling blue;
   Like some despairing, captive dove,
      A mournful glance he threw;
And sadly sighed, because his soul sought inspiration new.

   Alas! the breakers helped him not --
      The dazzling sky was dumb --
   And, though he thought an awful lot,
      Ideas would not come;
And he was not of those who fly to red, delusive Rum.

   Sudden and fierce a trumpet pealed
      Upon the autumn air;
   And instantly the poet wheeled
      And trembled in his chair --
"The Muse be praised!" he cried, "who sent that thought-awakening blare.

   "It shivers through my seeking brain
      And drowns the breakers' roar,
   And brings before my vision plain
      The awful pomp of war --
I hear them marching down the street -- I wonder what's the corps?

   "Ah, splendid lads in uniform
      Who guard our country's coast,
   And plunge through battle, fire and storm,
      A stern, undaunted host --
Right worthily have ye been dubbed the Nation's proudest boast!

   "The sun is sparkling on your helms,
      Your bayonets blaze bright,
   Like beings from heroic realms
      Ye burst upon the sight!
And, oh! my spirit yearns and burns to join ye in the fight!

   "I never heard the bugle call --
      Hark! There it swells again! --
   But Memory lifts the Past's dim pall
      And shows me clear and plain
The glorious wars your fathers waged -- and never waged in vain.

   "That martial sound reveals to me
      Each shrouded battlefield --
   Ten thousand gallant hearts I see,
      Who died but would not yield
When, from the grim, unconquered square, the shattered squadrons reeled!

   "Ha! Let me write!" He seized his pen
      The while his spirit glowed,
   And wrote in haste -- "Our fighting men:
      A Military Ode!"
   Then rose to view that stirring scene;
      But this was all it showed --
A bugle-playing ice-cream man come slowly up the road!

First published in The Bulletin, 9 July 1908

We love to see the blooming rose,
   In all its beauty dress'd;
We love to hear our friends disclose.
   The emotions of their breast.

We love to see a ship arrive,
   Well laden to our shore
We love to see our neighbours thrive --
   And love to bless the poor.

We love to see domestic life
   With uninterrupted joys --
We love to see a youthful wife
   Not pleased with trifling toys.

We love all these -- yet far above
   All that we ever said,
We love what every Printer loves --
   To have Subscriptions paid.

First published in The Perth Gazette and Western Australian Journal, 16 July 1836

You may talk of your glorious freedom,
   Your laws, and your charters of Right;
But where are they now when we need 'em,
   Alas! have they all ta'en to flight?

Shall we suffer the tyrants to drive us,
   Who call ourselves Britons and free;
Shall we suffer them now to deprive us
   Of the standard of true liberty.

What! shall the Republic of letters
   By the chains of oppression be bound;
Shall opinion be galled by their fetters,
   And sink into darkness profound!

Arise! if there's spirit among us,
   Shall we turn from the contest and flee;
Arise against those who would wrong us,
   Hurruh! for the Press shall be free.

The Press shall be free, for we prize it --
   We are not afraid of a frown.
The truth! we shall never disguise it,
   Hurrah! we will not be put down.

First published in The Argus, 1 May 1849

He was born to stir the spirit of his race to tears and laughter;
He was born to be the writer and the singer of his age.
For he had the gift in keeping, and the generations after
Should have held his name, "The Deathless," as a glorious heritage.

His the gift of dream and wonder, his to see with clearer vision
Through the old pretence and fashion, to the heart of Hidden Things;
But his people stood before him, and they barred the gift's fruition,
And they told him of the madness that such dreaming ever brings.

They had words to crush the yearning of the high ambitious spirits,
And they held his spirit downward as it struggled to the light;
And they whispered to each other, "'Tis the madness he inherits
From the Father and the Mother; let us guide his steps aright."

So they dragged him slowly downward -- he was young and very lonely,
And he turned him from the starway, and he made their cares his own,
And then -- Ah, shall we blame him, if he sunk a short while only
To the level of his kindred, for the wrong was theirs alone.

Then he woke as if from slumber, but the starry path was hidden,
And the spirit world was shrouded, and he sought its light in vain.
And the gift of song went from him, as it came to him, unbidden;
He had turned to meaner worship, and he might not sing again.

So he bade farewell for ever to the glowing spire and steeple,
To the strong blue hills a-shimmer, to the brightness of the sun,
And he left the youth behind him, that was slain by his own people,
In a grave rose-piled and hidden, and the poet-life was done.

Then he wandered forth a rover, and the dark and silent spaces
Never knew the sound of singing by its magic lay uncrossed;
But the wrong went up to heaven, and the angels bowed their faces,
And the stars were veiled and hidden for the poet who was lost.

First printed in The Bulletin, 24 December 1908

Singer of pearl-purl songs,
   Beneath thy sunlit skies;
Gone from the wrecks and the wrongs
   And loosed from the toils and the ties,
   Fled as the morning mist flies,
      Sung are thy songs.

Singer of earnest strains,
   Set free, O bard, are thou;
Snapped are life's cords and its chains,
Soothed are its griefs and its pains;
   Fair are the bays on thy brow,
      A fadeless wreath.

Singer of deathless fame
   Born of the bardic race,
Never shall perish thy name,
Ages thy worth shall acclaim;
   Australia hath pledged thee a place
      Deep in her heart.

Singer of joys and tears,
   Thy harp yields to thy crown,
Dread not the stream of the years,
   Fear not their flowing or frown,
   Sleep in immortal renown,
      Honoured and loved.

Singer of gain and loss,
   Of Queensland's fallen sons;
Bard of the star and the moss,
Rest in the shade of the cross,
   Rest while Eternity runs,
      And sing God's songs.

First published in The Mercury, 20 November 1909

Queensland poet George Essex Evans was born on 18th June 1863 and died on 10th November 1909.

"Blest Invention, alone to God the praise!
For gifting man this noble art to raise;
From thee what benefits do men possess?
Our Nation's Bulwark is -- the BRITISH PRESS!"

At ten years old (as if to raise my fame)
My father placed me in a wooden frame; 
In my left hand he clapt an iron stick, 
On which brass rule was often heard to click. 
Though I'm not skill'd in Greek or Latin lore,  
Nor ancient Hebrew used in days of yore,
With due submission I inform my betters.
That I can boast I am a man of letters.
Bred to the bar, though I ne'er studied law,
I well could espy every deed I saw; 
And though no Christian merchant, Turk, or Jew,  
I've dealt in pearl, and oft in diamond too.
And, though unskill'd in aught of pastry art,  
In making pie I oft have had my part.
This, too, I own, whatever my condition,
That I have often practis'd imposition
When numerous lines and columns have appear'd
In hostile proof, I've prick'd them in the beard
With bodkin keen, as poinards were of old, 
Which vile assassins oft employed for gold.
I am no traitor, but depend upon't,
I've form'd and placed French cannon in the front;
With English too, I've hit them in the nick,
And chased whole thousands with one shooting-stick.    
In forming lines it oft has been my pride,
Into a town to pour a whole broadside
Oft at the gallows have I tugg'd and sweat,    
And with a mallet heavy metier beat.
A galley slave near fifty years I've been,
And at the stocks my hands wore often seen;
But still, to show my history's not ill paged,
At cards and balls I've often been engag'd.
Though never rich, I yet have had my horse,  
But found by doing so my case was worse;
For, when with others in the chase I've join'd,
I've met with crosses that have hurt my mind.
When author's works by me were looked o'er,
I've lock'd them up to publish them the more. 
And, though no doz, this my assertions true,
'I've been a pointer and a setter to;
But not a spaniel, for I ne'er could lick
The foot of him who dared attempt to kick.  
Howe'er an author did his language dress,
In varïous forms I've sent it to the press
But hard's the fate of poor unlucky I,
My father taught me in damp sheets to lie;
Yet, when the tympans and the platten bell,
They form'd new lines for other folks to tell.  
Although neglected at my grammar schools,
I've paid obedience to the chapel rules;
And yet, to prove that I was not uncivil,
I always spoke in favour of the devil.

   But now no more the brazen rule doth click,
Nor well-adjusted line adorn the stick;
No more I see the chapellonions sit
To try their causes and exert their wit.
While the gav pitcher jovially would pass,
From ass to pig, from pig again to ass;
And thus one truth most other truth surpasses,
I've drank with pigs, and often fed with asses,
So when astray from either sty or stall,
And they on me would in their trumping call,
I pledge my soul as witness of the deed,
I ne'er forsook them in the time of need;
Unless indeed I'd set up every space, 
And caused myself to have an empty case.
At present I have set up every letter.
My copy's out and I've imposed the matter;    
And when my cuter form returns to clay,
Preserve, O GOD! my inner form I pray;
If I perchance, and there can be no doubt,
Have made a double or have left an out,
The error's trivial, 'tis with us as common
As noisy tongue is to a scolding woman.
My case being out and nothing to distribute, 
Should some kind ass or generous pig contribute,
To fill my case, in thinking I'll be proud,
And bray and grunt my gratitude aloud.  
If to some wood-hole I am doom'd to go,
To end my days in misery and woe,
Where tyrants rule with cruelly replete,
Ah! dread abode -- the poor man's last retreat,
'Midst dire oppression, anguish, pain, and grief,
Without a friend to yield the least relief ;
Then haste, kind Death, in pity to my age,
And clap the FINIS, to my life's last page.
May heaven's great Author my foul proof revise,
Cancel the page in which my error lies
And raise my form above the ethereal skies.

THE EPITAPH!

No more shall copy bad perplex my brain ;
No more shall type's small face my eye-balls strain;
No more the proof's foul page create me troubles,
By errors, transpositions, fonts and doubles;  
No more to overrun shall I begin;
No more be driving out or taking in;
The stubborn Pressman's frown I now may scoff;
Raised, corrected, finally worked off!

First published in The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 17 March 1842

Content! thy throne as was thy birth,
Is in supernal realms; of earth
   No denizen art thou;
Then, much as I may wish thee mine,
I will not bend before thy shrine,
   Nor waste for thee one verse.

Thou art the theme of poets' lays,
The idol of the sages' praise,
   Who bid mankind be free
From human passions and desires,
All the wild tumults hope inspires,
   And seek alone for thee.

'Twere right; did not experience teach
How useless is the truth they preach;
   "Content is happiness."
We know it, but as well we know
There is no happiness below,
   Thou stranger here no less.

The tenant of the lowly cot
Finds thee no sharer of his lot,
   As dreaming bards still chime;
Thou fliest from peasant, prince, and sage,
From ardent youth, from hopeless age,
   From sex, and rank, and clime.

Wealth, rank, and power, lead mortals on
With hopes of joy that oft is won,
   Tho' short, imperfect, vain,
But who seeks thee, and spurns at these,
Seeks what on earth heaven's fixed decrees
   Forbid him to attain.

Star of their course, let virtue shine,
And all they may of bliss divine,
   She gives mankind to feel,
And gives to those who seek the strife,
Of power and fame, as those whose life
   Ne'er own'd ambition's zeal.

Then goddess, tho' thy lover, I
Forswear myself thy votary, --
   To Hope alone I bow;
Whose joys, still withering and still blooming,
Are yet more real than aught illuming
   This dreary path below.

First published in The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 5 April 1831

If, with some sudden witchery of rime,
My laureate head I smote against a star,
And knocking it a little sideways, made
A void in Nature, would the neighbours care?
Would Jones foresake his joyous pumpkin patch
To gaze across the fence in silent awe
For one brief moment? Would Bill Henderson
Renounce at eve his deep verandah chair,
And speak of other things than wind and sun
And the land's need of moisture? Vain the hope.
Somewhere are those would mouth my music o'er
In shady gardens murmurous with bees,
Or in the cool of some book sanctuary
Thrill inly with a quiet ecstasy
Born of my rimes. Some faintly-fashioned maid
Would shrine me as a master in her thought,
And deem me most worthy of the crown
Long worn by Frances Ridley Havergal.
Some pressman, hot from the large butcher-house
Of language and romance and poesy,
Would slap a hearty hand upon my back,
And praise me as a weakling of the craft
Whereof himself was master. While the gods,
Rapt in large wonder, almost stood aside
As they would call me to another throne
Set in Olympus -- mocking idiot Fate
Would still award the most unequal prize,
Red shining gold for their fly-haunted tripe,
And copper for the full rich wine of song.

First published in The Bulletin, 31 December 1908

Note: Frances Ridley Havergal (1836-1879) was an English religious poet and hymn writer.