Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake, surveyor, stockman, drover and poet, was born on 26 March 1866 at Waterview Bay, Balmain, New South Wales, eldest son of Barcroft Capel Boake (b. Dublin, 1838), professional photographer, and his wife Florence Eva, née Clarke (1846-1879). His parents had married on 7 March 1865; three of their nine children died in infancy. He was an active child, fond of sport, but showed early signs of depression, forerunner to that melancholia which was to oppress him for much of his life and ultimately to cause his death.
Young Barcroft’s childhood was spent in Sydney, and for two years in Noumea, where he spent time with a friend of the ... more »
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Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake Poems
A Song From A Sandhill
Drip, drip, drip! It tinkles on the fly— The pitiless outpouring of an overburdened sky:
A Bushman's Love
You say we bushmen cannot love— Our lives are too prosaic: hence We lose or lack that finer sense That raises some few men above
A Valentine The Bree was up; the floods were out Around the hut of Culgo Jim: The hand of God had broke the drought
I've a kiss from a warmer lover Than maiden earth can be: She blew it up to the skies above her, And now it has come to me;
Adown the grass-grown paths we strayed, The evening cowslips ope’d Their yellow eyes to look at her, The love-sick lilies moped
The fight was over, and the battle won A soldier, who beneath his chieftain’s eye Had done a might deed and done it well, And done it as the world will have it done—
How Babs Malone Cut Down The Field
Now the squatters and the “cockies,” Shearers, trainers and their jockeys Had gathered them together for a meeting on the flat;
Brookong station lay half-asleep Dozed in the waning western glare ('Twas before the run had stocked with sheep And only cattle depastured there)
Where The Dead Men Lie
Out on the wastes of the Never Never - That's where the dead men lie! There where the heat-waves dance forever - That's where the dead men lie!
A sweat-dripping horse and a half-naked myall, And a message: ‘Come out to the back of the run— Be out at the stake-yards by rising of sun!
Will she spring with a blush from the arms of Dawn, When the sleepy songsters prune Their dewy vestments on bush and thorn,
A Wayside Queen
She was born in the season of fire, When a mantle of murkiness lay On the front of the crimson Destroyer: And none knew the name of her sire
Down The River
Hark, the sound of it drawing nearer, Clink of hobble and brazen bell; Mark the passage of stalwart shearer, Bidding Monaro soil farewell.
A Vision Out West
Far reaching down's a solid sea sunk everlastingly to rest, And yet whose billows seem to be for ever heaving toward the west
A Song From A Sandhill
Drip, drip, drip! It tinkles on the fly—
The pitiless outpouring of an overburdened sky:
Each drooping frond of pine has got a jewel at its tip—
First a twinkle, then a sprinkle, and a drip, drip, drip.
Drip, drip, drip! They must be shearing up on high.
Can't you see the snowy fleeces that are rolling, rolling by?
How many bales, I wonder, are they branding to the clip?
P'r'aps the Boss is keeping tally with this drip, drip, drip.
Drip, drip, drip! while the sodden branches sigh:
The jovial jackass dare not laugh for fear that he should cry: