Henry Lawson Poems

’Twas in a tug-of-war where I—the guvnor’s hope and pride—
Stepped proudly on the platform as the ringer on my side;
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They were “ratty” they were hooted by the meanest and the least,
When they woke the Drum of Glory long ago in London East.
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They know us not in England yet, their pens are overbold;
We're seen in fancy pictures that are fifty years too old.
They think we are a careless race - a childish race, and weak;
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“Boys out there by the western creeks,
Who hurry away from school,
To climb the spurs of the breezy peaks,
Or dive in the shaded pool”
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You may roam the wide seas over, follow, meet, and cross the sun,
Sail as far as ships can sail, and travel far as trains can run;
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At suburban railway stations--you may see them as you pass--
there are signboards on the platform saying 'Wait here second class,'
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It surely cannot be too soon, and never is too late,
It tones with all Australia’s tune to praise one’s native State,
And so I bring an old refrain from days of posts and rails,
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As the night was falling slowly down on city, town and bush,
From a slum in Jones's Alley sloped the Captain of the Push;
And he scowled towards the North, and he scowled towards the South,
As he hooked his little finger in the corners of his mouth.
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BEATEN back in sad dejection,
After years of weary toil
On that burning hot selection
Where the drought has gorged his spoil.
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So you’ve seen at last what we have seen so long through scalding tears:
You have found what we—the People—we have known for twenty years:
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