Henry Lawson Poems

The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow,
For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go;
Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side --
...

Tall, and stout, and solid-looking,
Yet a wreck;
None would think Death's finger's hooking
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When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star,
Hide the picture on the signboard over Doughty's Horse Bazaar;
When the last rose-tint is fading on the distant mulga scrub,
...

There's many a schoolboy's bat and ball that are gathering dust at home,
For he hears a voice in the future call, and he trains for the war to come;
A serious light in his eyes is seen as he comes from the schoolhouse gate;
He keeps his kit and his rifle clean, and he sees that his back is straight.
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Across the stony ridges,
Across the rolling plain,
Young Harry Dale, the drover,
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Tall and freckled and sandy,
Face of a country lout;
This was the picture of Andy,
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Day of ending for beginnings!
Ocean hath another innings,
Ocean hath another score;
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The short hour's halt is ended,
The red gone from the west,
The broken wheel is mended,
And the dead men laid to rest.
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On a lonely selection far out in the West
An old woman works all the day without rest,
And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome,
`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.'
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Old Mate! In the gusty old weather,
When our hopes and our troubles were new,
In the years spent in wearing out leather,
...