Andy’s Gone with the Cattle
by Henry Lawson
Our Andy’s gone to battle now
‘Gainst Drought, the red marauder;
Our Andy’s gone with cattle now
Across the Queensland border.
He’s left us in dejection now,
Our thoughts with him are roving;
It’s dull on this selection now,
Since Andy went a-droving.
Who now shall wear the cheerful face
In times when things are slackest?
And who shall whistle round the place
When Fortune frowns her blackest?
Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now
When he comes round us snarling?
His tongue is growing hotter now
Since Andy crossed the Darling.
The gates are out of order now,
In storms the `riders’ rattle;
For far across the border now
Our Andy’s gone with cattle.
Poor Aunty’s looking thin and white;
And Uncle’s cross with worry;
And poor old Blucher howls all night
Since Andy left Macquarie.
Oh, may the showers in torrents fall,
And all the tanks run over;
And may the grass grow green and tall
In pathways of the drover;
And may good angels send the rain
On desert stretches sandy;
And when the summer comes again
God grant ’twill bring us Andy.
A Song of the Republic
by Henry Lawson
Sons of the South, awake! arise!
Sons of the South, and do.
Banish from under your bonny skies
Those old-world errors and wrongs and lies.
Making a hell in a Paradise
That belongs to your sons and you.
Sons of the South, make choice between
(Sons of the South, choose true),
The Land of Morn and the Land of E’en,
The Old Dead Tree and the Young Tree Green,
The Land that belongs to the lord and the Queen,
And the Land that belongs to you.
Sons of the South, your time will come –
Sons of the South, ’tis near –
The “Signs of the Times”, in their language dumb,
Fortell it, and ominous whispers hum
Like sullen sounds of a distant drum,
In the ominous atmosphere.
Sons of the South, aroused at last!
Sons of the South are few!
But your ranks grow longer and deeper fast,
And ye shall swell to an army vast,
And free from the wrongs of the North and Past
The land that belongs to you.
At the Beating of a Drum
by Henry Lawson
Fear ye not the stormy future, for the Battle Hymn is strong,
And the armies of Australia shall not march without a song;
The glorious words and music of Australia’s song shall come
When her true hearts rush together at the beating of a drum.
We may not be there to hear it – ’twill be written in the night,
And Australia’s foes shall fear it in the hour before the fight.
The glorious words and music from a lonely heart shall come
When our sons shall rush to danger at the beating of the drum.
He shall be unknown who writes it; he shall soon forgotten be,
But the song shall ring through ages as a song of liberty.
And I say the words and music of our battle hymn shall come,
When Australia wakes in anger at the beating of a drum.
Flag of the Southern Cross
by Henry Lawson
Sons of Australia, be loyal and true to her –
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
Sing a loud song to be joyous and new to her –
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
Stain’d with the blood of the diggers who died by it,
Fling out the flag to the front, and abide by it –
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
See how the toadies of Austral throw dust o’er her –
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
We who are holding her honour in trust for her –
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
See how the yellow-men next to her lust for her,
Sooner or later to battle we must for her –
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross.
Beg not of England the right to preserve ourselves,
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross,
We are the servants best able to serve ourselves,
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross.
What are our hearts for, and what are our hands for?
What are we nourished in these southern lands for?
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross.
Shall we in fear of the Dragon or Bruin now
Keep back the flag of the Southern Cross?
Better to die on a field of red ruin now,
Under the flag of the Southern Cross.
Let us stand out like the gallant Eureka men –
Give not our country the sorrow to seek her men –
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
See how the loyal are storing up shame for us
Under the light of the Southern Cross.
Never! Oh! never be coward a name for us –
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
England’s red flag will bring hatred and worse to it,
Murder and rapine hath brought a black curse to it;
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
Have we not breasts for the bullets of thunderers?
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
Have we not steel for the bosoms of plunderers?
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
Prove ourselves worthy the land we inherit now,
Feed till it blazes the National spirit now!
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
Let us be bold, be it daylight or night for us –
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
Let us be firm – with our God and our right for us,
Under the flag of the Southern Cross!
Austral is fair, and the idlers in strife for her
Plunder her, sneer at her, suck the young life from her!
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
Fling out the flag to the front, and abide by it –
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
Stand by the blood of the diggers who died by it –
Fling out the flag of the Southern Cross!
Fling out the flag to the front, and be brave for it.
Liberty! Light! or a battle-field grave for it!
Bonny bright flag of the Southern Cross!
Freedom on the Wallaby
by Henry Lawson
Australia’s a big country
An’ Freedom’s humping bluey,
An’ Freedom’s on the wallaby
Oh! don’t you hear ‘er cooey?
She’s just begun to boomerang,
She’ll knock the tyrants silly,
She’s goin’ to light another fire
And boil another billy.
Our fathers toiled for bitter bread
While loafers thrived beside ’em,
But food to eat and clothes to wear,
Their native land denied ’em.
An’ so they left their native land
In spite of their devotion,
An’ so they came, or if they stole,
Were sent across the ocean.
Then Freedom couldn’t stand the glare
O’ Royalty’s regalia,
She left the loafers where they were,
An’ came out to Australia.
But now across the mighty main
The chains have come ter bind her –
She little thought to see again
The wrongs she left behind her.
Our parents toil’d to make a home –
Hard grubbin ’twas an’ clearin’ –
They wasn’t crowded much with lords
When they was pioneering.
But now that we have made the land
A garden full of promise,
Old Greed must crook ‘is dirty hand
And come ter take it from us.
So we must fly a rebel flag,
As others did before us,
And we must sing a rebel song
And join in rebel chorus.
We’ll make the tyrants feel the sting
O’ those that they would throttle;
They needn’t say the fault is ours
If blood should stain the wattle!
In Answer to Banjo, and Otherwise
by Henry Lawson
It was pleasant up the country, Mr. Banjo, where you went,
For you sought the greener patches and you travelled like a gent.,
And you curse the trams and ‘busses and the turmoil and the “push,”
Tho’ you know the “squalid city” needn’t keep you from the bush;
But we lately heard you singing of the “plains where shade is not,”
And you mentioned it was dusty – “all is dry and all is hot.”
True, the bush “hath moods and changes,” and the bushman hath ’em, too —
For he’s not a poet’s dummy — he’s a man, the same as you;
But his back is growing rounder — slaving for the “absentee” —
And his toiling wife is thinner than a country wife should be,
For we noticed that the faces of the folks we chanced to meet
Should have made a stronger contrast to the faces in the street;
And, in short, we think the bushman’s being driven to the wall,
But it’s doubtful if his spirit will be “loyal thro’ it all.”
Tho’ the bush has been romantic and it’s nice to sing about,
There’s a lot of patriotism that the land could do without —
Sort of BRITISH WORKMAN nonsense that shall perish in the scorn
Of the drover who is driven and the shearer who is shorn —
Of the struggling western farmers who have little time for rest,
And are ruin’d on selections in the squatter-ridden west —
Droving songs are very pretty, but they merit little thanks
From the people of country which is ridden by the Banks.
And the “rise and fall of seasons” suits the rise and fall of rhyme,
But we know that western seasons do not run on “schedule time;”
For the drought will go on drying while there’s anything to dry,
Then it rains until you’d fancy it would bleach the “sunny sky” —
Then it pelters out of reason, for the downpour day and night
Nearly sweeps the population to the Great Australian Bight,
It is up in Northern Queensland that the “seasons” do their best,
But its doubtful if you ever saw a season in the west,
There are years without an autumn or a winter or a spring,
There are broiling Junes — and summers when it rains like anything.
In the bush my ears were opened to the singing of the bird,
But the “carol of the magpie” was a thing I never heard.
Once the beggar roused my slumbers in a shanty, it is true,
But I only heard him asking, “Who the blanky blank are you?”
And the bell-bird in the ranges — but his “silver chime” is harsh
When it’s heard beside the solo of the curlew in the marsh.
Yes, I heard the shearers singing “William Riley” out of tune
(Saw ’em fighting round a shanty on a Sunday afternoon),
But the bushman isn’t always “trapping bunnies in the night,”
Nor is he ever riding when “the morn is fresh and bright,”
And he isn’t always singing in the humpies on the run —
And the camp-fire’s “cheery blazes” are a trifle overdone;
We have grumbled with the bushmen round the fire on rainy days,
When the smoke would blind a bullock and there wasn’t any blaze,
Save the blazes of our language, for we cursed the fire in turn
Till the atmosphere was heated and the wood began to burn.
Then we had to wring our blueys which were rotting in the swags,
And we saw the sugar leaking thro’ the bottoms of the bags,
And we couldn’t raise a “chorus,” for the toothache and the cramp,
While we spent the hours of darkness draining puddles round the camp.
Would you like to change with Clancy — go a-droving? tell us true,
For we rather think that Clancy would be glad to change with you,
And be something in the city; but ‘twould give your muse a shock
To be losing time and money thro’ the foot-rot in the flock,
And you wouldn’t mind the beauties underneath the starry dome
If you had a wife and children and a lot of bills at home.
Did you ever guard the cattle when the night was inky-black,
And it rained, and icy water trickled gently down your back
Till your saddle-weary backbone fell a-aching to the roots
And you almost felt the croaking of the bull-frog in your boots —
Sit and shiver in the saddle, curse the restless stock and cough
Till a squatter’s irate dummy cantered up to warn you off?
Did you fight the drought and “pleuro” when the “seasons” were asleep —
Falling she-oaks all the morning for a flock of starving sheep;
Drinking mud instead of water — climbing trees and lopping boughs
For the broken-hearted bullocks and the dry and dusty cows?
Do you think the bush was better in the “good old droving days,”
When the squatter ruled supremely as the king of western ways,
When you got a slip of paper for the little you could earn,
But were forced to take provisions from the station in return —
When you couldn’t keep a chicken at your humpy on the run,
For the squatter wouldn’t let you — and your work was never done:
When you had to leave the missus in a lonely hut forlorn
While you “rose up Willy Riley,” in the days ere you were born?
Ah! we read about the drovers and the shearers and the like
Till we wonder why such happy and romantic fellows “strike.”
Don’t you fancy that the poets better give the bush a rest
Ere they raise a just rebellion in the over-written West?
Where the simple-minded bushman get a meal and bed and rum
Just by riding round reporting phantom flocks that never come;
Where the scalper — never troubled by the “war-whoop of the push” —
Has a quiet little billet — breeding rabbits in the bush;
Where the idle shanty-keeper never fails to make a “draw,”
And the dummy gets his tucker thro’ provisions in the law;
Where the labour-agitator — when the shearers rise in might
Makes his money sacrificing all his substance for the right;
Where the squatter makes his fortune, and the seasons “rise” and “fall,”
And the poor and honest bushman has to suffer for it all,
Where the drovers and the shearers and the bushmen and the rest
Never reach the Eldorado of the poets of the West.
And you think the bush is purer and that life is better there,
But it doesn’t seem to pay you like the “squalid street and square,”
Pray inform us, “Mr. Banjo,” where you read, in prose or verse,
Of the awful “city urchin” who would greet you with a curse.
There are golden hearts in gutters, tho’ their owners lack the fat,
And we’ll back a teamster’s offspring to outswear a city brat;
Do you think we’re never jolly where the trams and ‘busses rage?
Did you hear the “gods” in chorus when “Ri-tooral” held the stage?
Did you catch a ring of sorrow in the city urchin’s voice
When he yelled for “Billy Elton,” when he thumped the floor for Royce?
Do the bushmen, down on pleasure, miss the everlasting stars
When they drink and flirt and so on in the glow of private bars?
What care you if fallen women “flaunt?” God help ’em — let ’em flaunt,
And the seamstress seems to haunt you — to what purpose does she haunt?
You’ve a down on “trams and busses,” or the “roar” of ’em, you said,
And the “filthy, dirty attic,” where you never toiled for bread.
(And about that self-same attic, tell us, Banjo, where you’ve been?
For the struggling needlewoman mostly keeps her attic clean.)
But you’ll find it very jolly with the cuff-and-collar push,
And the city seems to suit you, while you rave about the bush.
P.S. —
You’ll admit that “up-the-country,” more especially in drought,
Isn’t quite the Eldorado that the poets rave about,
Yet at times we long to gallop where the reckless bushman rides
In the wake of startled brumbies that are flying for their hides;
Long to feel the saddle tremble once again between our knees
And to hear the stockwhips rattle just like rifles in the trees!
Long to feel the bridle-leather tugging strongly in the hand
And to feel once more a little like a “native of the land.”
And the ring of bitter feeling in the jingling of our rhymes
Isn’t suited to the country nor the spirit of the times.
Let’s us go together droving and returning, if we live,
Try to understand each other while we liquor up the “div.”
Knocked Up
by Henry Lawson
I’m lyin’ on the barren ground that’s baked and cracked with drought,
And dunno if my legs or back or heart is most wore out;
I’ve got no spirits left to rise and smooth me achin’ brow —
I’m too knocked up to light a fire and bile the billy now.
Oh it’s trampin’, trampin’, tra-a-mpin’, in flies an’ dust an’ heat,
Or it’s trampin’ trampin’ tra-a-a-mpin’
through mud and slush ‘n sleet;
It’s tramp an’ tramp for tucker—one everlastin’ strife,
An’ wearin’ out yer boots an’ heart in the wastin’ of yer life.
They whine o’ lost an’ wasted lives in idleness and crime —
I’ve wasted mine for twenty years, and grafted all the time
And never drunk the stuff I earned, nor gambled when I shore —
But somehow when yer on the track yer life seems wasted more.
A long dry stretch of thirty miles I’ve tramped this broilin’ day,
All for the off-chance of a job a hundred miles away;
There’s twenty hungry beggars wild for any job this year,
An’ fifty might be at the shed while I am lyin’ here.
The sinews in my legs seem drawn, red-hot—’n that’s the truth;
I seem to weigh a ton, and ache like one tremendous tooth;
I’m stung between my shoulder-blades—my blessed back seems broke;
I’m too knocked out to eat a bite—I’m too knocked up to smoke.
The blessed rain is comin’ too—there’s oceans in the sky,
An’ I suppose I must get up and rig the blessed fly;
The heat is bad, the water’s bad, the flies a crimson curse,
The grub is bad, mosquitoes damned—but rheumatism’s worse.
I wonder why poor blokes like me will stick so fast ter breath,
Though Shakespeare says it is the fear of somethin’ after death;
But though Eternity be cursed with God’s almighty curse —
What ever that same somethin’ is I swear it can’t be worse.
For it’s trampin’, trampin’, tra-a-mpin’ thro’ hell across the plain,
And it’s trampin’ trampin’ tra-a-mpin’ thro’ slush ‘n mud ‘n rain —
A livin’ worse than any dog—without a home ‘n wife,
A-wearin’ out yer heart ‘n soul in the wastin’ of yer life.
One Hundred and Three
by Henry Lawson
With the frame of a man, and the face of a boy, and a manner strangely wild,
And the great, wide, wondering, innocent eyes of a silent-suffering child;
With his hideous dress and his heavy boots, he drags to Eternity—
And the Warder says, in a softened tone: ‘Keep step, One Hundred and Three.’
’Tis a ghastly travesty of drill—or a ghastly farce of work—
But One Hundred and Three, he catches step with a start, a shuffle and jerk.
’Tis slow starvation in separate cells, and a widow’s son is he,
And the widow, she drank before he was born—(Keep step, One Hundred and Three!)
They shut a man in the four-by-eight, with a six-inch slit for air,
Twenty-three hours of the twenty-four, to brood on his virtues there.
And the dead stone walls and the iron door close in as an iron band
On eyes that followed the distant haze far out on the level land.
Bread and water and hominy, and a scrag of meat and a spud,
A Bible and thin flat book of rules, to cool a strong man’s blood;
They take the spoon from the cell at night—and a stranger might think it odd;
But a man might sharpen it on the floor, and go to his own Great God.
One Hundred and Three, it is hard to believe that you saddled your horse at dawn;
There were girls that rode through the bush at eve, and girls who lolled on the lawn.
There were picnic parties in sunny bays, and ships on the shining sea;
There were foreign ports in the glorious days—(Hold up, One Hundred and Three!)
A man came out at exercise time from one of the cells to-day:
’Twas the ghastly spectre of one I knew, and I thought he was far away;
We dared not speak, but he signed ‘Farewell—fare—well,’ and I knew by this
And the number stamped on his clothes (not sewn) that a heavy sentence was his.
Where five men do the work of a boy, with warders not to see,
It is sad and bad and uselessly mad, it is ugly as it can be,
From the flower-beds laid to fit the gaol, in circle and line absurd,
To the gilded weathercock on the church, agape like a strangled bird.
Agape like a strangled bird in the sun, and I wonder what he could see?
The Fleet come in, and the Fleet go out? (Hold up, One Hundred and Three!)
The glorious sea, and the bays and Bush, and the distant mountains blue
(Keep step, keep step, One Hundred and Three, for my lines are halting too)
The great, round church with its volume of sound, where we dare not turn our eyes—
They take us there from our separate hells to sing of Paradise.
In all the creeds there is hope and doubt, but of this there is no doubt:
That starving prisoners faint in church, and the warders carry them out.
They double-lock at four o’clock and the warders leave their keys,
And the Governor strolls with a friend at eve through his stone conservatories;
Their window slits are like idiot mouths with square stone chins adrop,
And the weather-stains for the dribble, and the dead flat foreheads atop.
No light save the lights in the yard beneath the clustering lights of the Lord—
And the lights turned in to the window slits of the Observation Ward.
(They eat their meat with their fingers there in a madness starved and dull—
Oh! the padded cells and the “O—b—s” are nearly always full.)
Rules, regulations—red-tape and rules; all and alike they bind:
Under ‘separate treatment ’ place the deaf; in the dark cell shut the blind!
And somewhere down in his sandstone tomb, with never a word to save,
One Hundred and Three is keeping step, as he’ll keep it to his grave.
The press is printing its smug, smug lies, and paying its shameful debt—
It speaks of the comforts that prisoners have, and ‘holidays’ prisoners get.
The visitors come with their smug, smug smiles through the gaol on a working day,
And the public hears with its large, large ears what authorities have to say.
They lay their fingers on well-hosed walls, and they tread on the polished floor;
They peep in the generous shining cans with their ration Number Four.
And the visitors go with their smug, smug smiles; the reporters’ work is done;
Stand up! my men, who have done your time on ration Number One!
Speak up, my men! I was never the man to keep my own bed warm,
I have jogged with you round in the Fools’ Parade, and I’ve worn your uniform;
I’ve seen you live, and I’ve seen you die, and I’ve seen your reason fail—
I’ve smuggled tobacco and loosened my tongue—and I’ve been punished in gaol.
Ay! clang the spoon on the iron floor, and shove in the bread with your toe,
And shut with a bang the iron door, and clank the bolt—just so,
With an ignorant oath for a last good-night—or the voice of a filthy thought.
By the Gipsy Blood you have caught a man you’ll be sorry that ever you caught.
He shall be buried alive without meat, for a day and a night unheard
If he speak to a fellow prisoner, though he die for want of a word.
He shall be punished, and he shall be starved, and he shall in darkness rot,
He shall be murdered body and soul—and God said, ‘Thou shalt not!’
I’ve seen the remand-yard men go out, by the subway out of the yard—
And I’ve seen them come in with a foolish grin and a sentence of Three Years Hard.
They send a half-starved man to the court, where the hearts of men they carve—
Then feed him up in the hospital to give him the strength to starve.
You get the gaol-dust in your throat, in your skin the dead gaol-white;
You get the gaol-whine in your voice and in every letter you write.
And in your eyes comes the bright gaol-light—not the glare of the world’s distraught,
Not the hunted look, nor the guilty look, but the awful look of the Caught.
There was one I met—’twas a mate of mine—in a gaol that is known to us;
He died—and they said it was ‘heart disease’; but he died for want of a truss.
I’ve knelt at the head of the pallid dead, where the living dead were we,
And I’ve closed the yielding lids with my thumbs—(Keep step, One Hundred and Three!)
A criminal face is rare in gaol, where all things else are ripe—
It is higher up in the social scale that you’ll find the criminal type.
But the kindness of man to man is great when penned in a sandstone pen—
The public call us the ‘criminal class,’ but the warders call us ‘the men.’
The brute is a brute, and a kind man kind, and the strong heart does not fail—
A crawler’s a crawler everywhere, but a man is a man in gaol!
For forced ‘desertion’ or drunkenness, or a law’s illegal debt,
While never a man who was a man was ‘reformed’ by punishment yet.
The champagne lady comes home from the course in charge of the criminal swell—
They carry her in from the motor car to the lift in the Grand Hotel.
But armed with the savage Habituals Act they are waiting for you and me,
And the drums, they are beating loud and near. (Keep step, One Hundred and Three!)
The clever scoundrels are all outside, and the moneyless mugs in gaol—
Men do twelve months for a mad wife’s lies or Life for a strumpet’s tale.
If the people knew what the warders know, and felt as the prisoners feel—
If the people knew, they would storm their gaols as they stormed the old Bastile.
And the cackling, screaming half-human hens who were never mothers nor wives
Would send their sisters to such a hell for the term of their natural lives,
Where laws are made in a Female Fit in the Land of the Crazy Fad,
And drunkards in judgment on drunkards sit and the mad condemn the mad.
The High Church service swells and swells where the tinted Christs look down—
It is easy to see who is weary and faint and weareth the thorny crown.
There are swift-made signs that are not to God, and they march us Hellward then.
It is hard to believe that we knelt as boys to ‘for ever and ever, Amen. ’
Warders and prisoners all alike in a dead rot dry and slow—
The author must not write for his own, and the tailor must not sew.
The billet-bound officers dare not speak and discharged men dare not tell
Though many and many an innocent man must brood in this barren hell.
We are most of us criminal, most of us mad, and we do what we can do.
(Remember the Observation Ward and Number Forty-Two.)
There are eyes that see through stone and iron, though the rest of the world be blind—
We are prisoners all in God’s Great Gaol, but the Governor, He is kind.
They crave for sunlight, they crave for meat, they crave for the might-have-been,
But the cruellest thing in the walls of a gaol is the craving for nicotine.
Yet the spirit of Christ is everywhere where the heart of a man can dwell,
It comes like tobacco in prison—or like news to the separate cell.
. . . . .
They have smuggled him out to the Hospital with no one to tell the tale,
But it’s little the doctors and nurses can do for the patient from Starvinghurst Gaol.
He cannot swallow the food they bring, for a gaol-starved man is he,
And the blanket and screen are ready to draw—(Keep step, One Hundred and Three!)
‘What were you doing, One Hundred and Three?’ and the answer is ‘Three years hard,
And a month to go’—and the whisper is low: ‘There’s the moonlight—out in the yard.’
The drums, they are beating far and low, and the footstep’s light and free,
And the angels are whispering over his bed: ‘Keep step, One Hundred and Three!’
Past Carin’
by Henry Lawson
NOW up and down the siding brown
The great black crows are flyin’,
And down below the spur, I know,
Another ‘milker’s’ dyin’;
The crops have withered from the ground,
The tank’s clay bed is glarin’,
But from my heart no tear nor sound,
For I have gone past carin’—
Past worryin’ or carin’,
Past feelin’ aught or carin’;
But from my heart no tear nor sound,
For I have gone past carin’.
Through Death and Trouble, turn about,
Through hopeless desolation,
Through flood and fever, fire and drought,
And slavery and starvation;
Through childbirth, sickness, hurt, and blight,
And nervousness an’ scarin’,
Through bein’ left alone at night,
I’ve got to be past carin’.
Past botherin’ or carin’,
Past feelin’ and past carin’;
Through city cheats and neighbours’ spite,
I’ve come to be past carin’.
Our first child took, in days like these,
A cruel week in dyin’,
All day upon her father’s knees,
Or on my poor breast lyin’;
The tears we shed—the prayers we said
Were awful, wild—despairin’!
I’ve pulled three through, and buried two
Since then—and I’m past carin’.
I’ve grown to be past carin’,
Past worryin’ and wearin’;
I’ve pulled three through and buried two
Since then, and I’m past carin’.
’Twas ten years first, then came the worst,
All for a dusty clearin’,
I thought, I thought my heart would burst
When first my man went shearin’;
He’s drovin’ in the great North-west,
I don’t know how he’s farin’;
For I, the one that loved him best,
Have grown to be past carin’.
I’ve grown to be past carin’
Past lookin’ for or carin’;
The girl that waited long ago,
Has lived to be past carin’.
My eyes are dry, I cannot cry,
I’ve got no heart for breakin’,
But where it was in days gone by,
A dull and empty achin’.
My last boy ran away from me,
I know my temper’s wearin’,
But now I only wish to be
Beyond all signs of carin’.
Past wearyin’ or carin’,
Past feelin’ and despairin’;
And now I only wish to be
Beyond all signs of carin’.
Saint Peter
by Henry Lawson
Now, I think there is a likeness
‘Twixt St Peter’s life and mine
For he did a lot of trampin’
Long ago in Palestine.
He was “union” when the workers
First began to organise,
And I’m glad that old St Peter
Keeps the gate of Paradise.
When the ancient agitator
And his brothers carried swags,
I’ve no doubt he very often
Tramped with empty tucker-bags;
And I’m glad he’s Heaven’s picket,
For I hate explainin’ things,
And he’ll think a union ticket
Just as good as Whitely King’s.
He denied the Saviour’s union,
Which was weak of him, no doubt;
But perhaps his feet was blistered
And his boots had given out.
And the bitter storm was rushin’
On the bark and on the slabs,
And a cheerful fire was blazin’,
And the hut was full of “scabs”.
When I reach the great head-station –
Which is somewhere “off the track” –
I won’t want to talk with angels
Who have never been out back ;
They might bother me with offers
Of a banjo – meanin’ well –
And a pair of wings to fly with,
When I only want a spell.
I’ll just ask for old St Peter,
And I think, when he appears,
I will only have to tell him
That I carried swag for years.
“I’ve been on the track,” I’ll tell him,
“an’ I done the best I could,”
And he’ll understand me better
Than the other angels would.
He won’t try to get a chorus
Out of lungs that’s worn to rags,
Or to graft the wings on shoulders
That is stiff with humpin’ swags.
But I’ll rest about the station
Where the work-bell never rings,
Till they blow the final trumpet
And the Great Judge sees to things.
