The Little Native Rose
There is a lasting little flower,
That everybody knows,
Yet none has thought to think about
The little Native Rose.
The wattle and the waratah—
The world has heard of those;
But who, outside Australia, kens
The little Native Rose.
Yet first for faint, far off perfume,
That lives where memory goes;
And first of all for fadelessness—
The little Native Rose.
poem by Henry Lawson
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All Ashore!
The rattling ‘donkey’ ceases,
The bell says we must part,
You long slab of good-nature,
And poetry and art!
We’ll miss your smile in Sydney,
We’ll miss your care-free air;
Where care-free airs are needed
And grins are growing rare,
Good Health! Good pay! Good liquor,
And good pals, night and day,
Good morning and good evening –
God bless you, Hugh McCrae!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Seaweed, Tussock and Fern
Emblems of storm and danger,
Spindrift and mountain stern,
Plants that welcome the stranger—
Seaweed, tussock, and fern.
Known to the world-wide ranger,
Who sailed on the “Never Return,”
Emblems of storm and danger—
Flax and tussock and fern.
Plants that welcome the stranger,
Sea-swept and driven astern,
Beloved by the wide-world ranger—
Seaweed, tussock, and fern.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Everyone's Friend
“Nobody's enemy save his own”—
(What shall it be in the end?)—
Still by the nick-name he is known—
“Everyone’s Friend.”
“Nobody’s Enemy” stands alone
While he has money to lend,
“Nobody’s Enemy” holds his own,
“Everyone’s Friend”
“Nobody’s Enemy” down and out—
Game to the end—
And he mostly dies with no one about—
“Everyone’s Friend.”
poem by Henry Lawson
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Everyone's Friend
“Nobody's enemy save his own”—
(What shall it be in the end?)—
Still by the nick-name he is known—
“Everyone’s Friend.”
“Nobody’s Enemy” stands alone
While he has money to lend,
“Nobody’s Enemy” holds his own,
“Everyone’s Friend”
“Nobody’s Enemy” down and out—
Game to the end—
And he mostly dies with no one about—
“Everyone’s Friend.”
poem by Henry Lawson
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Jack Cornstalk
Jack Cornstalk as a drover born,
Jack Cornstalk gaunt and tan,
Jack Cornstalk leaves his love forlorn,
Jack Cornstalk man to man.
Jack Cornstalk as a careless scamp,
With day-dreams in his head;
Jack Cornstalk on his lone, wide camp,
Jack Cornstalk with his dead,
Jack Cornstalk at his best and worst.
The day dawns on his brow,
Jack Cornstalk’s country must be first –
Advance Australia now!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Hawkers
Dust, dust, dust and a dog –
Oh! The sheep-dog won’t be last.
When the long, long, shadow of the old bay horse
With the shadow of his mate is cast.
A brick-brown woman with the brick-brown kids,
And a man with his head half-mast,
The feed-bags hung and the bedding slung,
And the blackened bucket made fast
Where the tailboard clings to the tucker and things –
So the hawker’s van goes past.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Beauty and the Dude
A fresh sweet-scented beauty
Came tripping down the street;
She was as fair a vision
As you might chance to meet.
A masher raised his cady
(I don’t want to be rude)
He raised it to the lady—
That fresh sweet-scented dude.
They met and talked and simpered
And giggled in the street;
They were as bright a vision
As you might wish to meet.
I don’t know what they’re good for,
But don’t want to be rude
To the fair sweet-scented beauty
Or the well-upholstered dude.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Jack Cornstalk as a Poet
“Not from the seas does he draw inspiration,
Not from the rivers that croon on their bars;
But a wide, a world-old desolation –
On a dead land alone with the stars.
The long hot day gone over,
And starlight come again;
And I, weary rover,
Lie camped on One Tree Plain.
My saddle for a pillow,
I lie beneath the tree,
That softens to a willow,
In the moonlight over me.
I dream that I remember
A dim and distant day,
Beyond yon misty timber,
In the Home-world far away.
poem by Henry Lawson
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I'll tell you what you Wanderers
I'll tell you what you wanderers, who drift from town to town;
Don't look into a good girl's eyes, until you've settled down.
It's hard to go away alone and leave old chums behind-
It's hard to travel steerage when your tastes are more refined-
To reach a place when times are bad, and to be standing there,
No money in your pocket nor a decent rag to wear.
But be forced from that fond clasp, from that last clinging kiss-
By poverty! There is on earth no harder thing than this.
poem by Henry Lawson
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