Henry Lawson
FIRE LIGHTED, on the table a meal for sleepy men,
A lantern in the stable, a jingle now and then;
The mail coach looming darkly by light of moon and star,
The growl of sleepy voices--a candle in the bar.
A stumble in the passage of folk with wits abroad;
A swear-word from a bedroom--the shout of 'All aboard!'
'Tchk-tchk! Git-up!' 'Hold fast, there!' and down the range we go;
Five hundred miles of scattered camps will watch for Cobb and Co.
Old coaching towns already 'decaying for their sins,'
Uncounted 'Half -Way Houses,' and scores of 'Ten Mile Inns;'
The riders from the stations by lonely granite peaks;
The black-boy for the shepherds on sheep and cattle creeks;
The roaring camps of Gulgong, and many a 'Digger's Rest;'
The diggers on the Lachlan; the huts of Farthest West;
Some twenty thousand exiles who sailed for weal or woe;
The bravest hearts of twenty lands will wait for Cobb and Co.
The morning star has vanished, the frost and fog are gone,
In one of those grand mornings which but on mountains dawn;
A flask of friendly whisky--each other's hopes we share--
And throw our top-coats open to drink the mountain air.
The roads are rare to travel, and life seems all complete;
The grind of wheels on gravel, the trot of horses' feet,
The trot, trot, trot and canter, as down the spur we go--
The green sweeps to horizons blue that call for Cobb and Co.
We take a bright girl actress through western dust and damps,
To bear the home-world message, and sing for sinful camps,
To wake the hearts and break them, wild hearts that hope and ache--
(Ah! when she thinks of those days her own must nearly break!)
Five miles this side the gold-field, a loud, triumphant shout:
Five hundred cheering diggers have snatched the horses out:
With 'Auld Lang Syne' in chorus through roaring camps they go--
That cheer for her, and cheer for Home, and cheer for Cobb and Co.
Three lamps above the ridges and gorges dark and deep,
A flash on sandstone cuttings where sheer the sidings sweep,
A flash on shrouded waggons, on water ghastly white;
Weird bush and scattered remnants of rushes in the night
Across the swollen river a flash beyond the ford:
'Ride hard to warn the driver! He's drunk or mad, good Lord!'
But on the bank to westward a broad, triumphant glow--
A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co.!
Swift scramble up the siding where teams climb inch by inch;
Pause, bird-like, on the summit--then breakneck down the pinch
Past haunted half-way houses--where convicts made the bricks--
Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five and six--
By clear, ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks run high,
Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against the sky;
Through stringy-bark and blue-gum, and box and pine we go;
New camps are stretching 'cross the plains the routes of Cobb and Co.
. . . . .
Throw down the reins, old driver--there's no one left to shout;
The ruined inn's survivor must take the horses out.
A poor old coach hereafter!--we're lost to all such things--
No bursts of songs or laughter shall shake your leathern springs
When creeping in unnoticed by railway sidings drear,
Or left in yards for lumber, decaying with the year--
Oh, who'll think how in those days when distant fields were broad
You raced across the Lachlan side with twenty-five on board.
Not all the ships that sail away since Roaring Days are done--
Not all the boats that steam from port, nor all the trains that run,
Shall take such hopes and loyal hearts--for men shall never know
Such days as when the Royal Mail was run by Cobb and Co.
The 'greyhounds' race across the sea, the 'special' cleaves the haze,
But these seem dull and slow to me compared with Roaring Days!
The eyes that watched are dim with age, and souls are weak and slow,
The hearts are dust or hardened now that broke for Cobb and Co.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
THE BATTLING DAYS
Henry Lawson
SO, sit you down in a straight-backed chair, with your pipe and your wife content,
And cross your knees with your wisest air, and preach of the 'days mis-spent;'
Grown fat and moral apace, old man! you prate of the change 'since then'--
In spite of all, I'd as lief be back in those hard old days again.
They were hard old days; they were battling days; they were cruel at times--but then,
In spite of all, I would rather be back in those hard old days again.
The land was barren to sow wild oats in the days when we sowed our own--
('Twas little we thought or our friends believed that ours would ever be sown)
But the wild oats wave on their stormy path, and they speak of the hearts of men--
I would sow a crop if I had my time in those hard old days again.
We travel first, or we go saloon--on the planned-out trips we go,
With those who are neither rich nor poor, and we find that the life is slow;
It's 'a pleasant trip' where they cried, 'Good luck!' There was fun in the steerage then--
In spite of all, I would fain be back in those vagabond days again.
On Saturday night we've a pound to spare--a pound for a trip down town--
We took more joy in those hard old days for a hardly spared half-crown;
We took more pride in the pants we patched than the suits we have had since then--
In spite of all, I would rather be back in those comical days again.
'Twas We and the World--and the rest go hang--as the Outside tracks we trod;
Each thought of himself as a man and mate, and not as a martyred god;
The world goes wrong when your heart is strong--and this is the way with men--
The world goes right when your liver is white, and you preach of the change 'since then.'
They were hard old days; they were battling days; they were cruel times--but then,
In spite of all, we shall live to-night in those hard old days again.
SO, sit you down in a straight-backed chair, with your pipe and your wife content,
And cross your knees with your wisest air, and preach of the 'days mis-spent;'
Grown fat and moral apace, old man! you prate of the change 'since then'--
In spite of all, I'd as lief be back in those hard old days again.
They were hard old days; they were battling days; they were cruel at times--but then,
In spite of all, I would rather be back in those hard old days again.
The land was barren to sow wild oats in the days when we sowed our own--
('Twas little we thought or our friends believed that ours would ever be sown)
But the wild oats wave on their stormy path, and they speak of the hearts of men--
I would sow a crop if I had my time in those hard old days again.
We travel first, or we go saloon--on the planned-out trips we go,
With those who are neither rich nor poor, and we find that the life is slow;
It's 'a pleasant trip' where they cried, 'Good luck!' There was fun in the steerage then--
In spite of all, I would fain be back in those vagabond days again.
On Saturday night we've a pound to spare--a pound for a trip down town--
We took more joy in those hard old days for a hardly spared half-crown;
We took more pride in the pants we patched than the suits we have had since then--
In spite of all, I would rather be back in those comical days again.
'Twas We and the World--and the rest go hang--as the Outside tracks we trod;
Each thought of himself as a man and mate, and not as a martyred god;
The world goes wrong when your heart is strong--and this is the way with men--
The world goes right when your liver is white, and you preach of the change 'since then.'
They were hard old days; they were battling days; they were cruel times--but then,
In spite of all, we shall live to-night in those hard old days again.
SYDNEY-SIDE
Henry Lawson
WHERE'S the steward?--Bar-room steward? Berth? Oh, any berth will do--
I have left a three-pound billet just to come along with you.
Brighter shines the Star of Rovers on a world that's growing wide,
But I think I'd give a kingdom for a glimpse of Sydney-Side.
Run of rocky shelves at sunrise, with their base on ocean's bed;
Homes of Coogee, homes of Bondi, and the lighthouse on South Head.
For in loneliness and hardship--and with just a touch of pride--
Has my heart been taught to whisper, 'You belong to Sydney-Side.'
Oh, there never dawned a morning, in the long and lonely days,
But I thought I saw the ferries streaming out across the bays--
And as fresh and fair in fancy did the picture rise again
As the sunrise flushed the city from Woollahra to Balmain:
And the sunny water frothing round the liners black and red,
And the coastal schooners working by the loom of Bradley's Head;
And the whistles and the sirens that re-echo far and wide--
All the life and light and beauty that belong to Sydney-Side.
And the dreary cloud-line never veiled the end of one day more,
But the city set in jewels rose before me from 'The Shore.'
Round the sea-world shine the beacons of a thousand ports o' call,
But the harbour-lights of Sydney are the grandest of them all!
Toiling out beyond Coolgardie--heart and back and spirit broke,
Where the Rover's Star gleams redly in the desert by the 'soak'--
But says one mate to the other, 'Brace your lip and do not fret,
We will laugh on trains and 'buses--Sydney's in the same place yet.'
Working in the South in winter, to the waist in dripping fern,
Where the local spirit hungers for each 'saxpence' that we earn--
We can stand it for a season, for our world is growing wide,
And they all are friends and strangers who belong to Sydney-Side.
'T'other-siders! T'other-siders!' Yet we wake the dusty dead;
It is we that send the backward province fifty years ahead;
We it is that 'trim' Australia--making narrow country wide--
Yet we're always T'other-siders till we sail for Sydney-side.
WHERE'S the steward?--Bar-room steward? Berth? Oh, any berth will do--
I have left a three-pound billet just to come along with you.
Brighter shines the Star of Rovers on a world that's growing wide,
But I think I'd give a kingdom for a glimpse of Sydney-Side.
Run of rocky shelves at sunrise, with their base on ocean's bed;
Homes of Coogee, homes of Bondi, and the lighthouse on South Head.
For in loneliness and hardship--and with just a touch of pride--
Has my heart been taught to whisper, 'You belong to Sydney-Side.'
Oh, there never dawned a morning, in the long and lonely days,
But I thought I saw the ferries streaming out across the bays--
And as fresh and fair in fancy did the picture rise again
As the sunrise flushed the city from Woollahra to Balmain:
And the sunny water frothing round the liners black and red,
And the coastal schooners working by the loom of Bradley's Head;
And the whistles and the sirens that re-echo far and wide--
All the life and light and beauty that belong to Sydney-Side.
And the dreary cloud-line never veiled the end of one day more,
But the city set in jewels rose before me from 'The Shore.'
Round the sea-world shine the beacons of a thousand ports o' call,
But the harbour-lights of Sydney are the grandest of them all!
Toiling out beyond Coolgardie--heart and back and spirit broke,
Where the Rover's Star gleams redly in the desert by the 'soak'--
But says one mate to the other, 'Brace your lip and do not fret,
We will laugh on trains and 'buses--Sydney's in the same place yet.'
Working in the South in winter, to the waist in dripping fern,
Where the local spirit hungers for each 'saxpence' that we earn--
We can stand it for a season, for our world is growing wide,
And they all are friends and strangers who belong to Sydney-Side.
'T'other-siders! T'other-siders!' Yet we wake the dusty dead;
It is we that send the backward province fifty years ahead;
We it is that 'trim' Australia--making narrow country wide--
Yet we're always T'other-siders till we sail for Sydney-side.
SONG OF THE OLD BULLOCK-DRIVER
Henry Lawson
FAR BACK in the days when the blacks used to ramble
In long single file 'neath the evergreen tree,
The wool-teams in season came down from Coonamble,
And journeyed for weeks on their way to the sea,
'Twas then that our hearts and our sinews were stronger,
For those were the days when the bushman was bred.
We journeyed on roads that were rougher and longer
Than roads where the feet of our grandchildren tread.
With mates who have gone to the great Never-Never,
And mates whom I've not seen for many a day,
I camped on the banks of the Cudgegong River
And yarned at the fire by the old bullock-dray.
I would summon them back from the far Riverina,
From days that shall be from all others distinct,
And sing to the sound of an old concertina
Their rugged old songs where strange fancies were linked.
We never were lonely, for, camping together,
We yarned and we smoked the long evenings away,
And little I cared for the signs of the weather
When snug in my hammock slung under the dray.
We rose with the dawn, were it ever so chilly,
When yokes and tarpaulins were covered with frost,
And toasted the bacon and boiled the black billy,
Where high on the camp-fire the branches were tossed.
On flats where the air was suggestive of 'possums,
And homesteads and fences were hinting of change,
We saw the faint glimmer of appletree blossoms
And far in the distance the blue of the range;
And here in the rain, there was small use in flogging
The poor, tortured bullocks that tugged at the load,
When down to the axles the waggons were bogging
And traffic was making a marsh of the road.
'Twas hard on the beasts on the terrible pinches,
Where two teams of bullocks were yoked to a load,
And tugging and slipping, and moving by inches,
Half-way to the summit they clung to the road.
And then, when the last of the pinches was bested,
(You'll surely not say that a glass was a sin?)
The bullocks lay down 'neath the gum trees and rested--
The bullockies steered for the bar of the inn.
Then slowly we crawled by the trees that kept tally
Of miles that were passed on the long journey down.
We saw the wild beauty of Capertee Valley,
As slowly we rounded the base of the Crown.
But, ah! the poor bullocks were cruelly goaded
While climbing the hills from the flats and the vales;
'Twas here that the teams were so often unloaded
That all knew the meaning of 'counting your bales.'
And, oh! but the best-paying load that I carried
Was one to the run where my sweetheart was nurse.
We courted awhile, and agreed to get married,
And couple our futures for better or worse.
And as my old feet grew too weary to drag on
The miles of rough metal they met by the way,
My eldest grew up and I gave him the waggon--
He's plodding along by the bullocks to-day.
FAR BACK in the days when the blacks used to ramble
In long single file 'neath the evergreen tree,
The wool-teams in season came down from Coonamble,
And journeyed for weeks on their way to the sea,
'Twas then that our hearts and our sinews were stronger,
For those were the days when the bushman was bred.
We journeyed on roads that were rougher and longer
Than roads where the feet of our grandchildren tread.
With mates who have gone to the great Never-Never,
And mates whom I've not seen for many a day,
I camped on the banks of the Cudgegong River
And yarned at the fire by the old bullock-dray.
I would summon them back from the far Riverina,
From days that shall be from all others distinct,
And sing to the sound of an old concertina
Their rugged old songs where strange fancies were linked.
We never were lonely, for, camping together,
We yarned and we smoked the long evenings away,
And little I cared for the signs of the weather
When snug in my hammock slung under the dray.
We rose with the dawn, were it ever so chilly,
When yokes and tarpaulins were covered with frost,
And toasted the bacon and boiled the black billy,
Where high on the camp-fire the branches were tossed.
On flats where the air was suggestive of 'possums,
And homesteads and fences were hinting of change,
We saw the faint glimmer of appletree blossoms
And far in the distance the blue of the range;
And here in the rain, there was small use in flogging
The poor, tortured bullocks that tugged at the load,
When down to the axles the waggons were bogging
And traffic was making a marsh of the road.
'Twas hard on the beasts on the terrible pinches,
Where two teams of bullocks were yoked to a load,
And tugging and slipping, and moving by inches,
Half-way to the summit they clung to the road.
And then, when the last of the pinches was bested,
(You'll surely not say that a glass was a sin?)
The bullocks lay down 'neath the gum trees and rested--
The bullockies steered for the bar of the inn.
Then slowly we crawled by the trees that kept tally
Of miles that were passed on the long journey down.
We saw the wild beauty of Capertee Valley,
As slowly we rounded the base of the Crown.
But, ah! the poor bullocks were cruelly goaded
While climbing the hills from the flats and the vales;
'Twas here that the teams were so often unloaded
That all knew the meaning of 'counting your bales.'
And, oh! but the best-paying load that I carried
Was one to the run where my sweetheart was nurse.
We courted awhile, and agreed to get married,
And couple our futures for better or worse.
And as my old feet grew too weary to drag on
The miles of rough metal they met by the way,
My eldest grew up and I gave him the waggon--
He's plodding along by the bullocks to-day.
RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS
Henry Lawson
THE VALLEY'S full of misty cloud,
Its tinted beauty drowning,
The Eucalypti roar aloud,
The mountain fronts are frowning.
The mist is hanging like a pall
From many granite ledges,
And many a little waterfall
Starts o'er the valley's edges.
The sky is of a leaden grey,
Save where the north is surly,
The driven daylight speeds away,
And night comes o'er us early.
But, love, the rain will pass full soon,
Far sooner than my sorrow,
And in a golden afternoon
The sun may set to-morrow.
THE VALLEY'S full of misty cloud,
Its tinted beauty drowning,
The Eucalypti roar aloud,
The mountain fronts are frowning.
The mist is hanging like a pall
From many granite ledges,
And many a little waterfall
Starts o'er the valley's edges.
The sky is of a leaden grey,
Save where the north is surly,
The driven daylight speeds away,
And night comes o'er us early.
But, love, the rain will pass full soon,
Far sooner than my sorrow,
And in a golden afternoon
The sun may set to-morrow.
FOREIGN LANDS
Henry Lawson
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;
You may ride and tramp wherever range or plain or sea expands,
But the crowd has been before you, and you'll not find 'Foreign Lands;'
For the Early Days are over,
And no more the white-winged rover
Sinks the gale-worn coast of England bound for bays in Foreign Lands.
Foreign Lands are in the distance dim and dreamlike, faint and far,
Long ago, and over yonder, where our boyhood fancies are,
For the land is by the railway cramped as though with iron bands,
And the steamship and the cable did away with Foreign Lands.
Ah! the days of blue and gold!
When the news was six months old--
But the news was worth the telling in the days of Foreign Lands.
Here we slave the dull years hopeless for the sake of Wool and Wheat
Here the homes of ugly Commerce--niggard farm and haggard street;
Yet our mothers and our fathers won the life the heart demands--
Less than fifty years gone over, we were born in Foreign Lands.
When the gipsies stole the children still, in village tale and song,
And the world was wide to travel, and the roving spirit strong;
When they dreamed of South Sea Islands, summer seas and coral strands--
Then the bravest hearts of England sailed away to Foreign Lands,
'Fitting foreign'--flood and field--
Half the world and orders sealed--
And the first and best of Europe went to fight in Foreign Lands.
Canvas towers on the ocean--homeward bound and outward bound--
Glint of topsails over islands--splash of anchors in the sound;
Then they landed in the forests, took their strong lives in their hands,
And they fought and toiled and conquered--making homes in Foreign Lands,
Through the cold and through the drought--
Further on and further out--
Winning half the world for England in the wilds of Foreign Lands.
Love and pride of life inspired them when the simple village hearts
Followed Master Will and Harry--gone abroad to 'furrin parts'
By our townships and our cities, and across the desert sands
Are the graves of those who fought and died for us in Foreign Lands--
Gave their young lives for our sake
(Was it all a grand mistake?)
Sons of Master Will and Harry born abroad in Foreign Lands!
Ah, my girl, our lives are narrow, and in sordid days like these,
I can hate the things that banished 'Foreign Lands across the seas,'
But with all the world before us, God above us--hearts and hands,
I can sail the seas in fancy far away to Foreign Lands.
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;
You may ride and tramp wherever range or plain or sea expands,
But the crowd has been before you, and you'll not find 'Foreign Lands;'
For the Early Days are over,
And no more the white-winged rover
Sinks the gale-worn coast of England bound for bays in Foreign Lands.
Foreign Lands are in the distance dim and dreamlike, faint and far,
Long ago, and over yonder, where our boyhood fancies are,
For the land is by the railway cramped as though with iron bands,
And the steamship and the cable did away with Foreign Lands.
Ah! the days of blue and gold!
When the news was six months old--
But the news was worth the telling in the days of Foreign Lands.
Here we slave the dull years hopeless for the sake of Wool and Wheat
Here the homes of ugly Commerce--niggard farm and haggard street;
Yet our mothers and our fathers won the life the heart demands--
Less than fifty years gone over, we were born in Foreign Lands.
When the gipsies stole the children still, in village tale and song,
And the world was wide to travel, and the roving spirit strong;
When they dreamed of South Sea Islands, summer seas and coral strands--
Then the bravest hearts of England sailed away to Foreign Lands,
'Fitting foreign'--flood and field--
Half the world and orders sealed--
And the first and best of Europe went to fight in Foreign Lands.
Canvas towers on the ocean--homeward bound and outward bound--
Glint of topsails over islands--splash of anchors in the sound;
Then they landed in the forests, took their strong lives in their hands,
And they fought and toiled and conquered--making homes in Foreign Lands,
Through the cold and through the drought--
Further on and further out--
Winning half the world for England in the wilds of Foreign Lands.
Love and pride of life inspired them when the simple village hearts
Followed Master Will and Harry--gone abroad to 'furrin parts'
By our townships and our cities, and across the desert sands
Are the graves of those who fought and died for us in Foreign Lands--
Gave their young lives for our sake
(Was it all a grand mistake?)
Sons of Master Will and Harry born abroad in Foreign Lands!
Ah, my girl, our lives are narrow, and in sordid days like these,
I can hate the things that banished 'Foreign Lands across the seas,'
But with all the world before us, God above us--hearts and hands,
I can sail the seas in fancy far away to Foreign Lands.
THE WRITER'S DREAM
Henry Lawson
A WRITER wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;
For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are.
His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim;
His land seemed barren, its people cold--yet the world was dear to him;--
So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he travelled by land and sea,
In search of a people who lived a life as life in the world should be.
And he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with forest and field and wood,
And all things came with the seasons there, and each of its kind was good;
There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there were lights of green and gold,
And echoing caves in the cliffs below, where a world-wide ocean rolled.
The lives of men from the wear of Change and the strife of the world were free--
For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the rocks of the Open Sea.
And the last that were born of a noble race - when the page of the South was fair--
The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.
He saw their hearts with the author's eyes who had written their ancient lore,
And he saw their lives as he'd dreamed of such - ah! many a year before.
And 'I'll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,
'And the cold who read shall be kind for these - and the wise who read shall learn.
'Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note be heard:
'Never again shall a page or line be marred by a bitter word;
'But love and laughter and kindly hours will the book I'll write recall,
'With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs for their sorrows all.
'Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the young eyes dance with glee--
'And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my simple folk and me.'
The lines ran on as he dipped his pen - ran true to his heart and ear-
Like the brighter pages of memory when every line is clear.
The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days of love and light-
He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought it grand to write.
And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed her twice for pride:
''Tis a book of love, though a book of life! and a book you'll read!' he cried.
He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for shabby and poor he came)
From local 'Fashion' and mortgaged pride that scarce could sign its name.
What dreamer would dream of such paltry pride in a scene so fresh and fair?
But the local spirit intensified--with its pitiful shams - was there;
There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no rest for a family ghost!)
They hated each other as women could - but they hated the stranger most.
The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in the face of Fate--
'I'll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical ghosts that wait.
''Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,' he said to the paltry pride--
(The homely tongues of the simple wives ne'er erred on the generous side)--
'They'll prove me true and they'll prove me kind ere the year of grace be passed,'
But the ignorant whisper of 'axe to grind!' went home to his heart at last.
The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of the South-east gale,
His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a fairy tale.
The world-wise lines of an elder age were plain on his aching brow,
As he sadly thought of each brighter page that would never be written now.
'I'll write no more!' But he bowed his head, for his heart was in Dreamland yet--
'The pages written I'll burn,' he said, 'and the pages thought forget.'
But he heard the hymn of the Open Sea, and the old fierce anger burned,
And he wrenched his heart from its dreamland free as the fire of his youth returned:-
'The weak man's madness, the strong man's scorn--the rebellious hate of youth
'From a deeper love of the world are born! And the cynical ghost is Truth!'
And the writer rose with a strength anew wherein Doubt could have no part;
'I'll write my book and it shall be true--the truth of a writer's heart.
'Ay! cover the wrong with a fairy tale - who never knew want or care-
'A bright green scum on a stagnant pool that will reek the longer there.
'You may starve the writer and buy the pen--you may drive it with want and fear--
'But the lines run false in the hearts of men - and false to the writer's ear.
'The bard's a rebel and strife his part, and he'll burst from his bonds anew,
'Till all pens write from a single heart! And so may the dream come true.
. . . . .
''Tis ever the same in the paths of men where money and dress are all,
'The crawler will bully whene'er he can, and the bully who can't will crawl.
'And this is the creed in the local hole, where the souls of the selfish rule;
'Borrow and cheat while the stranger's green, then sneer at the simple fool.
'Spit your spite at the men whom Fate has placed in the head-race first,
'And hate till death, with a senseless hate, the man you have injured worst!
'There are generous hearts in the grinding street, but the Hearts of the World go west;
'For the men who toil in the dust and heat of the barren lands are best!
'The stranger's hand to the stranger, yet--for a roving folk are mine -
'The stranger's store for the stranger set--and the camp-fire glow the sign!
'The generous hearts of the world, we find, thrive best on the barren sod,
'And the selfish thrive where Nature's kind (they'd bully or crawl to God!)
'I was born to write of the things that are! and the strength was given to me.
'I was born to strike at the things that mar the world as the world should be!
'By the dumb heart-hunger and dreams of youth, by the hungry tracks I've trod -
'I'll fight as a man for the sake of truth, nor pose as a martyred god.
'By the heart of "Bill" and the heart of "Jim," and the men that their hearts deem "white,"
'By the handgrips fierce, and the hard eyes dim with forbidden tears! - I'll write!
'I'll write untroubled by cultured fools, or the dense that fume and fret--
'For against the wisdom of all their schools I would stake mine instinct yet!
'For the cynical strain in the writer's song is the world, not he, to blame,
'And I'll write as I think, in the knowledge strong that thousands think the same;
'And the men who fight in the Dry Country grim battles by day, by night,
'Will believe in me, and will stand by me, and will say to the world, "He's right!"'
A WRITER wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;
For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are.
His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim;
His land seemed barren, its people cold--yet the world was dear to him;--
So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he travelled by land and sea,
In search of a people who lived a life as life in the world should be.
And he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with forest and field and wood,
And all things came with the seasons there, and each of its kind was good;
There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there were lights of green and gold,
And echoing caves in the cliffs below, where a world-wide ocean rolled.
The lives of men from the wear of Change and the strife of the world were free--
For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the rocks of the Open Sea.
And the last that were born of a noble race - when the page of the South was fair--
The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.
He saw their hearts with the author's eyes who had written their ancient lore,
And he saw their lives as he'd dreamed of such - ah! many a year before.
And 'I'll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,
'And the cold who read shall be kind for these - and the wise who read shall learn.
'Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note be heard:
'Never again shall a page or line be marred by a bitter word;
'But love and laughter and kindly hours will the book I'll write recall,
'With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs for their sorrows all.
'Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the young eyes dance with glee--
'And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my simple folk and me.'
The lines ran on as he dipped his pen - ran true to his heart and ear-
Like the brighter pages of memory when every line is clear.
The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days of love and light-
He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought it grand to write.
And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed her twice for pride:
''Tis a book of love, though a book of life! and a book you'll read!' he cried.
He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for shabby and poor he came)
From local 'Fashion' and mortgaged pride that scarce could sign its name.
What dreamer would dream of such paltry pride in a scene so fresh and fair?
But the local spirit intensified--with its pitiful shams - was there;
There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no rest for a family ghost!)
They hated each other as women could - but they hated the stranger most.
The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in the face of Fate--
'I'll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical ghosts that wait.
''Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,' he said to the paltry pride--
(The homely tongues of the simple wives ne'er erred on the generous side)--
'They'll prove me true and they'll prove me kind ere the year of grace be passed,'
But the ignorant whisper of 'axe to grind!' went home to his heart at last.
The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of the South-east gale,
His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a fairy tale.
The world-wise lines of an elder age were plain on his aching brow,
As he sadly thought of each brighter page that would never be written now.
'I'll write no more!' But he bowed his head, for his heart was in Dreamland yet--
'The pages written I'll burn,' he said, 'and the pages thought forget.'
But he heard the hymn of the Open Sea, and the old fierce anger burned,
And he wrenched his heart from its dreamland free as the fire of his youth returned:-
'The weak man's madness, the strong man's scorn--the rebellious hate of youth
'From a deeper love of the world are born! And the cynical ghost is Truth!'
And the writer rose with a strength anew wherein Doubt could have no part;
'I'll write my book and it shall be true--the truth of a writer's heart.
'Ay! cover the wrong with a fairy tale - who never knew want or care-
'A bright green scum on a stagnant pool that will reek the longer there.
'You may starve the writer and buy the pen--you may drive it with want and fear--
'But the lines run false in the hearts of men - and false to the writer's ear.
'The bard's a rebel and strife his part, and he'll burst from his bonds anew,
'Till all pens write from a single heart! And so may the dream come true.
. . . . .
''Tis ever the same in the paths of men where money and dress are all,
'The crawler will bully whene'er he can, and the bully who can't will crawl.
'And this is the creed in the local hole, where the souls of the selfish rule;
'Borrow and cheat while the stranger's green, then sneer at the simple fool.
'Spit your spite at the men whom Fate has placed in the head-race first,
'And hate till death, with a senseless hate, the man you have injured worst!
'There are generous hearts in the grinding street, but the Hearts of the World go west;
'For the men who toil in the dust and heat of the barren lands are best!
'The stranger's hand to the stranger, yet--for a roving folk are mine -
'The stranger's store for the stranger set--and the camp-fire glow the sign!
'The generous hearts of the world, we find, thrive best on the barren sod,
'And the selfish thrive where Nature's kind (they'd bully or crawl to God!)
'I was born to write of the things that are! and the strength was given to me.
'I was born to strike at the things that mar the world as the world should be!
'By the dumb heart-hunger and dreams of youth, by the hungry tracks I've trod -
'I'll fight as a man for the sake of truth, nor pose as a martyred god.
'By the heart of "Bill" and the heart of "Jim," and the men that their hearts deem "white,"
'By the handgrips fierce, and the hard eyes dim with forbidden tears! - I'll write!
'I'll write untroubled by cultured fools, or the dense that fume and fret--
'For against the wisdom of all their schools I would stake mine instinct yet!
'For the cynical strain in the writer's song is the world, not he, to blame,
'And I'll write as I think, in the knowledge strong that thousands think the same;
'And the men who fight in the Dry Country grim battles by day, by night,
'Will believe in me, and will stand by me, and will say to the world, "He's right!"'
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