Henry Lawson Poems

These are songs of the Friends I neglected—
And the Foes, too, in part;
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Who’ll wear the beaten colours—and cheer the beaten men?
Who’ll wear the beaten colours, till our time comes again?
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Ben Boyd's Tower is watching—
Watching o’er the sea;
Ben Boyd’s Tower is waiting
For her and me.
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SO YER trav’lin’ for yer pleasure while yer writin’ for the press?
An’ yer huntin’ arter “copy”?—well, I’ve heer’d o’ that. I guess
You are gorn te
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Weary old wife, with the bucket and cow,
‘How’s your son Jack? and where is he now?’
Haggard old eyes that turn to the west—
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IT’S OH! for a rivet in marriage bonds,
And a splice in the knot untied—
The sanctity of the marriage tie
Is growing more sanctified!
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We have lived till these times, brother,
We who lived in this;
We have not grown old together,
Soon our lives must close –
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There are writers great and writers small
And writers on the spree;
And writers short and writers tall,
And bards of low degree.
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Tell a simple little story of a settler in the West,
Where the soldier birds and farmers, and selectors never rest
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Let others sing praise of their sea-girted isles,
But give me the bush with its limitless miles;
Then it’s over the ranges and into the West,
To the scenes of wild boyhood; we love them the best.
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