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The City Bushman - Poem by Henry Lawson


It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went,
For you sought the greener patches and you travelled like a gent;
And you curse the trams and buses and the turmoil and the push,
Though 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 was dry and all was 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 greater contrast to the faces in the street;
And, in short, we think the bushman's being driven to the wall,
And it's doubtful if his spirit will be `loyal thro' it all'.

Though 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 ruined on selections in the sheep-infested West;
Droving songs are very pretty, but they merit little thanks
From the people of a country in possession of 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 it's 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 brumbies in the night',
Nor is he for 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 through 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 through 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,
Felling sheoaks 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 ought to give the bush a rest
Ere they raise a just rebellion in the over-written West?
Where the simple-minded bushman gets 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 through 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, City Bushman, 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, though 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 buses 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?

You've a down on `trams and buses', or the `roar' of 'em, you said,
And the `filthy, dirty attic', where you never toiled for bread.
(And about that self-same attic -- Lord! wherever have you 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.

. . . . .

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 us go together droving, and returning, if we live,
Try to understand each other while we reckon up the div.


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Poems About City

  1. 1. The City Bushman , Henry Lawson
  2. 2. The City In The Sea , Edgar Allan Poe
  3. 3. Come, Here Is Adieu To The City , Robert Louis Stevenson
  4. 4. Once I Pass'D Through A Populous City , Walt Whitman
  5. 5. City Of Orgies , Walt Whitman
  6. 6. The City Dead-House , Walt Whitman
  7. 7. City Of Ships , Walt Whitman
  8. 8. Leaving White King City , Li Po
  9. 9. Beleaguered City, The , Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  10. 10. To One Who Has Been Long In City Pent , John Keats
  11. 11. To The City Of Bombay , Rudyard Kipling
  12. 12. The Inner City , Adger Jackson
  13. 13. A Day In New York City , Amanda Combs Feltner
  14. 14. This City Boy Loves Country , Dewey Nixon
  15. 15. New York City , Gary Bitson
  16. 16. The City On A Plateau , Ismael O. Peralta
  17. 17. The Chosen City , Joan E. Prussia
  18. 18. Jersey City Drummer , Kathryn Asbury
  19. 19. The City , Michelle Rowe
  20. 20. Crystal City , Nelda Hartman
  21. 21. Oil City Jersey's , Pat Jerseys
  22. 22. Kansas City Is In Missouri , Paul F. Ernst
  23. 23. Ode To Oklahoma City: City Of Grace , Rhonda S. Galizia
  24. 24. Rain On The City , Richard A. Marten
  25. 25. Oklahoma City , Susan Rickerl
  26. 26. City Fog , Vertella Gadsden
  27. 27. The City , Virginia Welch
  28. 28. The White City , Claude McKay
  29. 29. When Dawn Comes To The City , Claude McKay
  30. 30. The Burning Of The Steamer City Of Montr.. , William Topaz McGonagall
  31. 31. The Beautiful City Of Perth , William Topaz McGonagall
  32. 32. The City Of Sleep , Rudyard Kipling
  33. 33. The Soul Of The City Receives The Gift O.. , Vachel Lindsay
  34. 34. The City That Will Not Repent , Vachel Lindsay
  35. 35. City Visions , Emma Lazarus
  36. 36. Hymn Of The City , William Cullen Bryant
  37. 37. Block City , Robert Louis Stevenson
  38. 38. Sunday Chimes In The City , Louise Imogen Guiney
  39. 39. Report From The Besieged City , Zbigniew Herbert
  40. 40. The City , Constantine P. Cavafy
  41. 41. A Description Of A City Shower , Jonathan Swift
  42. 42. City That Does Not Sleep , Federico García Lorca
  43. 43. The City Planners , Margaret Atwood
  44. 44. When The Assault Was Intended To The City , John Milton
  45. 45. Henry James In The Heart Of The City , Erica Jong
  46. 46. The City Revisited , Stephen Vincent Benet
  47. 47. Fire-Fly City , Henry Van Dyke
  48. 48. The City Of Dreadful Night , James Thomson
  49. 49. In A City Garden , Trumbull Stickney
  50. 50. The City Of Golf , Robert Fuller Murray
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