Henry Lawson

(17 June 1867 โ€“ 2 September 1922 / Grenfell, New South Wales)

Henry Lawson
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Henry Lawson was an Australian writer and poet. Along with his contemporary Banjo Paterson, Lawson is among the best-known Australian poets and fiction writers of the colonial period and is often called Australia's "greatest writer". He was the son of the poet, publisher and feminist Louisa Lawson.

Early Life

Henry Lawson was born in a town on the Grenfell goldfields of New South Wales. His father was Niels Herzberg Larsen, a Norwegian-born miner who went to sea at 21, arrived in Melbourne in 1855 to join the gold rush. Lawson's parents met at the goldfields of Pipeclay (now Eurunderee, New South Wales) Niels and Louisa married on 7 July 1866; he was 32 and ... more »

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  • Hihihi (6/1/2018 4:54:00 AM)

    Hi๐Ÿคก๐Ÿ’€๐Ÿ’€๐Ÿ‘พ๐Ÿค–๐Ÿค–๐Ÿค–๐Ÿ˜ธ๐Ÿค–๐Ÿ˜บ

  • Riley (5/28/2018 1:55:00 AM)

    This is fantastic.

  • Cg8rd (5/28/2018 1:53:00 AM)

    Who made this website

  • Queenliquiefa (5/13/2018 6:52:00 PM)

    Astounding ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ๐Ÿ’ฆ

  • ??qaaaajeffy (4/9/2018 6:45:00 PM)

    ๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿค‘

  • Thicc Bih 3000 (3/5/2018 9:05:00 PM)

    YOOOOOOO THIS HUNKY AF LEMME GET A PIECE OF THAT CRACKKKER

  • Bradley (2/28/2018 4:35:00 PM)

    ๐Ÿ˜–๐Ÿ˜ฆ๐Ÿคฎ๐Ÿ˜ต๐Ÿ™„๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿ˜ต๐Ÿ˜ต๐Ÿ˜ฏ๐Ÿคฎ๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿคฎ๐Ÿ˜ถ๐Ÿ˜ท๐Ÿ˜ถ๐Ÿค‘๐Ÿ‘ฟ๐Ÿ‘ฟ๐Ÿ™„๐Ÿคก๐Ÿคก๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ˜งโ˜ ๏ธ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ™„๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ

  • Dorothy (2/23/2018 6:54:00 AM)

    Ballad of the Drover - Henry Lawson

  • Aren Joseph (2/18/2018 10:13:00 PM)

    does anyone know which poem contains the words: we've forded bigger streams when floods were at their height ? ?

  • Chloe (11/25/2017 11:10:00 PM)

    He is my inspiration heโ€™s poems are so hood he is one of the best poets

Read all 20 comments »
Best Poem of Henry Lawson

Faces In The Street


They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone
That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;
For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet
My window-sill is level with the faces in the street --
Drifting past, drifting past,
To the beat of weary feet --
While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,
To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care;
I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet
In sallow, sunken faces that...

Read the full of Faces In The Street
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