Joseph Furphy Poems

Sing the evil days we see, and the worse that are to be,
In such doggerel as dejection will allow,
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Life is a Poem, short or long,
A dismal Dirge, or jovial Song,
A Psalm of faith, or Lay of Pride,
One stanza by each year supplied.
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Lincoln is gone — who ruled the Western Land
From the Pacific to the Atlantic's brim —
And cold and nerveless lies the mighty hand
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Are you, like me, a peevish brat,
With feelings extra-fine?
Are you disposed to whip the cat
When misadventure lays your flat?
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The fleecy clouds had passed away
Before the bright approach of day,
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Deem not this wielder of this pen
The happiest bloke alive,
For I am only five-foot-ten,
And ye are ten-foot-five.
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“Are you the Cove?” he spoke the words
As swagmen only can;
The Squatter freezingly inquired,
“What do you mean, my man?”
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Now the truce of night brings respite to the sordid care of day,
And in listlessness I pace the river side,
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You argue — as sympathy governs your bias —
That Wisdom distributes the capon and crust,
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When the great Creator fashion'd us, and saw that we were good,
He commission'd us to dominate the planet as it stood.
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