William Henry Ogilvie
William Henry Ogilvie Poems
|41.||A Little Bit Of Garden||4/7/2010|
|42.||The Pearl Of Them All||4/7/2010|
|49.||If I Were Old||4/7/2010|
|50.||The True Sportsman||4/7/2010|
|52.||As I Wandered Home||4/7/2010|
|53.||The Last Muster||1/1/2004|
|54.||The Riding Of The Rebel||4/7/2010|
|55.||The Horse Of Your Heart||4/7/2010|
|57.||The Filling Of The Swamps||1/1/2004|
|58.||His Gippsland Girl||1/1/2004|
|59.||From The Gulf||1/1/2004|
|60.||The Men Of The Open Spaces||4/7/2010|
|62.||The Bush, My Lover||1/1/2004|
|63.||The Death Of Ben Hall||4/7/2010|
Comments about William Henry Ogilvie
The hats of a man may be many
In the course of a varied career,
And some have been worth not a penny
And some have been devilish dear;
But there's one hat I always remember
When sitting alone by the fire.
In the depth of a Northern November,
Because it fulfilled my desire.
It was old, it was ragged and rotten
And many years out of mode,
Like a thing that a tramp had forgotten
And left at the side of a road.
The boughs of the mulga had torn it,
It's ribbon was naught but lace,
And old swaggie ...
My road is fenced with the bleached, white bones
And strewn with the blind, white sand,
Beside me a suffering, dumb world moans
On the breast of a lonely land.
On the rim of the world the lightnings play,
The heat-waves quiver and dance,
And the breath of the wind is a sword to slay
And the sunbeams each a lance.