Borderland I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went -- Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track -- Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back. Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast, But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast -- Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down. Sunny plains! Great Scot! -- those burning wastes of barren soil and sand With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land! Desolation where the crow is! Desert! where the eagle flies, Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes; Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep. Stunted "peak" of granite gleaming, glaring! like a molten mass Turned, from some infernal furnace, on a plain devoid of grass. Miles and miles of thirsty gutters -- strings of muddy waterholes In the place of "shining rivers" (walled by cliffs and forest boles). "Range!" of ridgs, gullies, ridges, barren! where the madden'd flies -- Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt -- swarm about your blighted eyes! Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees Nothing. Nothing! but the maddening sameness of the stunted trees! Lonely hut where drought's eternal -- suffocating atmosphere -- Where the God forgottcn hatter dreams of city-life and beer. Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, endless roads that gleam and glare, Dark and evil-looking gullies -- hiding secrets here and there! Dull, dumb flats and stony "rises," where the bullocks sweat and bake, And the sinister "gohanna," and the lizard, and the snake. Land of day and night -- no morning freshness, and no afternoon, For the great, white sun in rising brings with him the heat of noon. Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall From the sad, heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum, worst of all. Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift O'er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift -- Dismal land when it is raining -- growl of floods and oh! the "woosh" Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush -- Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are pil'd On the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild. Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men, Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again -- Homes of men! if homes had ever such a God-forgotten place, Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face. Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell, Heaven of the shanty-keeper -- fitting fiend for such a hell -- And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the "curlew's call" -- And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward thro' it all! I am back from up the country -- up the country where I went Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; I have left a lot of broken idols out along the track, Burnt a lot of fancy verses -- and I'm glad that I am back -- I believe the Southern poet's dream will not be realised Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised. I intend to stay at present -- as I said before -- in town Drinking beer and lemon-squashes -- taking baths and cooling down.

IN DEFENCE OF THE BUSH by Banjo Patterson So you're back from up the country, Mister Lawson, where you went, And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent; Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear That it wasn't cool and shady -- and there wasn't plenty beer, And the loony bullock snorted when you first came into view; Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you; And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown, And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town. Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went In a month or two at furthest you would wonder what it meant, Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain You would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain, And the miles of thirsty gutters blocked with sand and choked with mud, You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood; For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street, In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet; But the bush hath moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall, And the men who know the bush-land -- they are loyal through it all. You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the "push", For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush. But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight, Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers' huts at night? Did they "rise up, William Riley" by the camp-fire's cheery blaze? Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days? And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet -- Were their faces sour and saddened like the "faces in the street", And the "shy selector children" -- were they better now or worse Than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse? Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and square Where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare, Where the sempstress plies her sewing till her eyes are sore and red In a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread? Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush Than the roar of trams and 'buses, and the war-whoop of "the push"? Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange? Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range? But, perchance, the wild birds' music by your senses was despised, For you say you'll stay in townships till the bush is civilised. Would you make it a tea-garden and on Sundays have a band Where the "blokes" might take their "donahs", with a "public" close at hand? But the bush hath moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall, And the men who know the bush-land -- they are loyal through it all. You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the "push", For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush. The Bulletin, 23 July 1892 This poem was prompted by redaing Henry Lawson's poem "Borderland".

3 THE FACT OF THE MATTER BY EDWARD DYSON, 30 JULY 1892 I'M WONDERIN' WHY THOSE, FELLERS WHO GO BUILDIN' , CHIPPER, DITTIES 'BOUT THE ROSY TIMES OUT DROVIN', AN' THE DUST AN' DEATH OF CITIES DON'T SLING THE BLOOMIN' OFFICE, STRIKE SOME DROVER FOR A BILLET AND SOAK UP ALL THE GLORY THAT COMES HANDY WHILE THEY FILL IT. PRAPS IT'S FUN TO TRAVEL CATTLE OR, TO PICNIC, WITH MER, INOS, BUT THE DROVER DON'T CATCH ON SIR, NOT MUCH HIGHCLASS RAPTURE HE KNOWS AS FOR SLEEPIN' ON THE, PLAINS THERE IN THE, SHADDER, OF THE, SPEAR-GRASS THAT'S LIKED BEST BY THE JUGGINS, WITH A SPRING-BED AND A, PIER-GLASS AN THE CAMP FIRE AN THE, FREEDOM AND THE, BLANKY, CONSTE, LLATIONS THE POSSUM-RUG AN BILLY AN THE, TOGS AN STALE OLE, RATIONS ITS STRANGE THEY'RE ONLY, RAVED ABOUT BY, COVES THAT, DRESS UP, PRETTY AN SPORT A WIFE AN LIVE ON, SLAP-UP TUCKER IN THE, CITY I'VE TICKLED BEEF IN MY TIME, CLEAR FROM CLARKE TO RIVERINA AN' SHIFTED SHEEP ALL ROUND THE SHOP, BUT BLOW ME IF I'VE SEEN A SINGLE BLANKY HAND WHO DIDN'T BUCK, AT PLEASURES OF HIS KIDNEY AND WOULDN'T TRADE HIS BLISSES FOR, A FLUTTER DOWN IN SYDNEY NIGHT-WATCHES ARE, DELIGHTFUL, WHEN THE, STARS ARE, SPLENDID TO THE CHAP, WHO'S FRESH UPON THE JOB, BUT YOU BET HIS RAPTURE'S ENDED WHEN THE RAIN COMES DOWN IN, SLUICE-HEADS OR THE, CUTTIN HAILSTONES PELTER AN' THE SHEEP DRIFT OFF BEFORE THE WIND, AN' THE HORSES STRIKE FOR SHELTER DON'T TAKE ME FOR A HOWLER, BUT I FIND IT COME ANNOYIN' TO HEAR THESE FELLERS RAVE ABOUT, THE PLEASURES WE'RE ENJOYIN' WHEN P'R'APS WE'VE NOTHIN' BETTER, THAN SOME FLUKY WATER HANDY, AN' THEY'RE RIGHT ON ALL THE LICKERS, RUM AN' PLENTY BEER AN' BRANDY THE TOWN IS DUSTY, MAY BE BUT IT, ISN'T, WORTH THE, CURSES “SIDE THE DUST A FELLER SWOLLOWS, AN' THE BLINDED THIRST HE NURSES WHEN HE'S ON THE HARD, MACADAM WHERE, JUMBUCKS CANNOT, BROWSE AN' THE WIND IS IN HIS WHISKERS, AN' HE FOLLERS TWENTY, THOUSAN' THIS DROVIN' ON THE, PLAIN TOO IT'S ALL, OK , WHEN THE, WEATHER ISN'T HOT ENOUGH TO CURL THE SOLES, RIGHT OFF YOUR UPPER, LEATHER OR SO COLD THAT WHEN, THE MORNIN WIND COMES, HISSIN, THROUGH THE, GRASSES YOU CAN FEEL IT CUT YOUR EYELIDS, LIKE A WHIP-LASH AS IT PASSES THEN THERE'S BULL-ANTS IN THE BLANKETS, AN' A LAME HORSE AN' MUSKEETERS AN' A D.T. BOSS LIKE HALLIGAN, OR ONE LIKE HUMPY PETERS WHO IS MEAN ABOUT THE TUCKER, AN' CAN CURSE FROM START TO SUNDOWN AN' CAN FIGHT LIKE FIFTY DEVILS, AN' WHOSE GROWLER'S NEVER RUN DOWN YES I WONDER WHY THE, FELLERS WHAT GO, BUILDIN, CHIPPER, DITTIES 'BOUT THE ROSY TIMES OUT DROVIN, AN’ TH' DUST AN' DEATH OF, CITIES, DON'T SLING THE BLOOMIN', OFFICE STRIKE OLE, PETERS, FOR A, BILLET, AN' SOAK UP ALL THE GLORY, THAT COMES HANDY WHILE THEY FILL IT

IT WAS PLEASANT UP THE COUNTRY, MR. BANJO, WHERE YOU WENT, FOR YOU SOUGHT THE GREENER PATCHES AND YOU TRAVELLED LIKE A GENT., AND YOU CURSE THE TRAMS AND 'BUSSES AND THE TURMOIL AND THE "PUSH," THO' 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 IS DRY AND ALL IS 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 STRONGER CONTRAST TO THE FACES IN THE STREET; AND, IN SHORT, WE THINK THE BUSHMAN'S BEING DRIVEN TO THE WALL, BUT IT'S DOUBTFUL IF HIS SPIRIT WILL BE "LOYAL THRO' IT ALL." THO' 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 BRITSH 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 RUIN'D ON SELECTIONS IN THE SQUATTER-RIDDEN WEST -- DROVING SONGS ARE VERY PRETTY, BUT THEY MERIT LITTLE THANKS FROM THE PEOPLE OF COUNTRY WHICH IS RIDDEN BY 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 ITS 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 BUNNIES IN THE NIGHT," NOR IS HE 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 THRO' 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. FIRST PUBLISHED IN THE BULLETIN, 6 AUGUST 1892 BULLETIN DEBATE POEM #4 (THE SECOND PART OF THIS POEM WILL BE PUBLISHED NEXT WEEK.)

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 THRO' 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 -- FALLING SHE-OAKS 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 BETTER GIVE THE BUSH A REST ERE THEY RAISE A JUST REBELLION IN THE OVER-WRITTEN WEST? WHERE THE SIMPLE-MINDED BUSHMAN GET 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 THRO' 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, "MR. BANJO," 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, THO' 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 'BUSSES 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? WHAT CARE YOU IF FALLEN WOMEN "FLAUNT?" GOD HELP 'EM -- LET 'EM FLUANT, AND THE SEAMSTRESS SEEMS TO HAUNT YOU -- TO WHAT PURPOSE DOES SHE HAUNT? YOU'VE A DOWN ON "TRAMS AND BUSSES," OR THE "ROAR" OF 'EM, YOU SAID, AND THE "FILTHY, DIRTY ATTIC," WHERE YOU NEVER TOILED FOR BREAD. (AND ABOUT THAT SELF-SAME ATTIC, TELL US, BANJO, WHERE YOU'VE 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. P.S. -- 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'S US GO TOGETHER DROVING AND RETURNING, IF WE LIVE, TRY TO UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER WHILE WE LIQUOR UP THE "DIV."

I've read "The Banjo's" letter, and I'm glad he's found a better Billet than he had upon the station where I met him years ago; He was "slushy" then for Scotty, but the "bushland" sent him "dotty," So he "rose up, William Riley," and departed down below. He "rolled up" very gladly, for he had bush-fever badly When he left "the smoke" to wander "where the wattle-blossoms wave," But a course of "stag and brownie" seems to make the bush-struck towny Kinder weaken on the wattle and the bushman's lonely grave. Safe in town, he spins romances of the bush until one fancies That it's all top-boots and chorus, kegs of rum and "whips" of grass, And the sheep off camp go stringing when the "boss-in-charge" is singing, Whilst we "blow the cool tobacco-smoke and watch the white wreaths pass." Yet, I guess "The B." feels fitter in a b'iled shirt and "hard-hitter" Than he would "way down the Cooper" in a flannel smock and "moles," For the city cove has leisure to indulge in stocks of pleasure, But the drover's only pastime's cooking "What's this! on the coals." And the pub. hath friends to meet him, and between the acts they treat him While he's swapping "fairy twisters" with the "girls behind their bars," And he sees a vista splendid when the ballet is extended, And at night he's in his glory with the comic-op'ra stars. I am sitting, very weary, on a log before a dreary Little fire that's feebly hissing 'neath a heavy fall of rain, And the wind is cold and nipping, and I curse the ceaseless dripping As I slosh around for wood to start the embers up again. And, in place of beauty's greeting, I can hear the dismal bleating Of a ewe that's sneaking out among the marshes for her lamb; And for all the poet's skitin' that a new-chum takes delight in, The drover's share of pleasure isn't worth a tinker's d--n. Does he sneer at bricks and mortar when he's squatting in the water After riding fourteen hours beneath a sullen, weeping sky? Does he look aloft and thank it, as he spreads his sodden blanket? For the drover has no time to spare, he has no time to dry. If "The Banjo's" game to fill it, he is welcome to my billet; He can "take a turn at droving" -- wages three-and-six a-day -- And his throat'll get more gritty than mine will in the city Where with Mister Lawson's squashes I can wash the dust away. First published in The Bulletin, 20 August 1892 Bulletin debate poem #5 [Note: no-one knows the identity of "H.H.C.C." for sure, but one commentator believes it was Henry Lawson.]

I had written him a letter, which I had for want of better Knowledge given to a partner by the name of "Greenhide Jack" -- He was shearing when I met him, and I thought perhaps I'd let him Know that I was "stiff," and, maybe, he would send a trifle back. My request was not requited, for an answer came indited On a sheet of scented paper, in an ink of fancy blue; And the envelope, I fancy, had an "Esquire" to the Clancy, And it simply read, "I'm busy; but I'll see what I can do!" To the vision land I can go, and I often think of the "Banjo" -- Of the boy I used to shepherd in the not so long ago, He was not the bushman's kidney, and among the crowd of Sydney He'll be more at home than mooning on the dreary Overflow. He has clients now to fee him, and has friends to come and see him, He can ride from morn to evening in the padded hansom cars, And he sees the beauties blending where the throngs are never ending, And at night the wond'rous women in the everlasting bars. I am tired of reading prattle of the sweetly-lowing cattle Stringing out across the open with the bushmen riding free; I am sick at heart of roving up and down the country droving, And of alternating damper with the salt-junk and the tea. And from sleeping in the water on the droving trips I've caught a Lively dose of rheumatism in my back and in my knee, And in spite of verse it's certain that the sky's a leaky curtain -- It may suit the "Banjo" nicely, but it never suited me. And the bush is very pretty when you view it from the city, But it loses all its beauty when you face it "on the pad;" And the wildernesses haunt you, and the plains extended daunt you, Till at times you come to fancy life will drive you mad. But I somehow often fancy that I'd rather not be Clancy, That I'd like to be the "Banjo" where the people come and go When instead of framing curses I'd be writing charming verses -- Tho' I scarcely think he'd swap me, "Banjo, of the Overflow." First published in The Bulletin, 27 August 1892 Bulletin debate poem #6

WELL, I'VE WAITED MIGHTY PATIENT WHILE THEY ALL CAME ROLLING IN, MISTER LAWSON, MISTER DYSON, AND THE OTHERS OF THEIR KIN, WITH THEIR DREADFUL, DISMAL STORIES OF THE OVERLANDER'S CAMP, HOW HIS FIRE IS ALWAYS SMOKY, AND HIS BOOTS ARE ALWAYS DAMP; AND THEY PAINT IT SO TERRIFIC IT WOULD FILL ONE'S SOUL WITH GLOOM -- BUT YOU KNOW THEY'RE FOND OF WRITING ABOUT "CORPSES" AND "THE TOMB". SO, BEFORE THEY CURSE THE BUSHLAND, THEY SHOULD LET THEIR FANCY RANGE AND TAKE SOMETHING FOR THEIR LIVERS, AND BE CHEERFUL FOR A CHANGE. NOW, FOR INSTANCE, MR LAWSON -- WELL, OF COURSE, WE ALMOST CRIED AT THE SORROWFUL DESCRIPTION HOW HIS "LITTLE 'ARVIE" DIED, AND WE LACHRYMOSED IN SILENCE WHEN "HIS FATHER'S MATE" WAS SLAIN; THEN HE WENT AND KILLED THE FATHER, AND WE HAD TO WEEP AGAIN. BEN DUGGAN AND JACK DENVER, TOO, HE CAUSED THEM TO EXPIRE, AFTER WHICH HE COOKED THE GANDER OF JACK DUNN, OF NEVERTIRE; AND, NO DOUBT, THE BUSH IS WRETCHED IF YOU JUDGE IT BY THE GROAN OF THE SAD AND SOULFUL POET WITH A GRAVEYARD OF HIS OWN. AND HE SPOKE IN TERMS PROPHETIC OF A REVOLUTION'S HEAT, WHEN THE WORLD SHOULD HEAR THE CLAMOUR OF THOSE PEOPLE IN THE STREET BUT THE SHEARER CHAPS WHO START IT -- WHY, HE ROUNDS ON THEM THE BLAME AND HE CALLS 'EM "AGITATORS WHO ARE LIVING ON THE GAME" BUR I "OVER-WRITE" THE BUSHMEN! WELL, I OWN WITHOUT A DOUBT THAT I ALWAYS SEE THE HERO IN THE "MAN FROM FURTHEST OUT". I COULD NEVER CONTEMPLATE HIM THROUGH AN ATMOSPHERE OF GLOOM, AND A BUSHMAN NEVER STRUCK ME AS A SUBJECT FOR "THE TOMB". IF IT AIN'T ALL "GOLDEN SUNSHINE" WHERE THE "WATTLE BRANCHES WAVE", WELL, IT AIN'T ALL DAMP AND DISMAL, AND IT AIN'T ALL "LONELY GRAVE". AND, OF COURSE, THERE'S NO DENYING THAT THE BUSHMAN'S LIFE IS ROUGH, BUT A MAN CAN EASY STAND IT IF HE'S BUILT OF STERLING STUFF; THOUGH IT'S SELDOM THAT THE DROVER GETS A BED OF EIDERDOWN, YET THE MAN WHO'S BORN A BUSHMAN, HE GETS MIGHTY SICK OF TOWN, FOR HE'S JOTTING DOWN THE FIGURES, AND HE'S ADDING UP THE BILLS WHILE HIS HEART IS SIMPLY ACHING FOR A SIGHT OF SOUTHERN HILLS. THEN HE HEARS A WOOL-TEAM PASSING WITH A RUMBLE AND A LURCH, AND, ALTHOUGH THE WORK IS PRESSING, YET IT BRINGS HIM OFF HIS PERCH, FOR IT STIRS HIM LIKE A MESSAGE FROM HIS STATION FRIENDS AFAR AND HE SEEMS TO SNIFF THE RANGES IN THE SCENT OF WOOL AND TAR; AND IT TAKES HIM BACK IN FANCY, HALF IN LAUGHTER, HALF IN TEARS, TO A SOUND OF OTHER VOICES AND A THOUGHT OF OTHER YEARS, WHEN THE WOOLSHED RANG WITH BUSTLE FROM THE DAWNING OF THE DAY, AND THE SHEAR-BLADES WERE A-CLICKING TO THE CRY OF "WOOL AWAY!" THEN HIS FACE WAS SOMEWHAT BROWNER, AND HIS FRAME WAS FIRMER SET -- AND HE FEELS HIS FLABBY MUSCLES WITH A FEELING OF REGRET. BUT THE WOOL-TEAM SLOWLY PASSES, AND HIS EYES GO SLOWLY BACK TO THE DUSTY LITTLE TABLE AND THE PAPERS IN THE RACK, AND HIS THOUGHTS GO TO THE TERRACE WHERE HIS SICKLY CHILDREN SQUALL, AND HE THINKS THERE'S SOMETHING HEALTHY IN THE BUSH-LIFE AFTER ALL. BUT WE'LL GO NO MORE A-DROVING IN THE WIND OR IN THE SUN, FOR OUT FATHERS' HEARTS HAVE FAILED US, AND THE DROVING DAYS ARE DONE. THERE'S A NASTY DASH OF DANGER WHERE THE LONG-HORNED BULLOCK WHEELS AND WE LIKE TO LIVE IN COMFORT AND TO GET OUR REG'LAR MEALS. FOR TO HANG AROUND THE TOWNSHIP SUITS US BETTER, YOU'LL AGREE, AND A JOB AT WASHING BOTTLES IS THE JOB FOR SUCH AS WE. LET US HERD INTO THE CITIES, LET US CRUSH AND CROWD AND PUSH TILL WE LOSE THE LOVE OF ROVING, AND WE LEARN TO HATE THE BUSH; AND WE'LL TURN OUR ASPIRATIONS TO A CITY LIFE AND BEER, AND WE'LL SLIP ACROSS TO ENGLAND -- IT'S A NICER PLACE THAN HERE; FOR THERE'S NOT MUCH RISK OF HARDSHIP WHERE ALL COMFORTS ARE IN STORE AND THE THEATRES ARE IN PLENTY, AND THE PUBS ARE MORE AND MORE. BUT THAT ENDS IT, MR LAWSON, AND IT'S TIME TO SAY GOOD-BYE, SO WE MUST AGREE TO DIFFER IN ALL FRIENDSHIP, YOU AND I. YES, WE'LL WORK OUR OWN SALVATION WITH THE STOUTEST HEARTS WE MAY, AND IF FORTUNE ONLY FAVOURS WE WILL TAKE THE ROAD SOME DAY, AND GO DROVING DOWN THE RIVER 'NEATH THE SUNSHINE AND THE STARS, AND THEN RETURN TO SYDNEY AND VERMILIONIZE THE BARS.

THE WORLD HAS HAD ENOUGH OF BARDS WHO WISH THAT THEY WERE DEAD TIS TIME, THE PEOPLE PASSED A LAW TO KNOCK 'EM ON THE HEAD, FOR 'TWOULD BE LOVELY IF THEIR FRIENDS COULD GRANT THE REST THEY CRAVE THOSE BARDS OF "TEARS" AND "VANISHED HOPES," THOSE POETS OF THE GRAVE THEY SAY THAT LIFE'S AN AWFUL THING AND FULL OF CARE AND GLOOM, THEY TALK OF PEACE AND RESTFULNESS CONNECTED WITH THE TOMB. THEY SAY THAT MAN IS MADE OF DIRT, AND DIE, OF COURSE, HE MUST; BUT, ALL THE SAME, A MAN IS MADE OF PRETTY SOLID DUST, THERE IS A THING THAT THEY FORGET, SO LET IT HERE BE WRIT, THAT SOME ARE MADE OF COMMON MUD, AND SOME ARE MADE OF GRIT; SOME TRY TO HELP THE WORLD ALONG WHILE OTHERS FRET AND FUME AND WISH THAT THEY WERE SLUMBERING IS THE SILENCE OF THE TOMB. 'TWIXT MOTHER'S ARMS AND COFFIN-GEAR A MAN HAS WORK TO DO! AND IF HE DOES HIS VERY BEST HE MOSTLY WORRIES THROUGH, AND WHILE THERE IS A WRONG TO RIGHT, AND WHILE THE WORLD GOES ROUND, AN HONEST MAN ALIVE IS WORTH A MILLION UNDER GROUND, AND YET, AS LONG AS SHEOAKS SIGH AND WATTLE-BLOSSOMS BLOOM, THE WORLD SHALL HEAR THE DRIVEL OF THE POETS OF THE TOMB. AND THOUGH THE GRAVEYARD POETS LONG TO VANISH FROM THE SCENE, I NOTICE THAT THEY MOSTLY WISH THEIR RESTING-PLACE KEPT GREEN. NOW, WERE I ROTTING UNDERGROUND, I DO NOT THINK I'D CARE IF WOMBATS ROOTED ON THE GROUND OR IF THE COWS CAMPED THERE; AND SHOULD I HAVE SOME FEELINGS LEFT WHEN I HAVE GONE BEFORE, I THINK A TON OF SOLID STONE WOULD HURT MY FEELINGS MORE. SUCH WORMY SONGS OF MOULDY JOYS CAN GIVE ME NO DELIGHT; I'LL TAKE MY CHANCES WITH THE WORLD, I'D RATHER LIVE AND FIGHT. THO' "FORTUNE" LAUGHS ALONG MY TRACK, OR WEARS HER BLACKEST FROWN, I'LL TRY TO DO THE WORLD SOME GOOD BEFORE I TUMBLE DOWN. LET'S FIGHT FOR THINGS THAT OUGHT TO BE AND TRY TO MAKE 'EM BOOM; WE CANNOT HELP MANKIND WHEN WE ARE ASHES IN THE TOMB.

A VOICE FROM THE TOWN -Banjo Patterson I thought, in the days of the droving, Of steps I might hope to retrace, To be done with the bush and the roving And settle once more in my place. With a heart that was well nigh to breaking, In the long, lonely rides on the plain, I thought of the pleasure of taking The hand of a lady again. I am back into civilization, Once more in the stir and the strife, But the old joys have lost their sensation, The light has gone out of my life; The men of my time they have married, Made fortunes or gone to the wall; Too long from the scene I have tarried, And somehow, I'm out of it all. For I go to the balls and the races A lonely companionless elf, And the ladies bestow all their graces On others less grey than myself; While the talk goes around I'm a dumb one 'Midst youngsters that chatter and prate, And they call me "The Man who was Someone Way back in the year Sixty-eight." And I look, sour and old, at the dancers That swing to the strains of the band, And the ladies all give me the Lancers, No waltzes, I quite understand. For matrons intent upon matching Their daughters with infinite push, Would scarce think him worthy the catching, The broken-down man from the bush. New partners have come and new faces, And I, of the bygone brigade, Sharply feel that oblivion my place is, I must lie with the rest in the shade. And the youngsters, fresh-featured and pleasant, They live as we lived, fairly fast; But I doubt if the men of the present Are as good as the men of the past. Of excitement and praise they are chary, There is nothing much good upon earth; Their watchword is nil admirari, They are bored from the days of their birth. Where the life that we led was a revel They "wince and relent and refrain", I could show them the road, to the devil, Were I only a youngster again. I could show them the road where the stumps are, The pleasures that end in remorse, And the game where the Devil's three trumps are The woman, the card, and the horse. Shall the blind lead the blind, shall the sower Of wind read the storm as of yore? Though they get to their goal somewhat slower, They march where we hurried before. For the world never learns, just as we did They gallantly go to their fate, Unheeded all warnings, unheeded The maxims of elders sedate. As the husbandman, patiently toiling, Draws a harvest each year from the soil, So the fools grow afresh for the spoiling, And a new crop of thieves for the spoil. But a truce to this dull moralizing, Let them drink while the drops are of gold. I have tasted the dregs, 'twere surprising Were the new wine to me like the old; And I weary for lack of employment In idleness day after day, For the key to the door of enjoyment Is Youth, and I've thrown it away.

THE SWAGMAN’S REST – Banjo Patterson We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave At the foot of the Eaglehawk; We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave For fear that his ghost might walk; We carved his name on a bloodwood tree With the date of his sad decease And in place of "Died from effects of spree" We wrote "May he rest in peace". For Bob was known on the Overland, A regular old bush wag, Tramping along in the dust and sand, Humping his well-worn swag. He would camp for days in the river-bed, And loiter and "fish for whales". "I'm into the swagman's yard," he said. "And I never shall find the rails." But he found the rails on that summer night For a better place -- or worse, As we watched by turns in the flickering light With an old black gin for nurse. The breeze came in with the scent of pine, The river sounded clear, When a change came on, and we saw the sign That told us the end was near. He spoke in a cultured voice and low -- "I fancy they've 'sent the route'; I once was an army man, you know, Though now I'm a drunken brute; But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave, And, if ever you're fairly stuck, Just take and shovel me out of the grave And, maybe, I'll bring you luck. "For I've always heard --" here his voice grew weak, His strength was wellnigh sped, He gasped and struggled and tried to speak, Then fell in a moment -- dead. Thus ended a wasted life and hard, Of energies misapplied -- Old Bob was out of the "swagman's yard" And over the Great Divide. The drought came down on the field and flock, And never a raindrop fell, Though the tortured moans of the starving stock Might soften a fiend from hell. And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave When he went to the Great Unseen -- We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave To see what his hint might mean. We dug where the cross and the grave posts were, We shovelled away the mould, When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare All gleaming with yellow gold. 'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk That ran from the range's crest, And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk Is known as "The Swagman's Rest".