Chapter 1

Produced by A. Light and L. Bowser

IN THE DAYS WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND OTHER VERSES

(2 ed.)

by Henry Lawson

[Australian house-painter, author and poet -- 1867-1922.]

[Note on text: Italicized stanzas will be indented 5 spaces. Italicized stanzas that are ALREADY indented will be indented 10 spaces. Italicized words and phrases have been capitalized. Lines longer than 75 characters have been broken according to metre, and the continuation is indented two spaces. Also, some obvious errors, after being confirmed against other sources, have been corrected. This etext was prepared from a 1913 printing.]

[Note on content: Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson were writing for the Sydney 'Bulletin' in 1892 when Lawson suggested a 'duel' of poetry to increase the number of poems they could sell to the paper. It was apparently entered into in all fun, though there are reports that Lawson was bitter about it later. 'Up the Country' and 'The City Bushman', included in this selection, were two of Lawson's contributions to the debate. Please note that this is the revised edition of 1900. Therefore, even though this book was originally published in 1896, it includes two poems not published until 1899 ('The Sliprails and the Spur' and 'Past Carin'').]

First Edition printed February 1896,

Reprinted August 1896, October 1896, March 1898, and November 1898;

Revised Edition, January 1900;

Reprinted May 1903, February 1910, June 1912, and July 1913.

PREFACE

Most of the verses contained in this volume were first published in the Sydney 'Bulletin'; others in the Brisbane 'Boomerang', Sydney 'Freeman's Journal', 'Town and Country Journal', 'Worker', and 'New Zealand Mail', whose editors and proprietors I desire to thank for past kindnesses and for present courtesy in granting me the right of reproduction in book form.

'In the Days When the World was Wide' was written in Maoriland and some of the other verses in Victoria, Queensland and Western Australia.

The dates of original publication are given in the Table of Contents. Those undated are now printed for the first time.

HENRY LAWSON.

To J. F. Archibald

To an Old Mate

Old Mate! In the gusty old weather, When our hopes and our troubles were new, In the years spent in wearing out leather, I found you unselfish and true -- I have gathered these verses together For the sake of our friendship and you.

You may think for awhile, and with reason, Though still with a kindly regret, That I've left it full late in the season To prove I remember you yet; But you'll never judge me by their treason Who profit by friends -- and forget.

I remember, Old Man, I remember -- The tracks that we followed are clear -- The jovial last nights of December, The solemn first days of the year, Long tramps through the clearings and timber, Short partings on platform and pier.

I can still feel the spirit that bore us, And often the old stars will shine -- I remember the last spree in chorus For the sake of that other Lang Syne, When the tracks lay divided before us, Your path through the future and mine.

Through the frost-wind that cut like whip-lashes, Through the ever-blind haze of the drought -- And in fancy at times by the flashes Of light in the darkness of doubt -- I have followed the tent poles and ashes Of camps that we moved further out.

You will find in these pages a trace of That side of our past which was bright, And recognise sometimes the face of A friend who has dropped out of sight -- I send them along in the place of The letters I promised to write.

CONTENTS WITH FIRST LINES:

To an Old Mate Old Mate! In the gusty old weather,

In the Days When the World was Wide The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow, [Dec. -- 1894]

Faces in the Street They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone [July -- 1888]

The Roaring Days The night too quickly passes [Dec. -- 1889]

'For'ard' It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep, [Dec. -- 1893]

The Drover's Sweetheart An hour before the sun goes down [June -- 1891]

Out Back The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought, [Sept. -- 1893]

The Free-Selector's Daughter I met her on the Lachlan Side -- [May -- 1891]

'Sez You' When the heavy sand is yielding backward from your blistered feet, [Mar. -- 1894]

Andy's Gone With Cattle Our Andy's gone to battle now [Oct. -- 1888]

Jack Dunn of Nevertire It chanced upon the very day we'd got the shearing done, [Aug. -- 1892]

Trooper Campbell One day old Trooper Campbell [Apr. -- 1891]

The Sliprails and the Spur The colours of the setting sun [July -- 1899]

Past Carin' Now up and down the siding brown [Aug. -- 1899]

The Glass on the Bar Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn, [Apr. -- 1890]

The Shanty on the Rise When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West, [Dec. -- 1891]

The Vagabond White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier [Aug. -- 1895]

Sweeney It was somewhere in September, and the sun was going down, [Dec. -- 1893]

Middleton's Rouseabout Tall and freckled and sandy, [Mar. -- 1890]

The Ballad of the Drover Across the stony ridges, [Mar. -- 1889]

Taking His Chance They stood by the door of the Inn on the Rise; [June -- 1892]

When the 'Army' Prays for Watty When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star, [May -- 1893]

The Wreck of the 'Derry Castle' Day of ending for beginnings! [Dec. -- 1887]

Ben Duggan Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began, [Dec. -- 1891]

The Star of Australasia We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a nation's slime;

The Great Grey Plain Out West, where the stars are brightest, [Sept. -- 1893]

The Song of Old Joe Swallow When I was up the country in the rough and early days, [May -- 1890]

Corny Bill His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth, [May -- 1892]

Cherry-Tree Inn The rafters are open to sun, moon, and star,

Up the Country I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went -- [July -- 1892]

Knocked Up I'm lyin' on the barren ground that's baked and cracked with drought, [Aug. -- 1893]

The Blue Mountains Above the ashes straight and tall, [Dec. -- 1888]

The City Bushman It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went, [Aug. -- 1892]

Eurunderee There are scenes in the distance where beauty is not, [Aug. -- 1891]

Mount Bukaroo Only one old post is standing -- [Dec. -- 1889]

The Fire at Ross's Farm The squatter saw his pastures wide [Apr. -- 1891]

The Teams A cloud of dust on the long white road, [Dec. -- 1889]

Cameron's Heart The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came, [July -- 1891]

The Shame of Going Back When you've come to make a fortune and you haven't made your salt, [Oct. -- 1891]

Since Then I met Jack Ellis in town to-day -- [Nov. -- 1895]

Peter Anderson and Co. He had offices in Sydney, not so many years ago, [Aug. -- 1895]

When the Children Come Home On a lonely selection far out in the West [Dec. -- 1890]

Dan, the Wreck Tall, and stout, and solid-looking,

A Prouder Man Than You If you fancy that your people came of better stock than mine, [June -- 1892]

The Song and the Sigh The creek went down with a broken song, [Mar. -- 1889]

The Cambaroora Star So you're writing for a paper? Well, it's nothing very new [Dec. -- 1891]

After All The brooding ghosts of Australian night have gone from the bush and town;

Marshall's Mate You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves turn -- [July -- 1895]

The Poets of the Tomb The world has had enough of bards who wish that they were dead, [Oct. -- 1892]

Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse [Feb. -- 1894]

The Ghost Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide, [Aug. -- 1889]

IN THE DAYS WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND OTHER VERSES

In the Days When the World was Wide

The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow, For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go; Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side -- And tired of all is the spirit that sings of the days when the world was wide.

When the North was hale in the march of Time, and the South and the West were new, And the gorgeous East was a pantomime, as it seemed in our boyhood's view; When Spain was first on the waves of change, and proud in the ranks of pride, And all was wonderful, new and strange in the days when the world was wide.

Then a man could fight if his heart were bold, and win if his faith were true -- Were it love, or honour, or power, or gold, or all that our hearts pursue; Could live to the world for the family name, or die for the family pride, Could fly from sorrow, and wrong, and shame in the days when the world was wide.

They sailed away in the ships that sailed ere science controlled the main, When the strong, brave heart of a man prevailed as 'twill never prevail again; They knew not whither, nor much they cared -- let Fate or the winds decide -- The worst of the Great Unknown they dared in the days when the world was wide.

They raised new stars on the silent sea that filled their hearts with awe; They came to many a strange countree and marvellous sights they saw. The villagers gaped at the tales they told, and old eyes glistened with pride -- When barbarous cities were paved with gold in the days when the world was wide.

'Twas honest metal and honest wood, in the days of the Outward Bound, When men were gallant and ships were good -- roaming the wide world round. The gods could envy a leader then when 'Follow me, lads!' he cried -- They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the world was wide.

They tried to live as a freeman should -- they were happier men than we, In the glorious days of wine and blood, when Liberty crossed the sea; 'Twas a comrade true or a foeman then, and a trusty sword well tried -- They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the world was wide.

The good ship bound for the Southern seas when the beacon was Ballarat, With a 'Ship ahoy!' on the freshening breeze, 'Where bound?' and 'What ship's that?' -- The emigrant train to New Mexico -- the rush to the Lachlan Side -- Ah! faint is the echo of Westward Ho! from the days when the world was wide.

South, East, and West in advance of Time -- and, ay! in advance of Thought Those brave men rose to a height sublime -- and is it for this they fought? And is it for this damned life we praise the god-like spirit that died At Eureka Stockade in the Roaring Days with the days when the world was wide?

We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts we guard; Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch, the sneer of a sneak hits hard; The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the weapons of curs, decide -- They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the world was wide.

Think of it all -- of the life that is! Study your friends and foes! Study the past! And answer this: 'Are these times better than those?' The life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your poisoned pride! No matter who fell it were better to fight as they did when the world was wide.

Boast as you will of your mateship now -- crippled and mean and sly -- The lines of suspicion on friendship's brow were traced since the days gone by. There was room in the long, free lines of the van to fight for it side by side -- There was beating-room for the heart of a man in the days when the world was wide.

. . . . .

With its dull, brown days of a-shilling-an-hour the dreary year drags round: Is this the result of Old England's power? -- the bourne of the Outward Bound? Is this the sequel of Westward Ho! -- of the days of Whate'er Betide? The heart of the rebel makes answer 'No! We'll fight till the world grows wide!'

The world shall yet be a wider world -- for the tokens are manifest; East and North shall the wrongs be hurled that followed us South and West. The march of Freedom is North by the Dawn! Follow, whate'er betide! Sons of the Exiles, march! March on! March till the world grows wide!

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 are drifting through the street -- Drifting on, drifting on, To the scrape of restless feet; I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by, Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet, Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street -- Flowing in, flowing in, To the beat of hurried feet -- Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight, Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late; But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street -- Grinding body, grinding soul, Yielding scarce enough to eat -- Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town, Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street, Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat -- Drifting round, drifting round, To the tread of listless feet -- Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street.

And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away, And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day, Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat, Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street -- Ebbing out, ebbing out, To the drag of tired feet, While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street.

And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end, For while the short 'large hours' toward the longer 'small hours' trend, With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat, Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street -- Sinking down, sinking down, Battered wreck by tempests beat -- A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.

But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes, For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums, Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet, And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street -- Rotting out, rotting out, For the lack of air and meat -- In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street.

I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor? Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat, When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street, The wrong things and the bad things And the sad things that we meet In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.

I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still, And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill; But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet, They haunted me -- the shadows of those faces in the street, Flitting by, flitting by, Flitting by with noiseless feet, And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street.

Once I cried: 'Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure, Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.' And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city's street, And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet, Coming near, coming near, To a drum's dull distant beat, And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street.

Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall, The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all, And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat, And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street. Pouring on, pouring on, To a drum's loud threatening beat, And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.

And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course, The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse, But not until a city feels Red Revolution's feet Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street -- The dreadful everlasting strife For scarcely clothes and meat In that pent track of living death -- the city's cruel street.

The Roaring Days

The night too quickly passes And we are growing old, So let us fill our glasses And toast the Days of Gold; When finds of wondrous treasure Set all the South ablaze, And you and I were faithful mates All through the roaring days!

Then stately ships came sailing From every harbour's mouth, And sought the land of promise That beaconed in the South; Then southward streamed their streamers And swelled their canvas full To speed the wildest dreamers E'er borne in vessel's hull.

Their shining Eldorado, Beneath the southern skies, Was day and night for ever Before their eager eyes. The brooding bush, awakened, Was stirred in wild unrest, And all the year a human stream Went pouring to the West.

The rough bush roads re-echoed The bar-room's noisy din, When troops of stalwart horsemen Dismounted at the inn. And oft the hearty greetings And hearty clasp of hands Would tell of sudden meetings Of friends from other lands; When, puzzled long, the new-chum Would recognise at last, Behind a bronzed and bearded skin, A comrade of the past.

And when the cheery camp-fire Explored the bush with gleams, The camping-grounds were crowded With caravans of teams; Then home the jests were driven, And good old songs were sung, And choruses were given The strength of heart and lung. Oh, they were lion-hearted Who gave our country birth! Oh, they were of the stoutest sons From all the lands on earth!

Oft when the camps were dreaming, And fires began to pale, Through rugged ranges gleaming Would come the Royal Mail. Behind six foaming horses, And lit by flashing lamps, Old 'Cobb and Co.'s', in royal state, Went dashing past the camps.

Oh, who would paint a goldfield, And limn the picture right, As we have often seen it In early morning's light; The yellow mounds of mullock With spots of red and white, The scattered quartz that glistened Like diamonds in light; The azure line of ridges, The bush of darkest green, The little homes of calico That dotted all the scene.

I hear the fall of timber From distant flats and fells, The pealing of the anvils As clear as little bells, The rattle of the cradle, The clack of windlass-boles, The flutter of the crimson flags Above the golden holes.

. . . . .

Ah, then our hearts were bolder, And if Dame Fortune frowned Our swags we'd lightly shoulder And tramp to other ground. But golden days are vanished, And altered is the scene; The diggings are deserted, The camping-grounds are green; The flaunting flag of progress Is in the West unfurled, The mighty bush with iron rails Is tethered to the world.

'For'ard'

It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep, For there's near a hundred for'ard, and they're stowed away like sheep, -- They are trav'lers for the most part in a straight 'n' honest path; But their linen's rather scanty, an' there isn't any bath -- Stowed away like ewes and wethers that is shore 'n' marked 'n' draft. But the shearers of the shearers always seem to travel aft; In the cushioned cabins, aft, With saloons 'n' smoke-rooms, aft -- There is sheets 'n' best of tucker for the first-salooners, aft.

Our beef is just like scrapin's from the inside of a hide, And the spuds were pulled too early, for they're mostly green inside; But from somewhere back amidships there's a smell o' cookin' waft, An' I'd give my earthly prospects for a real good tuck-out aft -- Ham an' eggs 'n' coffee, aft, Say, cold fowl for luncheon, aft, Juicy grills an' toast 'n' cutlets -- tucker a-lor-frongsy, aft.

They feed our women sep'rate, an' they make a blessed fuss, Just as if they couldn't trust 'em for to eat along with us! Just because our hands are horny an' our hearts are rough with graft -- But the gentlemen and ladies always DINE together, aft -- With their ferns an' mirrors, aft, With their flow'rs an' napkins, aft -- 'I'll assist you to an orange' -- 'Kindly pass the sugar', aft.

We are shabby, rough, 'n' dirty, an' our feelin's out of tune, An' it's hard on fellers for'ard that was used to go saloon; There's a broken swell among us -- he is barracked, he is chaffed, An' I wish at times, poor devil, for his own sake he was aft; For they'd understand him, aft, (He will miss the bath-rooms aft), Spite of all there's no denyin' that there's finer feelin's aft.

Last night we watched the moonlight as it spread across the sea -- 'It is hard to make a livin',' said the broken swell to me. 'There is ups an' downs,' I answered, an' a bitter laugh he laughed -- There were brighter days an' better when he always travelled aft -- With his rug an' gladstone, aft, With his cap an' spyglass, aft -- A careless, rovin', gay young spark as always travelled aft.

There's a notice by the gangway, an' it seems to come amiss, For it says that second-classers 'ain't allowed abaft o' this'; An' there ought to be a notice for the fellows from abaft -- But the smell an' dirt's a warnin' to the first-salooners, aft; With their tooth and nail-brush, aft, With their cuffs 'n' collars, aft -- Their cigars an' books an' papers, an' their cap-peaks fore-'n'-aft.

I want to breathe the mornin' breeze that blows against the boat, For there's a swellin' in my heart -- a tightness in my throat -- We are for'ard when there's trouble! We are for'ard when there's graft! But the men who never battle always seem to travel aft; With their dressin'-cases, aft, With their swell pyjamas, aft -- Yes! the idle and the careless, they have ease an' comfort, aft.

I feel so low an' wretched, as I mooch about the deck, That I'm ripe for jumpin' over -- an' I wish there was a wreck! We are driven to New Zealand to be shot out over there -- Scarce a shillin' in our pockets, nor a decent rag to wear, With the everlastin' worry lest we don't get into graft -- There is little left to land for if you cannot travel aft; No anxiety abaft, They have stuff to land with, aft -- Oh, there's little left to land for if you cannot travel aft;