YOU are at least a Man, of men a… You have a heart, and with that he… The race you come from is not gend… The filthy sty whose latest litter… Round England’s flesh-pots, gorge…

(For the Irish Delegates in Aust… DO you want to hear a story, With a nobler praise than ‘glory,’ Of a man who loved the right like… hell?

UP from the oven pit, The hell where poor men toil, At the sunset hour he comes Clean-clothed, washed from soil. On the fo’c’s’le head he kneels,

YOU tell me these great lords hav… I say they have degraded it. Look… When ever did they let the Poet s… The Painter paint, the Sculptor h… The Music raise her heavenly voic…

THRO’ the mists of years, Thro’ the lies of men, Your bloody sweat and tears, Your desperate hopes and fears Reach us once again,

SHRIEKS out of smoke, a flame o… That is not quenched but hath for… What writhes and dies not in its r… Two things made flesh, the visible… To match in filth the skunk, the a…

‘HE holds a pistol to my head, Swearing he will shoot me dead, If he have not my purse instead, The robber!’ ‘He, with the lash of wealth and p…

To a Workman, a would-be Suicide MAN of despair and death, Bought and slaved in the gangs, Starved and stripped and left To the pitiful, pitiless night,

LET him who toils, enjoy Fruit of his toiling. Let him whom sweats annoy, No more be spoiling. For we would have it be

‘Susannah and Mary-Jane’ TWO little Darlings alone, Clinging hand in hand; Two little Girls come out To see the wonderful land!

He sits. Upon the kingly head dot… The round-balled wimple, and the h… Touch on the shoulders where the s… The downward garment shows the amb… The Face—that Face one scarce can…

THE stars shone faint through the… The church-bells were ringing; Three girls, arms laced, were pass… Tramping and singing. Their heads were bare: their short…

To Mary Robinson ‘WHAT, are you lost, you pretty… This is no place for such sweet th… Our bodies, rank with sweat, will… And, you’ll observe, our lives are…

(The friend my verse won for me) With a Copy of My 'Poetical Work… ‘TAKE with all my heart, friend,… The labour of my past, Though the heart here hidden is

(Melbourne) HERE to the parks they come, The scourings of the town, Like weary wounded animals Seeking where to lie them down.