Henry Lawson

But What’s the Use

But what’s the use of writing ‘bush’—
      Though editors demand it—
For city folk, and farming folk,
      Can never understand it.
They’re blind to what the bushman sees
      The best with eyes shut tightest,
Out where the sun is hottest and
      The stars are most and brightest.
 
The crows at sunrise flopping round
      Where some poor life has run down;
The pair of emus trotting from
      The lonely tank at sundown,
Their snaky heads well up, and eyes
      Well out for man’s manoeuvres,
And feathers bobbing round behind
      Like fringes round improvers.
 
The swagman tramping 'cross the plain;
      Good Lord, there’s nothing sadder,
Except the dog that slopes behind
      His master like a shadder;
The turkey-tail to scare the flies,
      The water-bag and billy;
The nose-bag getting cruel light,
      The traveller getting silly.
 
The plain that seems to Jackaroos
      Like gently sloping rises,
The shrubs and tufts that’s miles away
      But magnified in sizes;
The track that seems arisen up
      Or else seems gently slopin’,
And just a hint of kangaroos
      Way out across the open.
 
The joy and hope the swagman feels
      Returning, after shearing,
Or after six months’ tramp Out Back,
      He strikes the final clearing.
His weary spirit breathes again,
      His aching legs seem limber
When to the East across the plain
      He spots the Darling Timber!
 
But what’s the use of writing ‘bush’—
      Though editors demand it—
For city folk and cockatoos,
      They do not understand it.
They’re blind to what the whaler sees
      The best with eyes shut tightest,
Out where Australia’s widest, and
      The stars are most and brightest.
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