#Australians
Drums of all that’s right and wron… And the new-born baby hears them a… Drums of all that is to be, and al… And we hear them when we’re dreami… Drums of martyred innocence and dr…
Somewhere in the mystic future, on… There’s a very pleasant country th… It has inland towns, and cities by… But the people of the country diff… It is many leagues beyond us, and…
When God’s wrath-cloud is o’er me… Affrighting heart and mind; When days seem dark before me, And days seem black behind; Those friends who think they know…
So you’re writing for a paper? W… To be writing yards of drivel for… You are young and educated, and a… But you’ll never run a paper like… Though in point of education I am…
So the world of odds and evens cea… and the niggard road no longer ech… For another bushman found him with… And the shadows were upon him, and… And it told the stray Camboonian…
WE must admit that the Centennial celebrations in Sydney were not wholly useless. The glorious occasion called forth from every daily, weekly and monthly periodical, every advertising m...
I only woke this morning To find the world is fair— I’m going on for forty, With scarcely one grey hair; I’m going on for forty,
I would never waste the hours Of the time that is mine own, Writing verses about flowers For their own sweet sakes alone; Gushing as a schoolgirl gushes
Fire lighted; on the table a meal… A lantern in the stable; a jingle… The mail-coach looming darkly by l… The growl of sleepy voices; a cand… A stumble in the passage of folk w…
Long Bill, the captain of the pus… And wished to change his life and… ’Twas rumour’d that the Gory B.'s… That he would turn respectable and… He craved the kiss of innocence; h…
All is well—in a prison—to-night,… I must speak, for the sake of my h… For what does it matter to me if t… I’m as free as I ever shall be—th… I am free! I am haunted no more b…
They lifted her out of a story Too sordid and selfish by far, They left me the innocent glory Of love that was pure as a star; They left me all guiltless of “evi…
They say that I never have writte… As a writer of songs should do; They say that I never could touch… With a touch that is firm and true… They say I know nothing of women…
Oh, do you hear the argument, far… The voice of old Saint Peter, in… Growing shrill, and ever shriller,… More in sorrow than in anger, like… Old Saint Peter’s had his trouble…
From Crow’s Nest here by Sydney… Where crows had nests of old I see the Range where day goes do… The dim blue in the gold. And sometimes wonder, half in doub…