On western plain and eastern hill Where once my fancy ranged, The station hands are riding still And they are little changed. But I have lost in London gloom

An hour before the sun goes down Behind the ragged boughs, I go across the little run And bring the dusty cows; And once I used to sit and rest

I may walk until I’m fainting, I… I might drink until my back teeth… But I can’t forget my ruin and th… When I wore a pink carnation in m… Oh, I thought that time could con…

Who Was Found Dead Near This Tr… (Don’t Cut Down this Tree, for a… Oh, the wild black swans fly westw… While the sun goes down in glory— And away o’er lonely plain and hil…

This poem is from a short story by Henry Lawson, “Jack Cornstalk”, the first section written especially for the story, with the other sections (interspersed within the rest of the story...

(According to Commissioner Hay, Chief Officer of the Salvation Army in Australia, who has just returned from Europe, there are already about 20,000 Salvationists at the Front, and more ...

Let bushmen think as bushmen will, And say whate’er they choose, I hate to hear the stupid sneer At New Chum Jackaroos. He may not ride as you can ride,

I was welcome in a palace when the… I was petted in a garden and my tr… But for me above the alleys there… Where the third-rate public houses… Where the third-rate public houses

Bill and Jim are mates no longer—… Those two bushmen hate each other… Yet erstwhile they were as brother… Ne’er were mates to one another ha… Bill was one of those who have to…

When Charley sang of Polan’s Dea… ‘Twould stir your heart and soul a… you’d grip your seat and hold your… And want to fight for Polan’

The breezes blow on the river belo… And the fleecy clouds float high, And I mark how the dark green gum… The bright blue dome of the sky. The rain has been, and the grass i…

It’s oh! for a rivet in marriage b… And a splice in the knot untied— The sanctity of the marriage tie Is growing more sanctified! They’re getting mixed up in societ…

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…

Have you seen the bush by moonligh… Blackened log and stump and saplin… Here a patch of glassy water; ther… Have you heard the still voice cal… “I’m the Mother-Bush that bore yo…

Did you see that man riding past, With shoulders bowed with care? There’s failure in his eyes to las… And in his heart despair. He seldom looks to left or right,