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…

The nearer camp fires lighted, The distant beacons bright— The horsemen on the skyline Are closing in to-night! My brothers, Oh my brothers!

He’d been for years in Sydney “a-… His name was Joseph Swallow, “the… In spite of all the stories and sk… And so his friends held meetings (… To advertise their little selves a…

The brooding ghosts of Australian… My spirit revives in the morning b… though it died when the sun went d… The river is high and the stream i… and the grass is green and tall,

He comes from out the ages dim— The good Samaritan; I somehow never pictured him A fat and jolly man; But one who’d little joy to glean,

You’re off away to London now, Where no one dare ignore you, With Southern laurels on your bro… And all the world before you. But if you should return again,

Whenever I’m moving my furniture… Or shifting my furniture out— Which is nearly as often and risky… In these days of shifting about— There isn’t a stretcher, there isn…

When the wars of the world seemed… Ten years ago in Australia, I wro… And I pictured Australians fighti… For the old things, pride or count… And they lounged on the rim of Au…

The shearers squint along the pens… The shearers squint along the boar… They have no time to straighten up… But when the Boss is looking on,… The 'rouser’ has no soul to save.…

His old clay pipe stuck in his mou… His hat pushed from his brow, His dress best fitted for the Sou… I think I see him now; And when the city streets are stil…

The rising moon on the peaks was b… Her silver light with the sunset g… When a swagman came as the day was… Along a path that he seemed to kno… But all the fences were gone or go…

Will you allow me space in your columns to refer to a social question of some importance, and that is with regard to the utterly reckless way in which young men are drafted off f...

There’s a pretty little story with… Comes from Beenleigh on the Logan… For we scarcely dare to credit ev’… Those unhappy country papers 'twix… ’Twas the man who owned the wherry…

It surely cannot be too soon, and… It tones with all Australia’s tun… And so I bring an old refrain fro… And lift the good old words again,… She bore me on her tented fields,…

But what’s the use of writing ‘bus… Though editors demand it— For city folk, and farming folk, Can never understand it. They’re blind to what the bushman…