A day of seeming innocence, A glorious sun and sky, And, just above my picket fence, Black Bonnet passing by. In knitted gloves and quaint old d…

Oh, the track through the scrub gr… And lower and lower his grey head… For the swagman is old and the swa… He’s been tramping for over a cent… He tramps in a worn-out old “side…

THERE can be no doubt but that without sentiment the world would be worse than it now is; but sentiment, though a good servant, is a bad master. Though not wishing to make a virtue of s...

They’d parted but a year before—sh… She stammer’d, blushed, held out h… How could he know that all the whi… He called her ‘Miss le Brook,’ an… They’d parted but a year before; t…

“Nobody’s enemy save his own”— (What shall it be in the end?)— Still by the nick-name he is known… “Everyone’s Friend.” “Nobody’s Enemy” stands alone

We wrote and sang of a bush we nev… Had known in youth in the Western… Of the dear old homes by the shini… The deep, clear creeks and the hil… The grass waved high on the flat a…

There are three lank bards in a bo… Ah! The number is one too few— They have deemed their home and th… For the thing that they have to do… Three glasses they fill with the…

There’s such a lot of work to do,… I’m scribbling this against a book… It strikes me that I’ll scribble… And write my last lines so perchan… There’s lots of things to come and…

Old Mate! In the gusty old weath… When our hopes and our troubles we… In the years spent in wearing out… I found you unselfish and true— I have gathered these verses toget…

Who’s that mysterious rider, Full-sized, yet far away, Seen by the Western-sider— A spectre of the day? On ridge or seeming high line

He was bare—we don’t want to be ru… (His condition was owing to drink) They say his condition was nood, Which amounts to the same thing, w… (We mean his condition, we think,

It’s only a sod, but 'twill break… Nigh hardened wid toilin’ and cari… And make the ould wounds in it tin… It’s only a sod, but it’s parcel a… Of strugglin’, sufferin’ Erin.

He never drew a sword to fight a d… Nor gave a life to save a life no… He lived because he had been born—… And fought the battle with his fis… Yet there are many men who would d…

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...

Day of ending for beginnings! Ocean hath another innings, Ocean hath another score; And the surges sing his winnings, And the surges shout his winnings,