#AustralianWriters
A black-sheep, from England, who… Riding where the stockmen ride— He sat by the hut when the day’s w… Lone huts where the black sheep bi… “I’m tired of my life!” to his lon…
Ten miles down Reedy River A pool of water lies, And all the year it mirrors The changes in the skies. Within that pool’s broad bosom
It was built of bark and poles, an… Where each leak in rainy weather m… And the walls were mostly cracks l… There was little need for windows… Then we rode to school and back by…
There are writers great and writer… And writers on the spree; And writers short and writers tall… And bards of low degree. There are artists small and artist…
(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 ...
TWO COUPLES are drifting the… (Men of the world know well) From the ballroom glare as the nig… (Men of the world can tell). Many are round them who know, and…
(Writer was brought in long clothe… Said Grenfell to my spirit, “You’… Of the charms of other places, and… You have claimed another native pl… Since you never paid a visit to a…
They say he was thrown and run ove… But that is sheer nonsense, of cou… I taught him to ride when a kiddy, And Dan wasn’t thrown from his ho… The horse that Dan rode was a dev…
No church-bell rings them from the… No pulpit lights theirblindness— 'Tis hardship, drought, and homele… That teach those Bushmen kindness… The mateship born, in barren lands…
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…
With pannikins all rusty, And billy burnt and black, And clothes all torn and dusty, That scarcely hide his back; With sun-cracked saddle-leather,
'Twixt the coastline and the borde… In the days before the bushman was… An’ they say the local meeting was… Which was ended pretty often by an… An’ 'tis said the city talent very…
I cannot blame old Israel yet, For I am not a sage— I shall not know until I get The son of my old age. The mysteries of this Vale of Tea…
I cannot blame old Israel yet, For I am not a sage, I shall not know until I get The son of my old age. The mysteries of this Vale of Tea…
The night too quickly passes And we are growing old, So let us fill our glasses And toast the Days of Gold; When finds of wondrous treasure