View source for Henry Lawson - A Voice from the City

''
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 

The glory of the day, 

The grand perfume of wattle bloom 

Is faint and far away.
''

Brown faces under broad-brimmed hats 

The grip of wiry hands, 

The gallops on the frosty flats, 

Seem dreams of other lands; 

The camp fire and the stars that blaze 

Above the mystic plain 

Are but the thoughts of vanished days 

That never come again. 



''The evening star I seldom view — 

That led me on to roam — 

I never see the morning star 

That used to draw me home. 

But I have often longed for day 

To hide the few I see, 

Because they only point and say 

Most bitter things to me. 
''

I wear my life on pavement stones 

That drag me ever down, 

A paltry slave to little things, 

By custom chained to town. 

I've lost the strength to strike alone, 

The heart to do and dare — 

I mind the day I'd roll my swag 

And tramp to — God-knows-where. 


''When I should wait I wander out, 

When I should go I bide — 

I scarcely dare to think about 

The days when I could ride. 

I would not mount before his eyes, 

'Straight' Bushman tall and tan — 

I mind the day when I stood up 

And fought him like a man.'' 


I mind the time when I was shy 

To meet the brown Bush girls — 

I've lunched with lords since then and I 

Have been at home with earls:
 
I learned to smile and learned to bow

And lie to ladies gay — 

But to a gaunt Bushwoman now 

I'd not know what to say. 



''And if I sought her hard bare home

From scenes of show and sham, 

I'd sit all ill at ease and fell

The poor weak thing I am. 

I could not meet her hopeless eyes 

That look one through and through, 

The haggard woman of the past 

Who once thought I was true.'' 


But nought on earth can last for aye, 

And wild with care and pain, 

Some day by chance I'll break away 

And seek the Bush again. 

And find awhile from bitter years 

The rest the Bush can bring, 

And hear, perhaps, with truer ears 

The songs it has to sing.