The Australian Marseillaise

Sing the strong, proud song of Labour,
Toss the ringing music high;
Liberty’s a nearer neighbour
Than she was in days gone by.
Workmen’s weary wives and daughters
Sing the songs of liberty;
Men hail men across the waters,
Men reply across the sea.


We are marching on and onward
To the silver-streak of dawn,
To the dynasty of mankind
We are marching on.


Long the rich have been protected
By the walls that can’t endure;
By the walls that they erected
To divide them from the poor.
Crumbling now, they should not trust them,
For their end is drawing near;
Walls of Cant and walls of Custom,
Walls of Ignorance and Fear.


Tyrants, grip your weapons firmer,
Grip them firmly by the helves;
For the poor begin to murmur
Loudly now among themselves.
Hear us dare to say that Heaven
Gave us equal rights with you,
Dare to say the world was given
Unto all and not the few.


Tell us that the law has risen,
Make us bend beneath its sway,
Throw our leaders into prison,
Wrong us in the light of day.
Drive us to our dens, forgetting
All our woe as greed forgets,
While our weapons we are whetting
On your levelled bayonets.


Treat us like the beasts you’d make us,
Pen us close in wretched sties.
’Til our patience shall forsake us,
And like wolves we will arise.
Louder still for this shall rattle
Rifle shots, and sword blades ring
On the blood-wet fields of battle
In the days of reckoning.


We shall rise to prove us human,
Worthy of a human life,



When our starved and maddened women
Lead our armies on to strife.
When our war hymns wake the valleys,
And the rushing missiles shriek
From your barricaded alleys,
’Til your cannon cease to speak.


Then when Mammon Castle crashes
To the earth and trampled lies,
Then from out the blood and ashes
True Republics shall arise.
Then the world shall rest a season
(First since first the world began)
In the reign of right and reason
And the dynasty of man.

The Alleys

I was welcome in a palace when the ball was at my feet,
I was petted in a garden and my triumph was complete.
But for me above the alleys there forever shone a star,
Where the third-rate public houses and the dens of Venus are.
Where the third-rate public houses
And the fourth-rate lodging houses,
And the rag-shops and the pawn-shops and the dens of Venus are.
I was born among the alleys, bred in darkness and in doubt,
And I wrote the truth in blindness and I struggled up and out;
And the world was fair before me and the way was wide and plain,
But the spirit of the alleys ever dragged me back again.
’Tis a madness I inherit
And a blind and reckless spirit.
Oh! the spirit of the alleys ever drags me down again!


There were fair girls in the garden where the spring came in a day,
But the barmaids in the alleys know a wider world than they.
There were wise men in the palace who were born to rule the earth,
But the wrecks amongst the alleys know the world for what it’s worth.
To the pewter from the chalice,
To the slum from the palace,
Aye! the wrecks sunk in the alleys know the world for what it’s worth!


Poets who have done with puzzling—men who talk but dare not think—
Men who might have moulded nations had it not been for the drink!
Wicked stories full of humour—shafts of wit that seldom miss,
Shot from blighted lips of women that the bravest dare not kiss?
Let the worst girl lead the revels
Of the reckless alley devils!—
Pure and virtuous women often, often drive men down to this.


In the days of mental torture when my life was all a hell,
It was down amongst the alleys that I learnt the tales I tell,
From the black-sheep out from England, from the boozer in from Bourke,
From the tired haggard women bending over needle-work:
Tales of wrongs, that fire the spirit,
Tales of more than human merit,
Told in quiet tones and measured, bending over needle-work.


Oh! the pathos and the humour of the shifts of poverty,
Oh! the sympathy of drunkards, wit and truth and charity,
Oh! the worn-out working women and the lives that they endure,
And the hard and callous kindness of the poor unto the poor!
(Where they blame not—those who labour—
And the prostitute’s a neighbour)
Ah! the humour and the courage and the kindness of the poor!


There is fire down in the alleys that has smouldered very long;
There is hatred in the alleys born of centuries of wrong;
And no prayer wins to heaven like a prayer from the slums,
And the thrones of empire totter when the alleys beat their drums.
(Ah! the world is very rotten!



But my sins shall be forgotten
And my work shall be remembered when the alleys beat their drums.)


It is down amongst the alleys, in the alleys dull and damp,
They find kindness in a scoundrel, they find good points in a scamp.
It is down amongst the alleys, now my star has ceased to shine,
I find sympathy with sinners and can hide what shame is mine,
For we trust and shield each other
And a sinner is a brother—
There are souls amongst the alleys who were lost the same as mine.


And if you should some day miss me, and should care to wonder why,
Ask for me amongst the alleys by the name they knew me by:
Mind your head and pick your footsteps for you’ll grope in alley gloom,
And the stairs are steep and narrow where they’ll lead you to a room.
What if floors are foul and dusty
And the air is close and musty?
In the days when I was noble then I wrote in such a room.


You will see a chair and table dimly shown by candle light,
And the pen I dropped for ever from the last line I shall write;
And some poor attempts at comfort, and a bottle—and maybe
You will find a bad girl crying over what is left of me:
Call no friends—I shall not need them;
Call no priests—I shall not heed them—
Let the bad girl do the praying over what is left of me.

That There Dog O' Mine

Macquarie the shearer had met with an accident. To tell the truth, he had been in a
drunken row at a wayside shanty, from which he had escaped with three fractured ribs,
a cracked head, and various minor abrasions. His dog, Tally, had been a sober but
savage participator in the drunken row, and had escaped with a broken leg.

Macquarie afterwards shouldered his swag and staggered and struggled along the track
ten miles to the Union-Town Hospital. Lord knows how he did it. He didn't exactly know
himself. Tally limped behind all the way on three legs. The doctors examined the man's
injuries and were surprised at his endurance.

Even doctors are surprised sometimes - though they don't always show it. Of course
they would take him in, but they objected to Tally. Dogs were not allowed on the
premises. 'You will have to turn that dog out,' they said to the shearer, as he sat on
the edge of a bed.

Macquarie said nothing. 'We cannot allow dogs about the place, my man,' said the
doctor in a louder tone, thinking the man was deaf. 'Tie him up in the yard then.' 'No.
He must go out. Dogs are not permitted on the grounds.'

Macquarie rose slowly to his feet, shut his agony behind his set teeth painfully
buttoned his shirt over his hairy chest, took up his waistcoat, and staggered to the
comer where the swag lay. 'What are you going to do?' they asked.

'You ain't going to let my dog stop?' 'No. It's against the rules. There are no dogs
allowed on the premises.' He stooped and lifted his swag, but the pain was too great,
and he leaned back against the wall.

'Come, come now! man alive!' exclaimed the doctor, impatiently. 'You must be mad.
You know you are not in a fit state to go out. Let the wardsman help you to undress.'
'No!' said Macquarie. 'No. If you won't take my dog in you don't take me. He's got a
broken leg and wants fixing up just - just as much as - as I do.

If I'm good enough to come in, he's good enough - and - and better.' He paused
awhile, breathing painfully, and then went on. 'That - that there old dog of mine has
follered me faithful and true, these twelve long hard and hungry years. He's about about
the only thing that ever cared whether I lived or fell and rotted on the cursed
track.'

He rested again; then he continued: 'That - that there dog was pupped on the track,'
he said with a sad sort of smile. 'I carried him for months in a billy can and afterwards
on my swag when he was knocked up… And the old slut - his mother - she'd foller
along quite contented - sniff the billy now and again - just to see if he was all right…
She follered me for God knows how many years. She follered me till she was blind and
for a year after. She folleredme till she could crawl along through the dust no
longer, and - and then I killed her, because I couldn't leave her behind alive! '

He rested again. 'And this here old dog,' he continued, touching Tally's upturned nose
with his knotted fingers, 'this here old dog has follered me for - for ten years; through
floods and droughts, through fair times and - and hard - mostly hard; and kept me
from going mad when I had no mate nor money on the lonely track and watched over
me for weeks when I was drunk - drugged and poisoned at the cursed shanties; and
saved my life more'n once, and got kicks and curses very often for thanks; and forgave


me for it all; and - and fought for me.

He was the only living thing that stood up for me against that crawling push of curs
when they set onter me at the shanty back yonder - and he left his mark on some of
'em too; and - and so did I.' He took another spell.

Then he drew in his breath, shut his teeth hard, shouldered his swag, stepped into the
doorway, and faced round again. The dog limped out of the comer and looked up
anxiously. 'That there dog,' said Macquarie to the Hospital staff in general, 'is a better
dog than I'm a man - or you too, it seems - and a better Christian.

He's been a better mate to me than I ever was to any man - or any man to me. He's
watched over me; kep' me from getting robbed many a time; fought for me; saved my
life and took drunken kicks and curses for thanks - and forgave me. He's been a true,
straight, honest, and faithful mate to me - and I ain't going to desert him now. I ain't
going to kick him out in the road with a broken leg. I - Oh, my God! my back!'

He groaned and lurched forward, but they caught him, slipped off the swag, and laid
him on a bed. Half an hour later the shearer was comfortably fixed up. 'Where's my
dog?' he asked, when he came to himself.

'Oh, the dog's all right,' said the nurse, rather impatiently. 'Don't bother. The doctor's
setting his leg out in the yard.'

That Great Waiting Silence

Where shall we go for prophecy? Where shall we go for proof?
The holiday street is crowded, pavement, window and roof;
Band and banner pass by us, and the old tunes rise and fall—
But that great waiting silence is on the people all!


Where is the cheering and laughter of the eight-hour days gone by?
When the holiday heart was careless, and the holiday spirit high—
The friendly jostling and banter, the wit and the jovial call?
But that great waiting silence is over the people all.


Oh! but my heart beats faster—and a gush that was nearly tears:
Clatter of hammers on iron! and Australian Engineers!
Goods from Australian workshops—proud to the world at last
(And I see, in a flash from the future, Australian guns go past).


The morning sun-glare, softened by a veil, like frosted glass—
There is no breath of a head-breeze as the Labour banners pass,
There seems no sign of a danger or a change for the workers now—
But for some great, new-born spirit the banners seem to bow.


Where shall we go for our platforms? Where shall we go, indeed?
Shall we follow the cackle of women that follow the jesting Reid,
Through indifferent-seeming cities—and the browned men straight and tall?
But that great waiting silence is on the people all.


Twist and tangle and mystify, bully, and weep and bluff;
Marry the truth to a glaring lie, and say it is good enough;
Boast of your vice and villainy—in your virtue rant and bawl—
But that great waiting silence is over the people all!


Brothers, who work with shovel or pen, labour by day and night:
Brothers, who think of the hearts of men, ponder and speak and write;
Work for Australia’s destiny, content till you hear the call,
For the spirit that builds a nation is over the people all.

Talbragar


Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began,
And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man;
Jack Denver’s wife bowed down her head—her daughter’s grief was wild,
And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child.
But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far,
To raise the biggest funeral ever seen on Talbragar.


By station home
And shearing shed
Ben Duggan cried, “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!”


He borrowed horses here and there, and rode all Christmas Eve,
And scarcely paused a moment’s time the mournful news to leave;
He rode by lonely huts and farms, until the day was done
And then he turned his horse’s head and made for Ross’s Run.
No Bushman in a single day had ridden half so far
Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar.


By diggers’ camps
Ben Duggan sped—
At each he cried, “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!”


That night he passed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge,
And roused the bullock-drivers camped at Belinfante’s Bridge;
And as he climbed the ridge again the moon shone on the rise;
The soft white moonbeams glistened in the tears that filled his eyes;
He dashed the rebel drops away—for blinding things they are—
But ’twas his best and truest friend who died on Talbragar.


At Blackman’s Run
Before the dawn,
Ben Duggan cried, “Jack Denver’s gone!
Roll up at Talbragar!”


At all the shanties round the place they‘d beard his horse’s tramp,
He took the track to Wilson’s Luck, and told the diggers’ camp;
But in the gorge by Deadman’s Gap the mountain shades were black,
And there a newly-fallen tree was lying on the track—
He saw too late, and then he heard the swift hoof ’s sudden jar,
And big Ben Duggan ne’er again rode home to Talbragar.


“The wretch is drunk,
And Denver’s dead—
A burning shame!” the people said
Next day at Talbragar.


For thirty miles round Talbragar the boys rolled up in strength,
And Denver had a funeral a good long mile in length;
Round Denver’s grave that Christmas day rough Bushmen’s eyes were dim—
The Western Bushmen knew the way to bury dead like him;



But some returning homeward found, by light of moon and star,
Ben Duggan dying in the rocks, ten miles from Talbragar.


They knelt around.
He raised his head
And faintly gasped, “Jack Denver’s dead,
Roll up at Talbragar!”


But one short hour before he died he woke and understood;
They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was good;
And then there came into his eyes a sad and softened light.
He said. “Poor Denver’s wife and kids—you’ll see that they’re all right?”
And still the careless Bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar
How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar.


And far and wide
When Duggan died.
The bushmen of the western side
Rode in to Talbragar.

Take It Fightin’

When you’ve got no chance at all,
Take it fightin’.
When you’re driven to the wall,
Take it fightin’.


There are things that we delight in
For the wrongin’ or the rightin’,
But the fool you cannot frighten
(That you cannot bluff nor frighten)
He is King of all.
(Take it fightin’.)


When you’re down an’ out an’ utter,
Take it fightin’;
When they’ve put you in the gutter,
Take it fightin’.


There are things that we delight in
For the wrongin’ or the rightin’,
But the fool you cannot frighten
(That you cannot bluff nor frighten)
He is King of all.
(Take it fightin’.)

Sweethearts Wait on Every Shore

SHE SITS beside the tinted tide,
That’s reddened by the tortured sand;
And through the East, to ocean wide,
A vessel sails from sight of land.


But she will wait and watch in vain,
For it is said in Cupid’s lore,
“That he who loved will love again,
And sweethearts wait on every shore.”

Success


Did you see that man riding past,
With shoulders bowed with care?
There’s failure in his eyes to last,
And in his heart despair.
He seldom looks to left or right,
He nods, but speaks to none,
And he’s a man who fought the fight—
God knows how hard!—and won.
No great “review” could rouse him now,
No printed lies could sting;
No kindness smooth his knitted brow,
Nor wrong one new line bring.
Through dull, dumb days and brooding nights,
From years of storm and stress,
He’s riding down from lonely heights—
The Mountains of Success.


He sees across the darkening land
The graveyards on the coasts;
He sees the broken columns stand
Like cold and bitter ghosts;
His world is dead while yet he lives,
Though known in continents;
His camp is where his country gives
Its pauper monuments.

Song of the Old Bullock-Driver

Far back in the days when the blacks used to ramble
In long single file ’neath the evergreen tree,
The wool-teams in season came down from Coonamble,
And journeyed for weeks on their way to the sea,
’Twas then that our hearts and our sinews were stronger,
For those were the days when the bushman was bred.
We journeyed on roads that were rougher and longer
Than roads where the feet of our grandchildren tread.
With mates who have gone to the great Never-Never,
And mates whom I’ve not seen for many a day,
I camped on the banks of the Cudgegong River
And yarned at the fire by the old bullock-dray.
I would summon them back from the far Riverina,
From days that shall be from all others distinct,
And sing to the sound of an old concertina
Their rugged old songs where strange fancies were linked.


We never were lonely, for, camping together,
We yarned and we smoked the long evenings away,
And little I cared for the signs of the weather
When snug in my hammock slung under the dray.
We rose with the dawn, were it ever so chilly,
When yokes and tarpaulins were covered with frost,
And toasted the bacon and boiled the black billy,
Where high on the camp-fire the branches were tossed.


On flats where the air was suggestive of ’possums,
And homesteads and fences were hinting of change,
We saw the faint glimmer of appletree blossoms
And far in the distance the blue of the range;
And here in the rain, there was small use in flogging
The poor, tortured bullocks that tugged at the load,
When down to the axles the waggons were bogging
And traffic was making a marsh of the road.


’Twas hard on the beasts on the terrible pinches,
Where two teams of bullocks were yoked to a load,
And tugging and slipping, and moving by inches,
Half-way to the summit they clung to the road.
And then, when the last of the pinches was bested,
(You’ll surely not say that a glass was a sin?)
The bullocks lay down ’neath the gum trees and rested —
The bullockies steered for the bar of the inn.


Then slowly we crawled by the trees that kept tally
Of miles that were passed on the long journey down.
We saw the wild beauty of Capertee Valley,
As slowly we rounded the base of the Crown.
But, ah! the poor bullocks were cruelly goaded
While climbing the hills from the flats and the vales;
’Twas here that the teams were so often unloaded
That all knew the meaning of ‘counting your bales.’



And, oh! but the best-paying load that I carried
Was one to the run where my sweetheart was nurse.
We courted awhile, and agreed to get married,
And couple our futures for better or worse.
And as my old feet grew too weary to drag on
The miles of rough metal they met by the way,
My eldest grew up and I gave him the waggon —
He’s plodding along by the bullocks to-day.

Stand by the Engines

On the moonlighted decks there are children at play,
While smoothly the steamer is holding her way;
And the old folks are chatting on deck-seats and chairs,
And the lads and the lassies go strolling in pairs.


Some gaze half-entranced on the beautiful sea,
And wonder perhaps if a vision it be:
And surely their journeys no sorrow nor care,
For wealth, love, and beauty are passengers there.


But down underneath, ’mid the coal dust that smears
The face and the hands, work the ship’s engineers.
Whate’er be the duty of others, ’tis theirs
To stand by their engines whatever occurs.


The sailor may gaze on the sea and the sky;
The sailor may tell when the danger is nigh;
But when Death his black head o’er the waters uprears,
Unseen he is met by the ship’s engineers.


They are thrown from their feet by the force of a shock;
They know that their vessel has struck on a rock.
Now stand by your engines when danger appears,
For all may depend on the ship’s engineers!


No thought of their danger! No mad rush on deck!
They stand at their posts in the hull of a wreck,
Firm hands on the valves; and the white steam appears;
And down with their ship go the brave engineers!