Henry Lawson

Birth: 1867-06-17 , Grenfell

Death: 1922-09-02 , Sydney

Henry Lawson was an Australian writer and poet, celebrated for his vivid portrayals of Australian bush life, identity, and the struggles of ordinary people. He is considered one of Australia's greatest literary figures, known for his realistic and often melancholic depiction of the Australian landscape and its inhabitants. His work frequently captures the hardship, mateship, and resilience of the Australian spirit.

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I only woke this morning

I only woke this morning
To find the world is fair—
I’m going on for forty,
With scarcely one grey hair;
I’m going on for forty,
Where man’s strong life begins,
With scarce a sign of crows’ feet,
In spite of all my sins.

Then here’s the living Forties!
The Forties! The Forties!
Then here’s the living Forties!
We’re good for ten years more.

The teens were black and bitter,
A smothered boyhood’s grave—
A farm-drudge in the drought-time,
A weary workshop slave.
But twenty years have laid them,
And all the world is fair—
We’ll find time in the Forties,
To have some boyhood there.

Then here’s the wide, free Forties—
The Forties! The Forties!
Then here’s the wide, free Forties!
We’re good for ten years more!

The twenties they were noble,
The bravest years, I think;
’Twas man to man in trouble,
In working and in drink;
’Twas man to man in fighting,
For money or for praise.
And we’ll find in the Forties
Some more Bohemian days.

Then here’s the wiser Forties!
The Forties! The Forties!
Then here’s the wiser Forties!
We’re good for ten years more.

The thirties were the fate years;
I fought behind the scenes.
The thirties were more cruel
And blacker than the teens;
I held them not but bore them—
They were no years of mine;
But they are going from me,
For I am thirty-nine.

So here’s the stronger Forties!

The Forties! The Forties!
And here’s the good old Forties!
We’re good for ten years more.

240

A Bush Girl

A Bush Girl

She's milking in the rain and dark,
As did her mother in the past.
The wretched shed of poles and bark,
Rent by the wind, is leaking fast.
She sees the “home-roof” black and low,
Where, balefully, the hut-fire gleams—
And, like her mother, long ago,
She has her dreams; she has her dreams.
The daybreak haunts the dreary scene,
The brooding ridge, the blue-grey bush,
The “yard” where all her years have been,
Is ankle-deep in dung and slush;
She shivers as the hour drags on,
Her threadbare dress of sackcloth seems—
But, like her mother, years agone,
She has her dreams; she has her dreams.

The sullen “breakfast” where they cut
The blackened “junk.” The lowering face,
As though a crime were in the hut,
As though a curse was on the place;
The muttered question and reply,
The tread that shakes the rotting beams,
The nagging mother, thin and dry—
God help the girl! She has her dreams.

Then for “th’ separator” start,
Most wretched hour in all her life,
With “horse” and harness, dress and cart,
No Chinaman would give his “wife”;
Her heart is sick for light and love,
Her face is often fair and sweet,
And her intelligence above
The minds of all she’s like to meet.

She reads, by slush-lamp light, may be,
When she has dragged her dreary round,
And dreams of cities by the sea
(Where butter’s up, so much the pound),
Of different men from those she knows,
Of shining tides and broad, bright streams;
Of theatres and city shows,
And her release! She has her dreams.

Could I gain her a little rest,
A little light, if but for one,
I think that it would be the best
Of any good I may have done.
But, after all, the paths we go
Are not so glorious as they seem,
And—if t’will help her heart to know—
I’ve had my dream. ’Twas but a dream.

253

For there's a swellin' in my heart -- a tightness in my throat --

For there's a swellin' in my heart -- a tightness in my throat --
We are for'ard when there's trouble! We are for'ard when there's graft!
But the men who never battle always seem to travel aft;

With their dressin'-cases, aft,
With their swell pyjamas, aft --
Yes! the idle and the careless, they have ease an' comfort, aft.

I feel so low an' wretched, as I mooch about the deck,
That I'm ripe for jumpin' over -- an' I wish there was a wreck!
We are driven to New Zealand to be shot out over there --
Scarce a shillin' in our pockets, nor a decent rag to wear,
With the everlastin' worry lest we don't get into graft --
There is little left to land for if you cannot travel aft;

No anxiety abaft,
They have stuff to land with, aft --
Oh, there's little left to land for if you cannot travel aft;

But it's grand at sea this mornin', an' Creation almost speaks,
Sailin' past the Bay of Islands with its pinnacles an' peaks,
With the sunny haze all round us an' the white-caps on the blue,
An' the orphan rocks an' breakers -- Oh, it's glorious sailin' through!
To the south a distant steamer, to the west a coastin' craft,
An' we see the beauty for'ard, better than if we were aft;

Spite of op'ra-glasses, aft;
But, ah well, they're brothers aft --
Nature seems to draw us closer -- bring us nearer fore-'n'-aft.

What's the use of bein' bitter? What's the use of gettin' mad?
What's the use of bein' narrer just because yer luck is bad?
What's the blessed use of frettin' like a child that wants the moon?
There is broken hearts an' trouble in the gilded first saloon!
We are used to bein' shabby -- we have got no overdraft --
We can laugh at troubles for'ard that they couldn't laugh at aft;

Spite o' pride an' tone abaft
(Keepin' up appearance, aft)
There's anxiety an' worry in the breezy cabins aft.

But the curse o' class distinctions from our shoulders shall be hurled,
An' the influence of woman revolutionize the world;
There'll be higher education for the toilin' starvin' clown,
An' the rich an' educated shall be educated down;
An' we all will meet amidships on this stout old earthly craft,
An' there won't be any friction 'twixt the classes fore-'n'-aft.

We'll be brothers, fore-'n'-aft!
Yes, an' sisters, fore-'n'-aft!
When the people work together, and there ain't no fore-'n'-aft.

177

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Identification and basic context

Henry Lawson was a highly influential Australian writer and poet. He is best known for his short stories and poems that vividly depicted Australian bush life, the lives of selectors, shearers, and swagmen, and the harsh realities of the Australian landscape.

Childhood and education

Born in the Blue Mountains, New South Wales, Lawson had a difficult childhood marked by poverty and his parents' strained relationship. He received little formal schooling and was largely self-educated, developing a passion for reading and writing.

Literary trajectory

Lawson began his writing career submitting poems and stories to magazines. His work gained popularity in the 1890s, particularly through 'The Bulletin' magazine. His early collections, such as 'Short Stories in Verse' (1894) and 'While the Billy Boils' (1896), established him as a major voice in Australian literature.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Lawson's most famous works include 'The Drover's Wife', 'The Loaded Dog', 'The Union Buries Its Dead', and poems like 'The:]. He explored themes of hardship, mateship, the Australian identity, loneliness, drought, and the vastness of the outback. His style is characterized by realism, stark simplicity, direct language, and a profound understanding of the Australian character and environment. He often used colloquialisms and captured the authentic voice of the bush.

Cultural and historical context

Lawson wrote during a pivotal period in Australian history, the late 19th and early 20th centuries, a time of economic depression, burgeoning nationalism, and the formation of the Commonwealth of Australia. His work reflected the social and economic conditions of the time, particularly the struggles of rural workers and the mythos of the bushman.

Personal life

Lawson's life was marked by personal struggles, including alcoholism, financial difficulties, and mental health issues. His marriage to Bertha Bredon ended in separation. Despite his literary success, he often lived in poverty and faced periods of institutionalization.

Recognition and reception

Lawson is considered a national icon in Australia. His work was immediately popular with readers for its authentic portrayal of Australian life. He is widely regarded as Australia's 'bush poet' and a foundational figure in Australian literature.

Influences and legacy

He was influenced by American writers like Bret Harte and Mark Twain, as well as English poets. Lawson's legacy lies in his shaping of the Australian literary identity and his realistic portrayal of Australian life. He inspired generations of Australian writers to explore their own national themes and characters.

Interpretation and critical analysis

His work is often analyzed for its social commentary, its depiction of the Australian landscape as both beautiful and harsh, and its exploration of the 'masculine' Australian identity characterized by resilience and stoicism.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

He famously wrote a petition for a public holiday to commemorate the 'Day of the Shearer'. His relationship with 'The Bulletin' magazine was central to his career.

Death and memory

Henry Lawson died in Sydney. He is commemorated by statues, street names, and numerous studies of his life and work, solidifying his status as a cherished figure in Australian culture.