In the Days When the World Was Wide [36]
slumbering in the silence of the tomb.
'Twixt mother's arms and coffin-gear a man has work to do! And if he does his very best he mostly worries through, And while there is a wrong to right, and while the world goes round, An honest man alive is worth a million underground. And yet, as long as sheoaks sigh and wattle-blossoms bloom, The world shall hear the drivel of the poets of the tomb.
And though the graveyard poets long to vanish from the scene, I notice that they mostly wish their resting-place kept green. Now, were I rotting underground, I do not think I'd care If wombats rooted on the mound or if the cows camped there; And should I have some feelings left when I have gone before, I think a ton of solid stone would hurt my feelings more.
Such wormy songs of mouldy joys can give me no delight; I'll take my chances with the world, I'd rather live and fight. Though Fortune laughs along my track, or wears her blackest frown, I'll try to do the world some good before I tumble down. Let's fight for things that ought to be, and try to make 'em boom; We cannot help mankind when we are ashes in the tomb.
Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers
While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse The gambling and the drink which are your country's greatest curse, While you glorify the bully and take the spieler's part -- You're a clever southern writer, scarce inferior to Bret Harte.
If you sing of waving grasses when the plains are dry as bricks, And discover shining rivers where there's only mud and sticks; If you picture `mighty forests' where the mulga spoils the view -- You're superior to Kendall, and ahead of Gordon too.
If you swear there's not a country like the land that gave you birth, And its sons are just the noblest and most glorious chaps on earth; If in every girl a Venus your poetic eye discerns, You are gracefully referred to as the `young Australian Burns'.
But if you should find that bushmen -- spite of all the poets say -- Are just common brother-sinners, and you're quite as good as they -- You're a drunkard, and a liar, and a cynic, and a sneak, Your grammar's simply awful and your intellect is weak.
The Ghost
Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide, Came a ghost, and for a moment walked in silence by my side -- Now my heart was hard and bitter, and a bitter spirit he, So I felt no great aversion to his ghostly company. Said the Shade: `At finer feelings let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, has ever been the motto for the world.'
And he said: `If you'd be happy, you must clip your fancy's wings, Stretch your conscience at the edges to the size of earthly things; Never fight another's battle, for a friend can never know When he'll gladly fly for succour to the bosom of the foe. At the power of truth and friendship let your lip in scorn be curled -- `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world.
`Where Society is mighty, always truckle to her rule; Never send an `i' undotted to the teacher of a school; Only fight a wrong or falsehood when the crowd is at your back, And, till Charity repay you, shut the purse, and let her pack; At the fools who would do other let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world.
`Ne'er assail the shaky ladders Fame has from her niches hung, Lest unfriendly heels above you grind your fingers from the rung; Or the fools who idle under, envious of your fair renown, Heedless of the pain you suffer, do their worst to shake you down. At the praise of men, or censure, let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world.
`Flowing founts of inspiration leave their sources parched and dry, Scalding tears of indignation sear the hearts that beat too high; Chilly waters thrown upon it drown the fire that's in the bard; And the banter of the critic hurts his heart till it grows hard. At the fame your muse may offer let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend,
'Twixt mother's arms and coffin-gear a man has work to do! And if he does his very best he mostly worries through, And while there is a wrong to right, and while the world goes round, An honest man alive is worth a million underground. And yet, as long as sheoaks sigh and wattle-blossoms bloom, The world shall hear the drivel of the poets of the tomb.
And though the graveyard poets long to vanish from the scene, I notice that they mostly wish their resting-place kept green. Now, were I rotting underground, I do not think I'd care If wombats rooted on the mound or if the cows camped there; And should I have some feelings left when I have gone before, I think a ton of solid stone would hurt my feelings more.
Such wormy songs of mouldy joys can give me no delight; I'll take my chances with the world, I'd rather live and fight. Though Fortune laughs along my track, or wears her blackest frown, I'll try to do the world some good before I tumble down. Let's fight for things that ought to be, and try to make 'em boom; We cannot help mankind when we are ashes in the tomb.
Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers
While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse The gambling and the drink which are your country's greatest curse, While you glorify the bully and take the spieler's part -- You're a clever southern writer, scarce inferior to Bret Harte.
If you sing of waving grasses when the plains are dry as bricks, And discover shining rivers where there's only mud and sticks; If you picture `mighty forests' where the mulga spoils the view -- You're superior to Kendall, and ahead of Gordon too.
If you swear there's not a country like the land that gave you birth, And its sons are just the noblest and most glorious chaps on earth; If in every girl a Venus your poetic eye discerns, You are gracefully referred to as the `young Australian Burns'.
But if you should find that bushmen -- spite of all the poets say -- Are just common brother-sinners, and you're quite as good as they -- You're a drunkard, and a liar, and a cynic, and a sneak, Your grammar's simply awful and your intellect is weak.
The Ghost
Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide, Came a ghost, and for a moment walked in silence by my side -- Now my heart was hard and bitter, and a bitter spirit he, So I felt no great aversion to his ghostly company. Said the Shade: `At finer feelings let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, has ever been the motto for the world.'
And he said: `If you'd be happy, you must clip your fancy's wings, Stretch your conscience at the edges to the size of earthly things; Never fight another's battle, for a friend can never know When he'll gladly fly for succour to the bosom of the foe. At the power of truth and friendship let your lip in scorn be curled -- `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world.
`Where Society is mighty, always truckle to her rule; Never send an `i' undotted to the teacher of a school; Only fight a wrong or falsehood when the crowd is at your back, And, till Charity repay you, shut the purse, and let her pack; At the fools who would do other let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world.
`Ne'er assail the shaky ladders Fame has from her niches hung, Lest unfriendly heels above you grind your fingers from the rung; Or the fools who idle under, envious of your fair renown, Heedless of the pain you suffer, do their worst to shake you down. At the praise of men, or censure, let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world.
`Flowing founts of inspiration leave their sources parched and dry, Scalding tears of indignation sear the hearts that beat too high; Chilly waters thrown upon it drown the fire that's in the bard; And the banter of the critic hurts his heart till it grows hard. At the fame your muse may offer let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend,