The Burns of Australia

Maoriland Worker, Volume 1, Issue 4, 15 December 1910, Page 14

The Burns of Australia

(By E.S.S.) At a " braw " Scotch evening recently, when the name of Bobbie Burns was on ©very lip, and a feeling of altruism in every heart, the company, with tears in their eyes (crocodile and otherwise) honoured, the memory of the greatest poet Scotland has produced, deploring at the same time the fact that Australasia as yet has produced no great bard whose songs are so human, so sincere and so patriotic as to be handed down to the future generations of a coming nation as a precious heirloom of the early struggles when the first pangs of nationhood were felt by the white races of the Pacific. But Australasia lias produced a poet from the ranks of its people—a man who has put his very heart arid soul into the task, and whose rugged, manly sentiments will be cherished from Cape York to Stewart Island long after the works of his more polished rivals have been forgotten. His name is Henry Lawson. Born some forty odd years ago in New South Wales, he commenced life as a coach painter and has followed various occupations from farming to school teaching ever since in all parts of the Commonwealth and dominion. A few samples of his work are printed below, and I leave it with readers of "The Maoriland Worker" as to whether or not the sincerity and sturdy patriotism of Lawson entitles him to be classed as the " Burns of Australasia." An extract from " My Land and I " (written during the last drought) :— They know you not in a paltry town— In the streets where great hopes die— Oh, heart that never a flood could drown, And never a drought could dry! Stand forth from the rim where the red sun dips, Strong son of the land's own son— With the grin of grit on your drought■ohapped lips And say, is your country done? Stand forth from the land where the sunset dies, By the desolate lonely shed. With the smile of faith in your blighted eyes, And say, is your country dead ? They see no future, they know no past— The parasite cur and clown. Who talk of ruin and death to last When a man or a land is down. And again when the Prince of Wales visited these parts some years ago :— There are carriages in waiting for the swells from over-sea, There are banquets in the latest London style, While the men who made Australia live on damper, junks and tea— But the quiet voices whisper, " Wait a while!" For the sons of all Australia, they were born to conquer fate— And, where charity and friendship are sincere. Where a sinner is a brother and a stranger is a mate, There the future of a nation's written clear. Thus the final verse from " When the World Was Wide " :— The world shall yet be a wider world— for the tokens are manifest; East and North shall the wrongs be hurled that followed us South ano West. The march of Freedom is North by the Dawn! Follow, whate'er betide! Sons of the Exiles, march.! March on ! March till the world grows wide! In the days to come, when the country is a network of railways " The Teams " will not be forgotten. A couple of verses :—- A cloud of dust on the long white road, And the teams go creeping on [ nch by inch with the weary load : And by the power of the green-hide goad The distant goal is won.

With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust, And necks to the yokes bent low, The beasts are pulling as bullocks must; And the shining tyres might almost rust While the spokes are turning slow. A verse on Maoriland in " The Ports of the Open Sea " :— By the steeps of the snow-capped ranges, By the scarped and terraced hills— Far away from the swift life-changes. From the wear of the strife that kills— Where the land in spring seems younger Than a land of the Earth might be— Oh! the hearts of the rovers hunger For the Ports of the Open Sea. In conclusion, a few lines from his " Good Samaritan " :— He shares his tucker on the track When things are at their worst (And often shouts in bars outback For souls that are a thirst). To-day I see him staggering down The blazing water-course, And making for the distant town With a sick man on his horse. He'll live while nations find their graves And mortals suffer pain— When colour rules and whites are slaves And savages again. And, after all is past and done, He'll rise up, the Last Man, From tending to the last but one— The good Samaritan.