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[Arnfinn]

The Separation


Henry Lawson was born in a tent on the Grenfell goldfields in 1867. His father was a Norse sailor who became a digger; his mother came of a Kentish family of gypsy blood and tradition. Henry spent his boy hood on old mining fields, and on a selection his father had taken up. Later, he came to Sydney and learned coach-painting, attended night school and was caught up in the wave of socialism. In 1884, at the age of seventeen, his poetry was published in the Bulletin a Sydney publication. He died an alcoholic in a convalescent hospital in 1922. The Prime Minister afforded him a state funeral in recognition of his literary genius.


The Separation

We knew too little of the world,
And you and I were good�
But paltry bickerings wrecked our lives
As well I knew they would.
The people said our love was dead,
But how were they to know?
Ah! Had we loved each other less
We�d not have quarrelled so.

We knew too little of the world,
And you and I were kind,
We listened to what others said
And both of us were blind.
The people said `twas selfishness,
But how were they to know?
Ah! Had we both been selfish then
We�d not have parted so.

But still, when all seems lost on earth
Then heaven sets a sign�
Kneel down beside your lonely bed,
And I will kneel by mine,
And let us pray for happy days�
Like those of long ago.
Ah! had we knelt together once
We�d not have parted so.

[Arnfinn]

I thought I would add another poem, Lawson was a socialist, he had a strong affinity with the working man.

Here is a poem about early Australia and mateship.

I hope you like.


The Glass on the Bar

Apr.�1890

Henry Lawson

THREE bushmen one morning rode up to an inn,
And one of them called for the drinks with a grin;
They�d only returned from a trip to the North,
And, eager to greet them, the landlord came forth.
He absently poured out a glass of Three Star.
And set down that drink with the rest on the bar.

�There, that is for Harry,� he said, �and it�s queer,
�Tis the very same glass that he drank from last year;
His name�s on the glass, you can read it like print,
He scratched it himself with an old piece of flint;
I remember his drink�it was always Three Star��
And the landlord looked out through the door of the bar.

He looked at the horses, and counted but three:
�You were always together�where�s Harry?� cried he.
Oh, sadly they looked at the glass as they said,
�You may put it away, for our old mate is dead;�
But one, gazing out o�er the ridges afar,
Said, �We owe him a shout�leave the glass on the bar.�

They thought of the far-away grave on the plain,
They thought of the comrade who came not again,
They lifted their glasses, and sadly they said:
�We drink to the name of the mate who is dead.�
And the sunlight streamed in, and a light like a star
Seemed to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar.

And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen,
It stands by the clock, ever polished and clean;
And often the strangers will read as they pass
The name of a bushman engraved on the glass;
And though on the shelf but a dozen there are,
That glass never stands with the rest on the bar.



John