Part 22

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, remember, that's the motto of the world.

'Shun the fields of love, where lightly, to a low and mocking tune, Strong and useful lives are ruined, and the broken hearts are strewn. Not a farthing is the value of the honest love you hold; Call it lust, and make it serve you! Set your heart on nought but gold. At the bliss of purer passions let your lip in scorn be curled -- 'Self and Pelf', my friend, shall ever be the motto of the world.'

Then he ceased and looked intently in my face, and nearer drew; But a sudden deep repugnance to his presence thrilled me through; Then I saw his face was cruel, by the look that o'er it stole, Then I felt his breath was poison, by the shuddering of my soul, Then I guessed his purpose evil, by his lip in sneering curled, And I knew he slandered mankind, by my knowledge of the world.

But he vanished as a purer brighter presence gained my side -- 'Heed him not! there's truth and friendship in this wondrous world,' she cried, And of those who cleave to virtue in their climbing for renown, Only they who faint or falter from the height are shaken down. At a cynic's baneful teaching let your lip in scorn be curled! 'Brotherhood and Love and Honour!' is the motto for the world.'

The End.

WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE, AND OTHER VERSES.

By Henry Lawson.

THE ACADEMY: "These ballads (for such they mostly are) abound in spirit and manhood, in the colour and smell of Australian soil. They deserve the popularity which they have won in Australia, and which, we trust, this edition will now give them in England."

THE SPEAKER: "There are poems in 'In the Days When the World was Wide' which are of a higher mood than any yet heard in distinctively Australian poetry."

LITERARY WORLD: "Not a few of the pieces have made us feel discontented with our sober surroundings, and desirous of seeing new birds, new landscapes, new stars; for at times the blood tingles because of Mr. Lawson's galloping rhymes."

NEWCASTLE WEEKLY CHRONICLE: "Swinging, rhythmic verse."

WHILE THE BILLY BOILS.

By Henry Lawson.

THE ACADEMY: "A book of honest, direct, sympathetic, humorous writing about Australia from within is worth a library of travellers' tales. . . . The result is a real book -- a book in a hundred. His language is terse, supple, and richly idiomatic. He can tell a yarn with the best."

THE SCOTSMAN: "There is no lack of dramatic imagination in the construction of the tales; and the best of them contrive to construct a strong sensational situation in a couple of pages. But the chief charm and value of the book is its fidelity to the rough character of the scenes from which it is drawn."

LITERATURE: "These sketches bring us into contact with one phase of colonial life at first hand. . . . The simplicity of the narrative gives it almost the effect of a story that is told by word of mouth."

THE SPECTATOR: "It is strange that one we would venture to call the greatest Australian writer should be practically unknown in England. Mr. Lawson is a less experienced writer than Mr. Kipling, and more unequal, but there are two or three sketches in this volume which for vigour and truth can hold their own with even so great a rival. Both men have somehow gained that power of concentration which by a few strong strokes can set place and people before you with amazing force."

THE TIMES: "A collection of short and vigorous studies and stories of Australian life and character. A little in Bret Harte's manner, crossed, perhaps, with that of Guy de Maupassant."

BRITISH WEEKLY: "Many of Mr. Lawson's tales photograph life at the diggings or in the bush with an incisive and remorseless reality that grips the imagination. He silhouettes a swagman in a couple of pages, and the man is there, alive."

THE MORNING POST: "For the most part they are full of local colour, and, correctly speaking, represent rather rapid sketches illustrative of life in the bush than tales in the ordinary sense of the word. . . . They bear the impress of truth, sincere if unvarnished."