POETRY SPOT

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Where the Dead Men Lie

By Barcroft Henry Boake

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By G Barron at:

https://www.storiesofoz.com/2017/09/22/where-the-dead-men-lie/

There have always been two schools of thought on the Australian bush: epitomised in the romantic writings of Banjo Patterson, and the harder, more brutal outback of Henry Lawson.

The poet who presented the bush in the harshest light of all was stockman and poet Barcroft Boake. That doesn’t, of course, mean that he loved it any less. Born in Balmain, in 1866, Barcroft was the son of a very early professional photographer. Having lost three of his siblings in their infancy, he was prone to bouts of melancholy, even as a child, but he loved sport and outdoor activities. He dreamed of living and working in the outback.

At the age of seventeen Barcroft applied for training as a surveyor. He spent years in the back blocks of New South Wales, connecting with the Western landscape. Before long he had quit the Survey Department and was off droving in Queensland. At the same time he devoured the poetry of Adam Lindsay Gordon, and developed the urge to express the tough love he felt for the bush. He started writing, and by 1890 his poems were appearing regularly in the Bulletin magazine.

His career as a poet was short-lived. When he was just twenty-four years of age he was called back to Sydney where his family was facing bankruptcy. Barcroft helped with what he could, but fruitlessly searched for work, battling depression and anxiety. His body was found under a tree on the shores of Sydney Harbour in May 1892, hanging from his own stockwhip.

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"Where the Dead Men Lie" has been described as Boake's "signature poem".

It was first published in The Bulletin magazine on 19 December 1891, and later in the poet's poetry collection Where the Dead Men Lie, and Other Poems (1897).

Some comments on the poem:

J. Larcombe in The Worker considered the poem "Boake's masterpiece...In it the young poet expressed his detestation of the cruel, selfish squatters, their inhuman conduct, and the tragedy for which they were responsible."

The Oxford Companion to Australian Literature states "In the poem Boake uses the contemptuous name 'Moneygrub' to denote the typical wealthy absentee landlord who lives in city luxury provided for him by the ordinary men and women of the outback..."

The Cambridge History of Australian Literature described the poem "as by far the bleakest poetic vision" of the Australian landscape as it evokes "a haunted frontier."

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Where the Dead Men Lie

Out on the wastes of the “Never Never,”

That’s where the dead men lie,

There where the heat-waves dance forever,

That’s where the dead men lie;

That’s where the Earth’s lov’d sons are keeping

endless tryst – not the west wind sweeping

feverish pinions, can wake their sleeping –

Out where the dead men lie!

Where brown Summer and Death have mated,

That’s where the dead men lie,

Loving with fiery lust unsated,

That’s where the dead men lie;

Out where the grinning skulls bleach whitely,

Under the saltbush sparkling brightly,

Out where the wild dogs chorus nightly,

That’s where the dead men lie.

Deep in the yellow, flowing river,

That’s where the dead men lie,

Under the banks where the shadows quiver,

That’s where the dead men lie;

Where the platypus twists and doubles,

leaving a trail of tiny bubbles;

Rid at last of their earthly troubles,

That’s where the dead men lie.

East and backward pale faces turning,

That’s how the dead men lie;

Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning,

That’s how the dead men lie;

Oft in the fragrant hush of nooning,

Hearing again their mother’s crooning,

Wrapt for aye in a dreadful swooning,

That’s how the dead men lie.

Nought but the hand of Night can free them;

That’s when the dead men fly;

Only the frightened cattle see them –

See the dead men go by;

Cloven hoofs beating out one measure,

Bidding the stockman know no leisure,

That’s when the dead men take their pleasure,

That’s when the dead men fly.

Ask, too, the never-sleeping drover,

He sees the dead pass by,

Hearing them call to their friends – the plover,

Hearing the dead men cry.

Seeing their faces stealing, stealing,

Hearing their laughter pealing, pealing,

Watching their grey forms wheeling, wheeling

Round where the cattle lie.

Strangled by thirst and fierce privation –

That’s how the dead men die

Out on “Moneygrub’s” furthest station,

That’s how the dead men die;

Hardfaced greybeards, youngsters callow,

Some mounds cared for, some left fallow,

Some deep down, yet others shallow,

Some having but the sky.

“Moneygrub” as he sips his claret

Looks with complacent eye

Down at his watch-chain, eighteen-carat,

There in his club hard by:

Recks not that every link is stamped with

Names of the men whose limbs are cramped with

Too long lying in grave-mould, camped with

Death where the dead men lie.

Barcroft Boake

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HENRY LAWSON - SOMETHING DIFFERENT

 

Henry Lawson (1867 – 1922), was an Australian writer and bush poet. Along with his contemporary Banjo Paterson, Lawson is among the best-known Australian poets and fiction writers of the colonial period and is often called Australia's "greatest short story writer".

A vocal nationalist and republican, Lawson regularly contributed to The Bulletin, and many of his works helped popularise the Australian vernacular in fiction. He wrote prolifically into the 1890s, after which his output declined, in part due to struggles with alcoholism and mental illness. At times destitute, he spent periods in Darlinghurst Gaol and psychiatric institutions.

After he died in 1922 following a cerebral haemorrhage, Lawson became the first Australian writer to be granted a state funeral.

The following poem – Written Out - by Lawson gives an insight into his private hell and demons.

"Written Out" contrasts with Lawson's earlier work, known for its focus on the Australian bush and rural hardship. This poem delves into the darker elements of urban life and explores themes of degradation, societal hypocrisy, and the fragility of reputation. It captures the bleak reality of a writer struggling with alcoholism and the judgment and pity he faces from both admirers and detractors. Lawson's portrayal of the writer's descent into self-destruction is a stark depiction of the challenges faced by artists in the face of adversity.

https://allpoetry.com/Written-Out-_1_

Written Out

- Henry Lawson

Sing the song of the reckless, who care not what they do;

Sing the song of a sinner and the song of a writer, too—

Down in a pub in the alleys, in a dark and dirty hole,

With every soul a drunkard and the boss with never a soul.

Uncollared, unkempt, unshaven, sat the writer whose fame was fair,

And the girls of the streets were round him, and the bullies and bludgers there;

He was one of themselves and they told him the things that they had to tell—

He was studying human nature with his brothers and sisters in hell.

He was neither poor nor lonely, for a place in the world he’d won,

And up in the heights of the city he’d a thousand friends or none;

But he knew that his chums could wait awhile, that he’d reckon with foes at last,

For he lived far into a future that he knew because of the past.

They remembered the man he had been, they remembered the songs he wrote,

And some of them came to pity and some of them came to gloat:

Some of them shouted exulting—some whispered with bated breath

That down in a den in the alleys he was drinking himself to death.

Thus said the voice of the hypocrites—and the true hearts sighed with pain,

‘Oh! he never will write as he used to write! He never will write again;’

A poet had written his epitaph in numbers of sad regret,

And the passing-notice was pigeon-holed, and the last review was set.

But the strength was in him to rise again to a greater height, he knew,

For the sake of the friends who were true to him and the work that he had to do;

He was sounding the depths that he had to know, he was gathering truths for his craft,

And he heard the chatter of little men—and he turned to his beer and laughed.

POETRY SPOT

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Henry Lawson (1867 – 1922), an Australian writer and bush poet, has featured regularly in Bytes posts, mostly for poems about the harshness of life in the bush and the grittiness of the cities.

Along with his contemporary Banjo Paterson, Lawson is among the best-known Australian poets and fiction writers of the colonial period and is often called Australia's "greatest short story writer".

A vocal nationalist and republican, Lawson regularly contributed to The Bulletin, and many of his works helped popularise the Australian vernacular in fiction. He wrote prolifically into the 1890s, after which his output declined, in part due to struggles with alcoholism and mental illness. At times destitute, he spent periods in Darlinghurst Gaol and psychiatric institutions. After he died in 1922 following a cerebral haemorrhage, Lawson became the first Australian writer to be granted a state funeral.

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Here is a poem that is not in the usual Lawson mould . . .

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Do You Think That I Do Not Know?

    - Henry Lawson

They say that I never have written of love,

As a writer of songs should do;

They say that I never could touch the strings

With a touch that is firm and true;

They say I know nothing of women and men

In the fields where Love's roses grow,

And they say I must write with a halting pen

Do you think that I do not know?

When the love-burst came, like an English Spring,

In days when our hair was brown,

And the hem of her skirt was a sacred thing

And her hair was an angel's crown.

The shock when another man touched her arm,

Where the dancers sat round in a row;

The hope and despair, and the false alarm

Do you think that I do not know?

By the arbour lights on the western farms,

You remember the question put,

While you held her warm in your quivering arms

And you trembled from head to foot.

The electric shock from her finger tips,

And the murmuring answer low,

The soft, shy yielding of warm red lips

Do you think that I do not know?

She was buried at Brighton, where Gordon sleeps,

When I was a world away;

And the sad old garden its secret keeps,

For nobody knows to-day.

She left a message for me to read,

Where the wild wide oceans flow;

Do you know how the heart of a man can bleed

Do you think that I do not know?

I stood by the grave where the dead girl lies,

When the sunlit scenes were fair,

And the white clouds high in the autumn skies,

And I answered the message there.

But the haunting words of the dead to me

Shall go wherever I go.

She lives in the Marriage that Might Have Been

Do you think that I do not know?

They sneer or scoff, and they pray or groan,

And the false friend plays his part.

Do you think that the blackguard who drinks alone

Knows aught of a pure girl's heart?

Knows aught of the first pure love of a boy

With his warm young blood aglow,

Knows aught of the thrill of the world-old joy

Do you think that I do not know?

They say that I never have written of love,

They say that my heart is such

That finer feelings are far above;

But a writer may know too much.

There are darkest depths in the brightest nights,

When the clustering stars hang low;

There are things it would break his strong heart to write

Do you think that I do not know?

POETRY SPOT

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The Austral 'light'

- Harry "The Breaker" Morant

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Back in 2012 I posted a Bytes item about Harry “Breaker” Morant, an Australian soldier born in England and executed by the Brits during the Boer War for murdering prisoners and civilians. You can read that post by clicking on:

http://www.bytesdaily.com.au/2012/10/breaker-morant.html

It makes interesting reading and is worth a visit.

Harry “Breaker” Harbord Morant

(1864 – 1902)

Some brief facts:

Born in England, Morant arrived in Australia in 1883 and became a roustabout, his skill with horses earning him the nickname “The Breaker” or just “Breaker”.

Fearless, hard-drinking, womanising, a bush poet and a larrikin, he worked at various times as a roustabout, horse trader, newspaper writer, and a bookkeeper and storeman on a cattle station.

In 1884 Morant married Daisy May O’Dwyer. The couple separated soon after the marriage but they never formally divorced. Known subsequently as Daisy Bates by virtue of a secret but bigamous marriage, Daisy later became a well known anthropologist and activist for aboriginal rights. Daisy reportedly threw Breaker out for not paying for the wedding and for stealing some pigs and a saddle.

After the marriage, Morant worked as a drover and horse-breaker for 5 years. He continued submitting poetry to the Bulletin magazine and was acquainted with Banjo Patterson and Henry Lawson.

In 1899 Morant enlisted to take part in the Second Boer War in South Africa, Britain being at war with the Boers, the Dutch settlers of the two independent Boer republics. He was appointed a lance-corporal and sailed to South Africa in 1900. His horsemanship, bush skill and educated manner saw him rise in the ranks to become a lieutenant in the Bushveldt Carbineers (“BVC”).

Boer strategy was to strike in guerrilla raids. The word “commando” comes from the Afrikaans word “Kommando”, meaning “mobile infantry [at that time by horse] regiment”. In response to commando raids and attacks, and to counter them, Lord Kitchener, the British commander in South Africa, deployed irregular units including the BVC.

Following the death of his commanding officer, Captain Hunt, in a Boer engagement at which Morant was not present, Morant reportedly became upset and disturbed. When setting out to hunt down the Boers responsible, he vowed to avenge the death and to take no prisoners.

Morant was arrested and court-martialled for committing murder on active service – one of the first such prosecutions in British military history. According to military prosecutors, Morant retaliated for the death in combat of his commanding officer with a series of revenge killings against both Boer POWs and civilian residents of the Northern Transvaal.

Morant's defence attorney, Major James Francis Thomas, demanded the acquittal of his clients under what is now called the Nuremberg Defence, alleging that his clients could not be held legally or morally responsible because they only followed orders.

Morant and Lieutenant Peter Handcock were found guilty of the murder of a wounded POW, a further eight victims at Elim Hospital, and three others. They were executed by firing squad in 1902.

Both men refused blindfolds at their execution. Morant’s last words were "Shoot straight, you bastards! Don't make a mess of it!" A contemporary report (from The Argus 3 April 1902) however has his last words as "Take this thing (the blindfold) off", and on its removal, "Be sure and make a good job of it!"

Morant and Handcock have become folk heroes in modern Australia, representing a turning point for Australians' self-determination and independence from British rule.

The story has been the subject of a 1980 Bruce Beresford film

Some modern Australians regard Morant and Handcock as scapegoats or even as victims of judicial murder. They continue to attempt, with some public support, to obtain a posthumous pardon or even a new trial.

Read more about Breaker Morant in other Bytes posts by clicking on:

http://www.bytesdaily.com.au/2016/04/some-military-news-items.html

and

http://www.bytesdaily.com.au/2021/03/poetry-spot_15.html

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The following 1897 poem by Breaker Morant is from The Bulletin and predates his participation in the Boer War.

The Austral 'light'

We were standing by the fireside at the pub one wintry night

Drinking grog and 'pitching fairies' while the lengthening hours took flight,

And a stranger there was present, one who seemed quite city-bred---

There was little showed about him to denote him 'mulga-fed'.

For he wore a four-inch collar, tucked up pants, and boots of tan---

You might take him for a new-chum, or a Sydney city man---

But in spite of cuff or collar, Lord! he gave himself away

When he cut and rubbed a pipe full and had filled his coloured clay.

For he never asked for matches--although in that boozing band

There was more than one man standing with a matchbox in his hand;

And I knew him for a bushman 'spite his tailor-made attire'.

As I saw him stoop and fossick for a fire-stick from the fire.

And that mode of weed-ignition to my memory brough back

Long nights when nags were hobbled on a far North-western track;

Recalled campfires in the timber, when the stars shone big and bright,

And we learned the matchless virtues of a glowing gidgee light.

And I thought of piney sand-ridges---and somehow I could swear

That this tailor-made johnny had at one time been 'out there'.

And as he blew the white ash from the tapering, glowing coal,

Faith! my heart went out towards him for a kindred country soul.

Harry Morant (The Breaker)

FROM THE VAULT

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The Flame War Between Henry Lawson and Banjo Paterson

This is a reduced version of an article that has been previously posted in Bytes, which can be read in full at: http://bytesdaily.blogspot.com/search?q=lawson+banjo+bulletin

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The Australian image:

Australian nationalism and the search for identity promoted the Australian bushman image. The bush became a symbol for national life. By 1900 the bush was seen as the basis of Australian greatness and achievement, the Anzac soldier being a fusion of the bush characteristics and the military. The irony is that the much greater part of the population lived in the cities and urban areas and that the reality of bush life was often far removed from the romanticised images portrayed in art and writing.

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Henry Lawson:

Henry Lawson had been born on the goldfields in 1867, the son of a Norwegian seaman, Niels Larsen, who later changed his name to Peter Lawson. The family was poor and lived on a selection in the Mudgee district. Lawson’s childhood was not happy. He suffered from deafness and was often teased as a result. His parents separated when he was 16, following which he moved to Sydney with his mother who commenced publication of a feminist newspaper. Suffering from manic depression, Lawson sought refuge from his mood swings in alcohol. A marriage in 1896 produced 2 children but that marriage was also not a happy one. He separated from his wife in 1903. Periods of time in gaol for failing to support his family alternated with periods of time spent in institutions for alcoholism. He died in 1922.

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Andrew Barton “Banjo” Paterson:

Paterson was born on a farm near Orange in 1864, the son of a Scottish father and Australian mother. At the age of 10 he was sent to a school in Sydney, becoming a solicitor in 1886. From 1885 he had been submitting material to The Bulletin under the name “The Banjo, the name of his favourite horse.

Paterson was a war correspondent during the Boer War and managed a property near Yass from 1908. He failed to become a war correspondent during WW1 and drove an ambulance instead. Returning to Australia in 1915, he was mobilised and saw active service, including being wounded. He died in 1941, aged 76.

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The Bulletin:

The Bulletin was a weekly magazine published from 1880 to 2008, founded by journalists J F Archibald (founder of the Archibald Prize) and John Haynes. It was nationalist, anti-imperialist, republican and racist, its masthead bearing the words “Australia for the White Man” (the slogan remaining until the magazine was modernised upon its purchase by Sir Frank Packer in 1961). It was radical, xenophobic and blokey. From 1886 it published readers’ contributions, with the result that many later famous authors received their start by having poems and articles published in The Bulletin.

In its heyday The Bulletin was influential. It supported and promoted the bush legend self-image that Australians had of themselves

J F Archibald with Henry Lawson

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The Bulletin Debate:

Both Lawson and Paterson were being regularly published in the Bulletin by 1892. They knew each other and were friends, despite different outlooks.

Each typified a different view of the bush: Paterson wrote its wildness, beauty, its characters and its instilling of strength and mateship; Lawson of its struggle and cruelty.

They began portraying their different views of the bush and the outback in a poetic debate in the columns of the Bulletin, a debate which began lightly but ended their friendship.

The initiating item in the debate was a poem by Lawson, Up the Country, in which he describes the bleak, barren and drought ridden countryside he experienced on a trip from the city, its struggling people and its cruel demands.

The first verse reads:

I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went --

Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent;

I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track,

Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back.

Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast,

But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast.

Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town,

Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.

He concludes that

“…the Southern poets' dream will not be realised

Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised.”

http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/henry-lawson/up-the-country/

Paterson responded 2 weeks later with In Defence of the Bush, which opens with:

So you're back from up the country, Mister Lawson, where you went,

And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent;

Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear

That it wasn't cool and shady — and there wasn't whips of beer,

And the looney bullock snorted when you first came into view —

Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you;

And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown,

And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town.

Paterson then describes the bush in a romanticised manner: its lushness and beauty when the rains come in a month or two; the friendships in the shearers’ sheds; the mateship of the men of the bush and the jollity around the campfire at night, all to be compared with the squalid and hostile city and its inhabitants.

His final advice to Lawson is:

You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the "push",

For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush.

http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/25342-A-B--Banjo-Paterson-In-Defence-of-the-Bush

Lawson’s reply was published 2 weeks later, The City Bushman, in which he accuses Paterson of travelling in the bush a a city person, with all the city comforts and conveniences:

It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went,

For you sought the greener patches and you travelled like a gent;

Lawson accuses Paterson of romanticising the bush at the expense of its harsh realities: the backbreaking toil, the interest rates of the banks, the working for absentee landlords; the droughts and floods that ruin the farmers and their families. He speaks of “the drover who is driven and the shearer who is shorn” and says that the camaraderie of the campfire means little when the rain soaks both you and your supplies, when you have to toil for the station owner for provisions instead of money and where the “the drovers and the shearers and the bushmen and the rest” are nowhere near as well off as the poets who write about their idealised existence.

He concludes:

But you'll find it very jolly with the cuff-and-collar push,

And the city seems to suit you, while you rave about the bush.

http://www.poetryconnection.net/poets/Henry_Lawson/19134

Two months later, in October 1982, Paterson replied to Lawson and his other critics in An Answer to Various Bards. Read it at:

https://www.telelib.com/authors/P/PatersonAB_Banjo/verse/saltbushbillandother/answerbards.html#:~:text=An%20Answer%20to%20Various%20Bards%20Andrew%20Barton%20%E2%80%98Banjo%E2%80%99,Mister%20Dyson%2C%20and%20the%20others%20of%20their%20kin%2C

He commented that the townies should stay in town or move to England and leave the bush to those who were tougher and stronger.

The references in the poem to beer, pubs and bars are part of Paterson’s personal jibes at Lawson and his alcoholism. The debate had become caustic and personal, with Paterson early on attacking the man rather than the argument.

As often happens in joking between friends, a line can be crossed, as happened here. The debate ended the friendship.

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TO AN OLD MATE - POEM BY HENRY LAWSON

I have previously published a number of the less well known poems of Australia’s best known and loved bush poets, Banjo Patterson and Henry Lawson.

Here is another by Henry Lawson, To an Old Mate, published in 1896 in In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses.

Henry Lawson

In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses (1896) was the first collection of poems by Henry Lawson. It was released in 1896, and features To An Old Mate as the first poem, serving as an introduction and dedication.  

The anthology contains a drawing by Frank Mahony humping the track with his bluey:

Mateship has always been a strong element of the Australian psyche, culture and ethos, although its existence is disputed by some. It has been explained as having evolved from the convict days when men stuck together against authority, developed on the goldfields and forged further at Gallipoli and other battlefields. It has been described as being more than just friendship, that it includes bonds of loyalty, equality, solidarity and fraternity.

Ned Kelly, escaping from the siege at Glenrowan to warn off supporters, then returned to the standoff of the three members of his gang and the police. Those three died, Kelly was badly wounded and arrested. Asked why he had returned when he had gotten away, he responded “A man would have to be a dingo to run out on his mates.”

Those wishing to look further into the topic of mateship and the writings of Henry Lawson should read an article by Deborah Scheidt (yes, I agree, unfortunate author name for a scholarly article) entitled "Mateship and egalitarianism in Henry Lawson's short stories".  It can be read at:

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/327742127_Mateship_and_egalitarianism_in_Henry_Lawson's_short_stories

The abstract at the beginning of that article reads:

Mateship is an important element of the so-called “Australian Tradition” in literature. It consists of a particular bond between men who travel the rural areas known as “the bush” or “the outback”. This article examines some of Henry Lawson’s mateship stories, with a focus on the different connotations that the term can assume for the author, especially regarding the theme of egalitarianism. It considers how the Bulletin Magazine, which “discovered” Lawson and published many of his stories, had a role in fostering a special model of Australian democracy and a peculiar style for Australian literature. It also reflects on how the dissemination of Lawson’s stories through periodicals in the last decades of the 19th century helped create a feeling of what Benedict Anderson calls “nation-ness”

The poem:

To An Old Mate

    - Henry Lawson

Old Mate! In the gusty old weather,

When our hopes and our troubles were new,

In the years spent in wearing out leather,

I found you unselfish and true —

I have gathered these verses together

For the sake of our friendship and you.

You may think for awhile, and with reason,

Though still with a kindly regret,

That I've left it full late in the season

To prove I remember you yet;

But you'll never judge me by their treason

Who profit by friends — and forget.

I remember, Old Man, I remember —

The tracks that we followed are clear —

The jovial last nights of December,

The solemn first days of the year,

Long tramps through the clearings and timber,

Short partings on platform and pier.

I can still feel the spirit that bore us,

And often the old stars will shine —

I remember the last spree in chorus

For the sake of that other Lang Syne,

When the tracks lay divided before us,

Your path through the future and mine.

Through the frost-wind that cut like whip-lashes,

Through the ever-blind haze of the drought —

And in fancy at times by the flashes

Of light in the darkness of doubt —

I have followed the tent poles and ashes

Of camps that we moved further out.

You will find in these pages a trace of

That side of our past which was bright,

And recognise sometimes the face of

A friend who has dropped out of sight —

I send them along in the place of

The letters I promised to write.

Poetry Spot: Some Clancys

In 2010 I posted the story of the Bulletin Debate, and reposted it in 2019. 

Those wishing to read those posts, which are jolly good reads, can do so by clicking on the following links: 

2010: 

http://bytesdaily.blogspot.com/2010/06/bulletin-debate.html#more

2019: 

http://bytesdaily.blogspot.com/2019/10/from-vault-bulletin-debate.html

The "Bulletin Debate" was a well-publicised dispute in The Bulletin magazine between two of Australia's best known writers and poets, Henry Lawson and Banjo Paterson. The debate took place via a series of poems about the merits of living in the Australian "bush", published from 1892–93. 

Banjo Paterson

Henry Lawson

On one level it is a literary duel between Australia’s two most popular poets, a battle of words and outlooks that started as comments and responses but ended up becoming personal, bringing their friendship to an end. On another level it is an examination of national identity at a time when Australia was coming of age. On 1 January 1901 Australia became a nation when 6 British colonies—New South Wales, Victoria, Queensland, South Australia, Western Australia and Tasmania—united to form the Commonwealth of Australia. The “Bush” was a significant component of that identity. 

For Paterson, a Sydney city solicitor, the Bush was a place of mateship, camaraderie, heroism, people supporting each other, standing proud and tall. See, for example, Paterson’s most famous poem "The Man from Snowy River". 

Lawson saw it differently and considered Paterson’s outlook romantic BS that was filtered through rose coloured glasses. To Lawson the Bush was harsh, cruel, unforgiving and unrelenting. As an example, read Lawson’s "Past Carin’" at: 

http://bytesdaily.blogspot.com/2018/08/past-carin.html

Other poets also contributed to the Bulletin Debate. 

I came across two such examples recently, responses to Paterson’s famous poem Clancy of the Overflow. They put a reality check on Paterson’s view of the bush. 

To understand the response, one needs to firstly read Clancy, a poem known to all in Oz, including each school child . . . 

Some preliminary comments: 

For those who would prefer to hear the poem put to music, here is Slim Dusty’s version: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fN-k5CUmAMc

The Overflow is a rural region in the centre of New South Wales. 

“Clancy of the Overflow”, illustrated by Jamie and Leanne Tufrey. This postcard was published by Australian post to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the birth of Barton “Banjo” Paterson. Clancy of the Overflow is a poem by him that was published in 1889. 

Paterson’s poem in all its idyllic glory: 

Clancy of the Overflow

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better 

Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago, 

He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him, 

Just "on spec", addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow". 

And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected, 

(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar) 

Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it: 

"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are." 

In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy 

Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go; 

As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing, 

For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know. 

And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him 

In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars, 

And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended, 

And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars. 

I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy 

Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall, 

And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city 

Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all 

And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle 

Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street, 

And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting, 

Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet. 

And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me 

As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste, 

With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, 

For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste. 

And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy, 

Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go, 

While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal — 

But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".

The Drover, 1912, by Walter Withers 

Response #1: 

The first response, The Overflow of Clancy, was by a poet who identified only as H.H.C.C. No-one knows the identity of "H.H.C.C." for sure, but one commentator believes it was Henry Lawson. It was first published in The Bulletin on 20 August 1892 and was followed 7 days later by the second response, which appears after the poem below.  Both responses use lines and images from Paterson's poem and from other poems in the Bulletin Debate.

The Overflow of Clancy

I've read "The Banjo's" letter, and I'm glad he's found a better 

Billet than he had upon the station where I met him years ago; 

He was "slushy" then for Scotty, but the "bushland" sent him "dotty," 

So he "rose up, William Riley," and departed down below. 

He "rolled up" very gladly, for he had bush-fever badly 

When he left "the smoke" to wander "where the wattle-blossoms wave," 

But a course of "stag and brownie" seems to make the bush-struck towny 

Kinder weaken on the wattle and the bushman's lonely grave. 

Safe in town, he spins romances of the bush until one fancies 

That it's all top-boots and chorus, kegs of rum and "whips" of grass, 

And the sheep off camp go stringing when the "boss-in-charge" is singing, 

Whilst we "blow the cool tobacco-smoke and watch the white wreaths pass." 

Yet, I guess "The B." feels fitter in a b'iled shirt and "hard-hitter" 

Than he would "way down the Cooper" in a flannel smock and "moles," 

For the city cove has leisure to indulge in stocks of pleasure, 

But the drover's only pastime's cooking "What's this! on the coals." 

And the pub. hath friends to meet him, and between the acts they treat him 

While he's swapping "fairy twisters" with the "girls behind their bars," 

And he sees a vista splendid when the ballet is extended, 

And at night he's in his glory with the comic-op'ra stars. 

I am sitting, very weary, on a log before a dreary 

Little fire that's feebly hissing 'neath a heavy fall of rain, 

And the wind is cold and nipping, and I curse the ceaseless dripping 

As I slosh around for wood to start the embers up again. 

And, in place of beauty's greeting, I can hear the dismal bleating 

Of a ewe that's sneaking out among the marshes for her lamb; 

And for all the poet's skitin' that a new-chum takes delight in, 

The drover's share of pleasure isn't worth a tinker's d--n. 

Does he sneer at bricks and mortar when he's squatting in the water 

After riding fourteen hours beneath a sullen, weeping sky? 

Does he look aloft and thank it, as he spreads his sodden blanket? 

For the drover has no time to spare, he has no time to dry. 

If "The Banjo's" game to fill it, he is welcome to my billet; 

He can "take a turn at droving" -- wages three-and-six a-day -- 

And his throat'll get more gritty than mine will in the city 

Where with Mister Lawson's squashes I can wash the dust away. 

First published in The Bulletin, 20 August 1892 

Response #2:

The other response to Clancy was by Francis Kenna (1865 – 1932), an Australian poet, journalist, and Labor Member of the Legislative Assembly in Queensland. Kenna published Banjo, of the Overflow, in 1892, as part of the Bulletin Debate about the true nature of life in the Australian bush. 

Francis Kenna 

Kenna’s poem . . . 

Banjo, of the Overflow 

I had written him a letter, which I had for want of better 

Knowledge given to a partner by the name of "Greenhide Jack" -- 

He was shearing when I met him, and I thought perhaps I'd let him 

Know that I was "stiff," and, maybe, he would send a trifle back. 

My request was not requited, for an answer came indited 

On a sheet of scented paper, in an ink of fancy blue; 

And the envelope, I fancy, had an "Esquire" to the Clancy, 

And it simply read, "I'm busy; but I'll see what I can do!" 

To the vision land I can go, and I often think of the "Banjo" -- 

Of the boy I used to shepherd in the not so long ago, 

He was not the bushman's kidney, and among the crowd of Sydney 

He'll be more at home than mooning on the dreary Overflow. 

He has clients now to fee him, and has friends to come and see him, 

He can ride from morn to evening in the padded hansom cars, 

And he sees the beauties blending where the throngs are never ending, 

And at night the wond'rous women in the everlasting bars. 

I am tired of reading prattle of the sweetly-lowing cattle 

Stringing out across the open with the bushmen riding free; 

I am sick at heart of roving up and down the country droving, 

And of alternating damper with the salt-junk and the tea. 

And from sleeping in the water on the droving trips I've caught a 

Lively dose of rheumatism in my back and in my knee, 

And in spite of verse it's certain that the sky's a leaky curtain -- 

It may suit the "Banjo" nicely, but it never suited me. 

And the bush is very pretty when you view it from the city, 

But it loses all its beauty when you face it "on the pad;" 

And the wildernesses haunt you, and the plains extended daunt you, 

Till at times you come to fancy life will drive you mad. 

But I somehow often fancy that I'd rather not be Clancy, 

That I'd like to be the "Banjo" where the people come and go 

When instead of framing curses I'd be writing charming verses -- 

Tho' I scarcely think he'd swap me, "Banjo, of the Overflow." 

First published in The Bulletin, 27 August 1892

Readers Write

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I received an email from Steve M in response to the post on The Bulletin Debate, the battle in poetry 1892-1893 within the pages of The Bulletin. The debate was between Henry Lawson, who saw the bush as harsh and demanding, and Banjo Paterson, who viewed it as having charm and attractions. From that post: “Each typified a different view of the bush: Paterson wrote its wildness, beauty, its characters and its instilling of strength and mateship; Lawson of its struggle and cruelty.” 

From Steve, himself a published author: 

Another tremendous Bytes today Otto.  

Bush poets... who would have thought they could write so eloquently about a woman’s anatomy?  

Diane and I think we are losing our Australianism, and becoming just another destination country, Europeanised if you like. The Government’s failure to keep the Bush alive through the worst drought in living memory is beyond appalling. During our book tour this year we have been to several towns that you can see are folding down, shutting up, closing. Narromine is a fine example. The library was so obliging during our visit, half the town turned out to meet us including the Mayor, whose optimism was clouded with reality – the farmers thereabouts had no money and it seemed that one in three shops (mom and pop shops as the Americans would say) were gone. And that was just the start. No water soon, no hope, long faces and tears when they talked about being forgotten by Canberra.  

During my days working in a UK Merchant Bank (I had hair then) our MD told us that 99.9% of business fail because of poor management – not adapting to change, not foreseeing what was going to happen in their industry, undercapitalising their businesses, making poor decisions and judgement calls - so on and so forth. I can’t help thinking that Australia is in the same boat. Our management (all sides of the Chamber) are so far removed from reality it is ridiculous. We will prevail, because that is what we do, but the amount of damage done by incompetent management is unnecessary and callous. They should be prosecuted for incompetence.

 Steve m

Thanks, Steve.

This is what Steve is talking about . . . 

An echidna searches for water.  The owner now leaves out saucers of water.

Maybe Lawson got it right . . . 

Now up and down the siding brown 

The great black crows are flyin', 

And down below the spur, I know, 

Another `milker's' dyin'; 

The crops have withered from the ground, 

The tank's clay bed is glarin', 

But from my heart no tear nor sound, 

For I have gone past carin' — 

      Past worryin' or carin', 

      Past feelin' aught or carin';

      But from my heart no tear nor sound, 

      For I have gone past carin'. 

- Henry Lawson, from Past Carin’ 

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I also received a further email (it’s always nice to get feedback) from Steve in response to the Michael Curtiz quote “Don’t talk to me while I’m interrupting.” 

Steve’s email: 

Thanks so much Otto, a terrific Bytes for this nibbler today.

A challenge for you!

In a recent film about Winston Churchill, he is seen yelling: “Don’t talk to me while I am interrupting!” I thought at the time it was a brilliant piece of writing, but it appears to be a Curtizism, the result of a great mind searching for the right words.

Do you know the Churchill film, Otto?

Steve m 

Thanks Steve. 

The quote “Would you stop interrupting me when I am interrupting you” is from that superb 2017 film Darkest Hour. 

I have attempted to locate an authority for this quotation and have only found a reference to a comment by Winston to his son. It appears in the very detailed work “Churchill by Himself – The Definitive Collection of Quotations”, edited by Richard Langworth, which quotes from Martin Gilbert’s book “Winston Churchill, the Wilderness Years”: 

Randolph, do not interrupt me while I’m interrupting! 

CIRCA 1930S. (GILBERT, WILDERNESS, 13.) 

WSC to his son. Sir Martin Gilbert writes: 

Churchill`s own impish sense of humour 

cajoled and won over the disputants. Once, 

amid a ferocious quarrel over some topic 

long since forgotten, Churchill reduced the 

whole family to mirthful convulsions with 

[this remark]. 

http://www.worldhistory.biz/download567/Churchill_by_Himself_The_Definitive_Collection_of_Quotations_1586486381.pdf

at page 519. 

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By the way . . . 

Back in 2015 expectant mother Dee Parsons had an ultrasound of her 20 week old baby. It was a time when she and husband Edward were feeling down by events around them, both globally and by the death of someone close to them. “We were thinking, we’re bringing this child into the world at such a horrible time,’ according to Dee. 

Then they saw the ultrasound . . . 

The baby was making a V-sign, the victory gesture associated with Winston Churchill and, latterly, with world peace. 

According to Dee “It’s nice to have such an iconic image of peace when there’s so much unrest all around us. It was very reassuring.” 

She said she and her husband were feeling weighed down by negative global events and the death of someone close to them. "We were thinking, we’re bringing this child into the world at such a horrible time, but then this happened, we couldn’t quite believe what we were seeing."

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A contribution by Vince C on the topic of Brexit . . .

Thanks, Vince.

Caution, some risque items ahead.