In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses Part 1

In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses.

by Henry Lawson.

PREFACE

Most of the verses contained in this volume were first published in the Sydney 'Bulletin'; others in the Brisbane 'Boomerang', Sydney 'Freeman's Journal', 'Town and Country Journal', 'Worker', and 'New Zealand Mail', whose editors and proprietors I desire to thank for past kindnesses and for present courtesy in granting me the right of reproduction in book form.

'In the Days When the World was Wide' was written in Maoriland and some of the other verses in Victoria, Queensland and Western Australia.

The dates of original publication are given in the Table of Contents.

Those undated are now printed for the first time.

HENRY LAWSON.

IN THE DAYS WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND OTHER VERSES

In the Days When the World was Wide

The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow, For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go; Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side -- And tired of all is the spirit that sings of the days when the world was wide.

When the North was hale in the march of Time, and the South and the West were new, And the gorgeous East was a pantomime, as it seemed in our boyhood's view; When Spain was first on the waves of change, and proud in the ranks of pride, And all was wonderful, new and strange in the days when the world was wide.

Then a man could fight if his heart were bold, and win if his faith were true -- Were it love, or honour, or power, or gold, or all that our hearts pursue; Could live to the world for the family name, or die for the family pride, Could fly from sorrow, and wrong, and shame in the days when the world was wide.

They sailed away in the s.h.i.+ps that sailed ere science controlled the main, When the strong, brave heart of a man prevailed as 'twill never prevail again; They knew not whither, nor much they cared -- let Fate or the winds decide -- The worst of the Great Unknown they dared in the days when the world was wide.

They raised new stars on the silent sea that filled their hearts with awe; They came to many a strange countree and marvellous sights they saw.

The villagers gaped at the tales they told, and old eyes glistened with pride -- When barbarous cities were paved with gold in the days when the world was wide.

'Twas honest metal and honest wood, in the days of the Outward Bound, When men were gallant and s.h.i.+ps were good -- roaming the wide world round.

The G.o.ds could envy a leader then when 'Follow me, lads!' he cried -- They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the world was wide.

They tried to live as a freeman should -- they were happier men than we, In the glorious days of wine and blood, when Liberty crossed the sea; 'Twas a comrade true or a foeman then, and a trusty sword well tried -- They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the world was wide.

The good s.h.i.+p bound for the Southern seas when the beacon was Ballarat, With a 's.h.i.+p ahoy!' on the freshening breeze, 'Where bound?' and 'What s.h.i.+p's that?' -- The emigrant train to New Mexico -- the rush to the Lachlan Side -- Ah! faint is the echo of Westward Ho!

from the days when the world was wide.

South, East, and West in advance of Time -- and, ay! in advance of Thought Those brave men rose to a height sublime -- and is it for this they fought?

And is it for this d.a.m.ned life we praise the G.o.d-like spirit that died At Eureka Stockade in the Roaring Days with the days when the world was wide?

We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts we guard; Where scarcely the scorn of a G.o.d could touch, the sneer of a sneak hits hard; The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the weapons of curs, decide -- They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the world was wide.

Think of it all -- of the life that is! Study your friends and foes!

Study the past! And answer this: 'Are these times better than those?'

The life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your poisoned pride!

No matter who fell it were better to fight as they did when the world was wide.

Boast as you will of your mates.h.i.+p now -- crippled and mean and sly -- The lines of suspicion on friends.h.i.+p's brow were traced since the days gone by.

There was room in the long, free lines of the van to fight for it side by side -- There was beating-room for the heart of a man in the days when the world was wide.

With its dull, brown days of a-s.h.i.+lling-an-hour the dreary year drags round: Is this the result of Old England's power?

-- the bourne of the Outward Bound?

Is this the sequel of Westward Ho! -- of the days of Whate'er Betide?

The heart of the rebel makes answer 'No!

We'll fight till the world grows 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 and 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!

Faces in the Street

They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown; For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet My window-sill is level with the faces in the street -- Drifting past, drifting past, To the beat of weary feet -- While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair, To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care; I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street -- Drifting on, drifting on, To the sc.r.a.pe of restless feet; I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by, Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet, Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street -- Flowing in, flowing in, To the beat of hurried feet -- Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight, Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late; But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street -- Grinding body, grinding soul, Yielding scarce enough to eat -- Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town, Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street, Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat -- Drifting round, drifting round, To the tread of listless feet -- Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street.

And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away, And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day, Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat, Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street -- Ebbing out, ebbing out, To the drag of tired feet, While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street.

And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end, For while the short 'large hours' toward the longer 'small hours' trend, With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat, Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street -- Sinking down, sinking down, Battered wreck by tempests beat -- A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.

But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes, For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums, Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet, And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street -- Rotting out, rotting out, For the lack of air and meat -- In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street.

I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor?

Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat, When G.o.d demands a reason for the sorrows of the street, The wrong things and the bad things And the sad things that we meet In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.