Up a dark and fetid alley, where the offal and the slime Of a brave and blusterous city met its misery and crime, In a hovel reeking pestilence, and noisome as the grave,...
I heard this day, as I may no more, The world's heart throb at my workshop door. The sun was keen, and the day was still; The township drowsed in, a haze of heat. A stir far off on the sleepy hill,...
There's a wind up that licks like a flame, And the sun is a porthole of hell. Now evanish prim notions of shame, And the craving to look rather well, In pyjamas you're never a swell,...
In politics there's room for jest; With frequent gibes are speeches met, And measures which are of the best Are themes for caustic humor yet. E'en though the pulpiteer we fret...
Once in a blue eternity they gave us dabs of rum To close the seams 'n' keep the flume in liquor-tight condition; But, soft 'n' sentimental, when the long, cold evenin's come,...
'I'm off on the wallaby!' cries Old Ben, And his pipe is lit, and his swag is rolled; 'There is nothing here for us old-time men, But up north, I hear, they are on the gold.'...
Out of work and out of money,out of friends that means, you bet, Out of firewood, togs and tucker, out of everything but debt, And I loathe the barren pavements, and the crowds a fellow meets,...
I have a trim typewriter now, They tell me none is better; It makes a pleasing, rhythmic row, And neat is every letter. I tick out stories by machine, Dig pars, and gags, and verses keen,...
Happy he in whom the honest love of fair endeavour lingers, Who has strength to do his labour, and has pride to do it well, Carve he gems of purest water with an artist's cunning fingers,...
When Flo resolved to go to town from brothers three a yell went up, Predicting ruin and distress. Bill in his horror dropped a cup. 'Gorstruth!' he said, 'in Sydney there what is a simple girl to do?...
My hut is built of stringy-bark, the window's calico, The furniture a gin-case, one bush-table, and a bunk; Thick as wheat on my selection does the towering timber grow,...
"Who'll bid? Who'll bid?" the question rang Where throned Death was calling. I seemed to sense his charnel tang, Mephitic air appalling; And every tick I heard the clang Of his steel hammer falling....
The Viennese authorities have melted down the great bell in St. Stephen's to supply metal for guns or muntions. Every poor village has made a similar gift. - Lokal Anzeiger.
The great men framed the fierce decrees Embroiling State with State; They bit their thumbs across the seas In diplomatic hate; They lit the pyre whose glare and heat Make Hell itself seem cold;...
What price yer humble, Dicko Smith, in gaudy putties girt, With sand-blight in his optics, and much leaner than he started, Round the 'Oly Land cavorting in three- quarters of a shirt,...
Past a dull, grey plain where a world-old grief seems to brood o'er the silent land, When the orb'd moon turns her tense, white face on the ominous waste of sand,...
We are wondering why those fellows who are writing cheerful ditties Of the rosy times out droving, and the dust and death of cities, Do not leave the dreary office, ask a drover for a billet,...
We've a tale to tell you of a spavined emit, A bird with a smile like a crack in a hat, Who was owned by M'Cue, of the township of Whroo, The county of Rodney, his front name was Pat....
I'm wonderin' why those fellers who go buildin' chipper ditties, 'Bout the rosy times out drovin', an' the dust an' death of cities, Don't sling the bloomin' office, strike some drover for a billet,...
A straight old fossicker was Lanky Mann, Who clung to that in spite of friends' advising: A grim and grizzled worshipper of 'pan,' All other arts and industries despising. ...