They proved we could not think nor see,
They proved we could not write,
They proved we drank the day away
And raved through half the night.
They proved our stars were never up,
Theyve proved our stars are set,
Theyve proved we neer saw sorrows cup,
And theyre not happy yet.
They proved that in the Southern Land
We all led vicious lives;
Theyve proved we starved our children, and
Theyve proved we beat our wives.
Theyve proved we never worked, and we
Were never out of debt;
Theyve proved us bad as we can be
And theyre not happy yet.
The Daily Press, with paltry power
For reasons understood
Have aye sought to belittle our
Unhappy brotherhood.
Because we fought in days like these,
Where rule the upper tens
Because wed not write journalese,
Nor prostitute our pens.
They gave our rivals space to sneer
Their mediocrities;
The drunkards mind is pure and clear
Compared with minds like these.
They sought to damn with pitying praise
Or the cowards unsigned sneer,
For honour in the critics ways
Had never virtue here.
Theyve proved our names shall not be known
A few short years ahead;
They hied them back through years of moan,
And damned our happy dead.
A newer tribe of scribes weve got,
Exclusive and alone,
To prove our work was childish rot,
And none of it our own.
The cultured cads of First Gem cells,
Of Mansion, Lawn and Club,
Not fit to clean the busted boots
Of Poets of the Pub.
They prove the partners of the part,
The wholeness of the whole,
The gizzardness of gizzards, and
The Soulness of the Soul.
Theyve proved that all is noughtbut there
Are things they cannot do
The summer skies are just as fair
And just as brightly blue.
Theyve buried us with muddied shrouds,
When our strong hearts theyve broke.
They cant bring down yon fleecy clouds
And make them factory smoke.
Theyve proved the simple bard a fool,
But still, for all their pains,
The children prattling home from school
Go tripping down the lanes.
Theyve proved that Love is lust or hate,
True marriage is no more,
But Jim and Mary at the gate
Are happy as of yore.
These insects seeking to unloose
The Bards of Sympathy!
Who strike with the sledge hammer force
Of their simplicity.
(They cannot turn the world about,
Nor damp the fathers joy,
When some old doctor bustles out,
And nurse says Its a boy!)
They want no God but many a god,
And many gods, and none
The preacher by the upturned sod
Shall pray when all is done.
Amongst the great twas aye the same
The envious crawlers part
The lies that blackened Byrons name
And banished poor Brett Harte.
Weve learnt in bitter schools to teach
Mans glory and his shame
Since Gordon walked along the beach
In search of bigger game.
Maybe, our talents weve abused
At times, and neer been blind
Since Barcroft Boake went out and used
His stockwhip to be kind.
But laugh, my chums, in prose and rhyme,
And worry not at all,
Theyre insects whom the wheels of time
Shall crush exceeding small.
Have faith, my friends, who stand by me,
In spite of all the lies
I tell you that a man shall die
On the day that Lawson dies.
