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I've learned in my years as a journalist that when a politician says 'That's ridiculous' you're probably on the right track.

quote by Amy Goodman
Added by Lucian Velea
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Lining Track

This song was first released on the all aboard! album. it is the only album it has been released on.
Mo boys, is you right
Done got it right
All I hate about linin track
These ol boys are gonna break my back
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Down in the holler below the fleld
Angels working on the chariot wheel
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Mary and the babe was a sittin in the shade
Thinking on the money that I aint made
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Moses stood on the red sea shore
Gotta batten down the waves with a 2 by 4
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Now if I could I surely would
Stand on the rock where moses stood
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Matthew, mark, luke and john
All them disciples dead and gone
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Mo boys, is you right
Done got it right
All I hate about lining track
These ol boys about to break my back
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
Mo boys, cant you line em (track a lack)
See eloise gonna line em track
Words and music by huddie ledbetter

song performed by John Denver
Added by Lucian Velea
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Listen To The Eight Track

(mick, Ive got a...)
There must be one million stories in new york city, the naked city, and this is one of em
I live out on the island, and I got problems
My mom dont like me, cause she says I know sultan(? )
Sitting in the cark park, in my old buick skylark
Getting high, getting high,
Getting high on the eight track
Oh, listen to the eight track
Oh, listen to the eight track
Oh, listen to the eight track
Oh, listen to the eight track
Oh it aint easy, when you gotta survive
Keep on giving death, just to survive
Oh get out into the car park, sitting in my own buick skylark in the dark
Oh, n Ill listen to the eight track
Oh, Ill listen to the eight track
Oh, listen to the eight track
Oh, listen to the eight track
Yeah, cant wind it back
Listen to the eight track
In between the seats, in the cracks
Listen to the eight track
Oh sometimes I get a woman in here
And I put on bruce springsteens new double album
And then, just when everythings getting hot
I start turning the volume right down low
Baby, let me snuggle right next to you
You turned to me sweetly, you know what she said,
She said, turn up the eight track
Oh listen to the eight track
Oh listen to the eight track, aint no winding it back
Listen to the eight track
Listen to the eight track
Listen to the eight track
There must have been about a million stories in new york city, the naked city, and this has been one of them!

song performed by Ian Hunter
Added by Lucian Velea
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I've learned

Ive learned that to love someone doesnt have to involve pain,
Ive learned that to have a friend you must be a friend first,
Ive learned that in time youll see your mistakes and learn from them,
Ive learned that to be alone sometimes is the best thing for you,
Ive learned that in order to love a person you must feel loved,
Ive learned that if your wrong admit it or youll never forgive yourself,
Ive learned that your first love will be a part of you and you may never forget,
Ive learned that in order to move on you must fix what was first wrong,
Ive learned that if you ever mess up, you can always start over again,
Ive learned that to be 'cool' doesnt involve pressure,
Ive learned to accept what I have and be happy,
Ive learned that people will come and go so tell the ones you love how you feel,
Ive learned that to respect yourself you must respect others,
Ive learned that your actions always involve consequences whether it be good or bad,
Ive learned that priceless words can mean the world to someone,
Ive learned that sometimes being silent is the best solution,
Ive learned to expect the unexpected,
Ive learned that healing a broken heart involves tears and pain,
Ive learned to see the world in the eyes of others,
And Ive learned that each new day is a day to touch a life.

poem by Carly Almonde
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Any Soldier To His Son

What did I do, sonny, in the Great World War?
Well, I learned to peel potatoes and to scrub the barrack floor.
I learned to push a barrow and I learned to swing a pick,
I learned to turn my toes out, and to make my eyeballs click.
I learned the road to Folkestone, and I watched the English shore,
Go down behind the skyline, as I thought, for evermore.
And the Blighty boats went by us and the harbour hove in sight,
And they landed us and sorted us and marched us "by the right".
"Quick march!" across the cobbles, by the kids who rang along
Singing "Appoo?" "Spearmant" "Shokolah?" through dingy old Boulogne;
By the widows and the nurses and the niggers and Chinese,
And the gangs of smiling Fritzes, as saucy as you please.

I learned to ride as soldiers ride from Etaps to the Line,
For days and nights in cattle trucks, packed in like droves of swine.
I learned to curl and kip it on a foot of muddy floor,
And to envy cows and horses that have beds of beaucoup straw.
I learned to wash in shell holes and to shave myself in tea,
While the fragments of a mirror did a balance on my knee.
I learned to dodge the whizz-bangs and the flying lumps of lead,
And to keep a foot of earth between the sniper and my head.
I learned to keep my haversack well filled with buckshee food,
To take the Army issue and to pinch what else I could.
I learned to cook Maconochie with candle-ends and string,
With "four-by-two" and sardine-oil and any God-dam thing.
I learned to use my bayonet according as you please
For a breadknife or a chopper or a prong for toasting cheese.
I learned "a first field dressing" to serve my mate and me
As a dish-rag and a face-rag and a strainer for our tea.
I learned to gather souvenirs that home I hoped to send,
And hump them round for months and months and dump them in the end.
I learned to hunt for vermin in the lining of my shirt,
To crack them with my finger-nail and feel the beggars spirt;
I learned to catch and crack them by the dozen and the score
And to hunt my shirt tomorrow and to find as many more.

I learned to sleep by snatches on the firestep of a trench,
And to eat my breakfast mixed with mud and Fritz's heavy stench.
I learned to pray for Blighty ones and lie and squirm with fear,
When Jerry started strafing and the Blighty ones were near.
I learned to write home cheerful with my heart a lump of lead
With the thought of you and mother, when she heard that I was dead.
And the only thing like pleasure over there I ever knew,
Was to hear my pal come shouting, "There's a parcel, mate, for you."

So much for what I did do - now for what I have not done:
Well, I never kissed a French girl and I never killed a Hun,
I never missed an issue of tobacco, pay, or rum,
I never made a friend and yet I never lacked a chum.
I never borrowed money, and I never lent - but once

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous English
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That's Ridiculous

Have I ever laid a hand on you
Did I ever make you see the truth
Don't you ever say I never cared
Don't you ever say I never cared
That's ridiculous
That's ridiculous
That's ridiculous
Have I ever made a fool of you
Did I ever make you look at me
Don't you ever say I was never there
Don't you ever say I was never there
That's ridiculous
That's ridiculous
That's ridiculous
Have I ever made you shout at me
Did I ever take advantage
Don't you ever badmouth me
Don't you ever badmouth me
That's ridiculous
That's ridiculous
That's ridiculous
You can't hold me
Don't try to hold me
You can't hold me
Don't try to hold me

song performed by Stone Sour
Added by Lucian Velea
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First Year University Expereinces

I learned why it is not wise to skip class often

I learned that skipping homework in university is not the same as skipping homework in high school

I learned what it feels like to be awake for over 2 days

I learned how to smoke pot from a bong

I learned how to compose an essay the day before it's due

I learned that the Freshman 15 is no joke

I learned how to do laundry

I learned to pretend to be happy

I learned to multitask

I learned to be more sociable

I learned why my parents and teachers warned me about the difficulty of university

I learned that failing is expensive

I learned small things, like freshly washed bed sheets, make me happy
I learned to lie

I learned how expensive alcohol is

I learned what it feels like to be a failure

I type this rant while skipping my business ethics class as I further delay the composition of my psychology term paper

poem by Michelle Cow
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I Am No Politician

I am no politician.
I am direct.
Every blemish and flaw I have,
I accept without regret.
I am not trying to win your approval
To represent your requests.
Nor will I disappoint you...
With deceit to later confess.

I am no politician.
Seeking a way to line my pockets.
I find that disgusting!
And I observe those who can not stop it!
Your quality of life...
With standards you behold.
Isn't my fault at all!
That your best interests,
They have sold!

You selected them to dismiss me.
To keep me and mine in check!
You elected them to suppress my dignity.
To keep my indentity distressed.
You chose them to divide and conquer.
By rules and laws
They clearly defied...
You now regret!
Why me...
You despise?

I am no politician!
My priorities are my happiness.
Not to masquerade with pretentions...
For purposes to make promises,
With intentions to forget.

I am no politician...
To trap you like prey.
And dangle you to capture...
As I make arrangements with others,
To take away the safety from your nests.
To portray in false charades.

I am no politician.
So voice your anger,
To those you believed...
Would come to your aid.
While on your knees you plead.

I am no politician!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Sound Of Wings.....

from the bars of the cell,
i learned freedom from the body.
from the underside of the bridge,
i learned home has not a house.
from forty years of working,
i learned the bitterness of the slave.
from the political lies,
i learned that truth cant be bought.
from the books i read,
i learned to reason and question.
from the heroin needle,
i learned the value of life.
from love lost,
i learned how to love.
from doubt i learned seeking,
in seeking i found god to be more.
from the scars on my heart,
i learned to be a man.
from battles fought and lost,
i learned the need for peace.
from discrimination i learned equality,
from anger i learned forgiveness.
from the mirror i learned responsibility...
from the bars of the cell,
i learned the sound of wings!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Ballad of the Rousabout

A Rouseabout of rouseabouts, from any land—or none—
I bear a nick-name of the bush, and I’m—a woman’s son;
I came from where I camp’d last night, and, at the day-dawn glow,
I rub the darkness from my eyes, roll up my swag, and go.
Some take the track for bitter pride, some for no pride at all—
(But—to us all the world is wide when driven to the wall)
Some take the track for gain in life, some take the track for loss—
And some of us take up the swag as Christ took up the Cross.

Some take the track for faith in men—some take the track for doubt—
Some flee a squalid home to work their own salvation out.
Some dared not see a mother’s tears nor meet a father’s face—
Born of good Christian families some leap, head-long, from Grace.

Oh we are men who fought and rose, or fell from many grades;
Some born to lie, and some to pray, we’re men of many trades;
We’re men whose fathers were and are of high and low degree—
The sea was open to us and we sailed across the sea.

And—were our quarrels wrong or just?—has no place in my song—
We seared our souls in puzzling as to what was right or wrong;
We judge not and we are not judged—’tis our philosophy—
There’s something wrong with every ship that sails upon the sea.

From shearing shed to shearing shed we tramp to make a cheque—
Jack Cornstalk and the ne’er-do-weel—the tar-boy and the wreck.
We learn the worth of man to man—and this we learn too well—
The shanty and the shearing shed are warmer spots in hell!

I’ve humped my swag to Bawley Plain, and further out and on;
I’ve boiled my billy by the Gulf, and boiled it by the Swan—
I’ve thirsted in dry lignum swamps, and thirsted on the sand,
And eked the fire with camel dung in Never-Never Land.

I know the track from Spencer’s Gulf and north of Cooper’s Creek—
Where falls the half-caste to the strong, ‘black velvet’ to the weak—
(From gold-top Flossie in the Strand to half-caste and the gin—
If they had brains, poor animals! we’d teach them how to sin.)

I’ve tramped, and camped, and ‘shore’ and drunk with many mates Out Back—
And every one to me is Jack because the first was Jack—
A ‘lifer’ sneaked from jail at home—the ‘straightest’ mate I met—
A ‘ratty’ Russian Nihilist—a British Baronet!

I know the tucker tracks that feed—or leave one in the lurch—
The ‘Burgoo’ (Presbyterian) track—the ‘Murphy’ (Roman Church)—
But more the man, and not the track, so much as it appears,
For ‘battling’ is a trade to learn, and I’ve served seven years.

We’re haunted by the past at times—and this is very bad,

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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Gunshot Glitter

Dont you wanna let go of your heart
Or you resist the beds of bliss
Fortune makes fools of us all
My dear materialista, silence was insane,
The parting was mutual.
Dont you want the rocket to rock out?
Theres room for us both to fly.
Tell the man Im never coming back again.
Tell the man Im never coming back again.
Why should you notice at all?
Gone again beside you will fall
Down to the sea out of the skies
Of gold cards and casual tears
I have only come to see you shine
Feminine smiles the right side is wise, more than i.
I wanna be your lover,
Lipstick my name across your mirror.
Blood red with flaked gunshot glitter
And be one with all you disowned in your young life.
You paranoia politician diva.
You paranoia politician diva.
Will you let go of your heart,
Left behind a hypnotizing swirl
The semis left behind.
Dont you want to rocket to rock?
Theres room for both of us to fly
Same show everyday, dont have to blow up in the sky.
So I just came from hicks town,
Left my coins behind
Maybe some poor cloths pony will himself a life
Why should you care if I crash your affair?
Why should you notice me? I really wanna see you shine.
I wanna be your lover,
Lipstick my name across your mirror.
Now, be one with all you disown,
True love has come to us all.
Blinded by the flame, right side smiles,
Organized male, love, my silence was insane.
The parting was mutual the moment I became
A paranoia politician
Diva
A paranoia politician diva
A paranoia politician diva
A paranoia politician diva
Diva, diva, diva

song performed by Jeff Buckley
Added by Lucian Velea
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Canto the First

I
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.

II
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.

III
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

IV
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

V
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Right Track Wrong Train

The train was leaving at 10 after 10
I got to the station just in time to check in
Ive been bumpin my bags all around
Im trying hard to never knock people down
But I can see I left a few on the ground
And as the train pulls away I can hear the conductor say
Right track wrong train (echoes)
Right track wrong train (echoes)
Im not to blame (echo)
Right track wrong train... train
I read my schedule but my train wasnt there
I re-read my ticket, it said going nowhere
Everybody had the same tatooed face
All the women and men dressed in lace
I think I gotta get out of this place
I shouldve got off before the engineer locked the door
Right track wrong train (echoes)
Right track wrong train (echoes)
Im not to blame (echo)
Right track wrong train, train train train hey !
Hey thats a neat tatoo youre wearing. by the way whered you get it ?
Uh huh. say, is this an express train ? uh huh.
Snack bar ? uh huh. uh huh.
Something is happening so familiar to me
Is this the outer limits like on tv ?
Another empty town fading to gray
Another coca-cola sign on the way
Have a cup of coffee, have a nice day
And as the train pushes on,
Were headed for babylon
Oh no...
Right track wrong train (echoes)
Right track wrong train (echoes)
Right track wrong train...
On the wrong train on the right track
We dont know if shell ever come back
(talking) what train is this ?
Something is happening so familiar to me
Is this the outer limits like on tv ?
Have a cup of coffee, have a nice day (talking)
Yeah, yeah Ill be right there yeah. Im gonna get the next train yeah.

song performed by Cyndi Lauper
Added by Lucian Velea
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One Track Heart

(words & music by giant - baum - kaye)
Just like an old grandfathers clock that wont stop running
Like an old racehorse that just wont ever quit
Therell be no end to loving you
Nothing can stop me once I start
cos Im a one track mind and a one track heart
Well Im as stubborn as a mule I just wont let up
Like an old bloodhound ill hang around your trail
Therell be no end to loving you
Dont try to stop me if youre smart
cos Im a one track mind and a one track heart
Oooo- eeeee therell be no turning back
Oooo- eeeee Im gonna stay on your track
Just like a choo-choo train thats gotta keep a-chugging
Youll find that Im the kind who sticks to what I do
Therell be no end to loving you, baby well never be apart
cos Im a one track mind and a one track heart
Oooo- eeeee therell be no turning back
Oooo- eeeee Im gonna stay on your track
Just like a choo-choo train thats gotta keep a-chugging
Youll find that Im the kind who sticks to what I do
Therell be no end to loving you, baby well never be apart
cos Im a one track mind and a one track heart

song performed by Elvis Presley
Added by Lucian Velea
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II. Half-Rome

What, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I'd meet.)
Be ruled by me and have a care o' the crowd:
This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze:
I'll tell you like a book and save your shins.
Fie, what a roaring day we've had! Whose fault?
Lorenzo in Lucina,—here's a church
To hold a crowd at need, accommodate
All comers from the Corso! If this crush
Make not its priests ashamed of what they show
For temple-room, don't prick them to draw purse
And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out
The beggarly transept with its bit of apse
Into a decent space for Christian ease,
Why, to-day's lucky pearl is cast to swine.
Listen and estimate the luck they've had!
(The right man, and I hold him.)

Sir, do you see,
They laid both bodies in the church, this morn
The first thing, on the chancel two steps up,
Behind the little marble balustrade;
Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool
To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife
On the other side. In trying to count stabs,
People supposed Violante showed the most,
Till somebody explained us that mistake;
His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where,
But she took all her stabbings in the face,
Since punished thus solely for honour's sake,
Honoris causâ, that's the proper term.
A delicacy there is, our gallants hold,
When you avenge your honour and only then,
That you disfigure the subject, fray the face,
Not just take life and end, in clownish guise.
It was Violante gave the first offence,
Got therefore the conspicuous punishment:
While Pietro, who helped merely, his mere death
Answered the purpose, so his face went free.
We fancied even, free as you please, that face
Showed itself still intolerably wronged;
Was wrinkled over with resentment yet,
Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use,
Once the worst ended: an indignant air
O' the head there was—'t is said the body turned
Round and away, rolled from Violante's side
Where they had laid it loving-husband-like.
If so, if corpses can be sensitive,
Why did not he roll right down altar-step,
Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church,
Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle,

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The four Monarchyes, the Assyrian being the first, beginning under Nimrod, 131. Years after the Floo

When time was young, & World in Infancy,
Man did not proudly strive for Soveraignty:
But each one thought his petty Rule was high,
If of his house he held the Monarchy.
This was the golden Age, but after came
The boisterous son of Chus, Grand-Child to Ham,
That mighty Hunter, who in his strong toyles
Both Beasts and Men subjected to his spoyles:
The strong foundation of proud Babel laid,
Erech, Accad, and Culneh also made.
These were his first, all stood in Shinar land,
From thence he went Assyria to command,
And mighty Niniveh, he there begun,
Not finished till he his race had run.
Resen, Caleh, and Rehoboth likewise
By him to Cities eminent did rise.
Of Saturn, he was the Original,
Whom the succeeding times a God did call,
When thus with rule, he had been dignifi'd,
One hundred fourteen years he after dy'd.
Belus.
Great Nimrod dead, Belus the next his Son
Confirms the rule, his Father had begun;
Whose acts and power is not for certainty
Left to the world, by any History.
But yet this blot for ever on him lies,
He taught the people first to Idolize:
Titles Divine he to himself did take,
Alive and dead, a God they did him make.
This is that Bel the Chaldees worshiped,
Whose Priests in Stories oft are mentioned;
This is that Baal to whom the Israelites
So oft profanely offered sacred Rites:
This is Beelzebub God of Ekronites,
Likewise Baalpeor of the Mohabites,
His reign was short, for as I calculate,
At twenty five ended his Regal date.
Ninus.
His Father dead, Ninus begins his reign,
Transfers his seat to the Assyrian plain;
And mighty Nineveh more mighty made,
Whose Foundation was by his Grand-sire laid:
Four hundred forty Furlongs wall'd about,
On which stood fifteen hundred Towers stout.
The walls one hundred sixty foot upright,
So broad three Chariots run abrest there might.
Upon the pleasant banks of Tygris floud
This stately Seat of warlike Ninus stood:
This Ninus for a God his Father canonized,
To whom the sottish people sacrificed.

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Bradstreet
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Sunday at Hampstead

I

(AN VERY IDLE IDYLL BY A VERY HUMBLE MEMBER OF THE GREAT AND NOBLE LONDON MOB.)

This is the Heath of Hampstead,
This is the Dome of Saint Paul’s;
Beneath, on the serried house-tops,
A chequered luster falls:

And the might city of London,
Under the clouds and the light,
Seems a low, wet beach, half shingle,
With a few sharp rocks upright.

Here we sit, my darling,
And dream an hour away:
The donkeys are hurried and worried,
But we are not donkeys to-day:

Through all the weary week, dear,
We toil in the murk down there,
Tied to a desk and a counter,
A patient, stupid pair!

But on Sunday we slip our thether,
And away from the smoke and the smirch;
Too grateful to God for His Sabbath
To shut its hours in a church.

Away to the green, green country,
Under the open sky;
Where the earth’s sweet breath is incense
And the lark sings psalms on high.

On Sunday we’re Lord and Lady,
With ten times the love and glee
Of those pale, languid rich ones
Who are always and never free.

The drawl and stare and simper,
So fine and cold and staid,
Like exquisite waxwork figures
That must be kept in the shade.

We can laugh out loud when merry,
We can romp at kiss-in-the-ring,
We can take our beer at a public,
We can loll on the grass and sing.

Would you grieve very much, my darling,

[...] Read more

poem by James Thomson
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In the Giving There's A Benefit

To have awakened is a good thing to be!

And I have learned,
In the many years it has taken me to do it...
That the being there for someone else,
Will not automatically be interpretated...
As an appreciation to be shown one day,
With a reciprocation known that's received.

I have learned,
There will be many taking others for granted...
With a doing which is believed,
A duty to misuse someone dependable.
Until a reality hits and a doing this is missed.
And a waiting to sit by a telephone,
Wishing to hear it ring is a familiar sound gone.

I have learned,
In the giving there's a benefit.
And I have learned,
Those who give are not desperate.

To have awakened is a good thing to be.
And I have learned,
Those who give are not desperate.
I have learned,
In the giving there's a benefit.
And I have learned...
To leave alone,
Those who take for granted...
Someone giving up their time to misuse.

I have learned,
In the giving there's a benefit.
And I have learned...
Those who give are not desperate.
Oh yes I've learned...
To leave alone,
Those who take for granted...
Someone giving up their time to abuse.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Loraine

This is the story of one man’s soul.
The paths are stony and passion is blind,
And feet must bleed ere the light we find.
The cypher is writ on Life’s mighty scroll,
And the key is in each man’s mind.
But who read aright, ye have won release,
Ye have touched the joy in the heart of Peace.

PART I

THERE’S a bend of the river on Glenbar run
Which the wild duck haunt at the set of sun,
And the song of the waters is softened so
That scarcely its current is heard to flow;
And the blackfish hide by the shady bank
’Neath the sunken logs where the reeds are rank,
And the halcyon’s mail is an azure gleam
O’er the shifting shoals of the silver bream,
And the magpies chatter their idle whim,
And the wagtails flitter along the brim,
And tiny martins with breasts of snow
Keep fluttering restlessly to and fro,
And the weeping willows have framed the scene
With the trailing fall of their curtains green,
And the grass grows lush on the level leas
’Neath the low gnarled boughs of the apple trees,
Where the drowsy cattle dream away
The noon-tide hours of the summer day.
There’s a shady nook by the old tree where
The track comes winding from Bendemeer.
So faint are the marks of the bridle track,
From the old slip-rails on the ridge’s back,
That few can follow the lines I know—
But I ride with the shadows of long ago!
I am gaunt and gray, I am old and worn,
But my heart goes back to a radiant morn
When someone waited and watched for me
In the friendly shade of that grand old tree.
The winter of Memory brings again
The summer rapture of passionate pain,
And she comes to me with the morning grace
On her sun-gold hair and her lily face,
And her blue eyes soft with the dreamy light
She stole from the stars of the Southern night,
And her slender form like a springtide flower
That sprang from the earth in a magic hour,
With the trembling smile and the tender tone
And the welcome glance—that were mine alone.
And we sit once more as we sat of old
When the future lay in a haze of gold—

[...] Read more

poem by George Essex Evans
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Out Back

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few,
and the publican's looks were black --
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.

For time means tucker, and tramp you must,
where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track --
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet,
they carry their swags Out Back.

He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.

He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,
And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore;
But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack --
The traveller never got hands in wool,
though he tramped for a year Out Back.

In stifling noons when his back was wrung
by its load, and the air seemed dead,
And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead,
Or in times of flood, when plains were seas,
and the scrubs were cold and black,
He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.

He blamed himself in the year `Too Late' --
in the heaviest hours of life --
'Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife;
There are times when wrongs from your kindred come,
and treacherous tongues attack --
When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.

And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;
He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.
As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,
With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.

It chanced one day, when the north wind blew
in his face like a furnace-breath,
He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death;
For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack,
And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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Outback

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few,
and the publican's looks were black --
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.

For time means tucker, and tramp you must,
where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track --
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet,
they carry their swags Out Back.

He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.

He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,
And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore;
But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack --
The traveller never got hands in wool,
though he tramped for a year Out Back.

In stifling noons when his back was wrung
by its load, and the air seemed dead,
And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead,
Or in times of flood, when plains were seas,
and the scrubs were cold and black,
He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.

He blamed himself in the year `Too Late' --
in the heaviest hours of life --
'Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife;
There are times when wrongs from your kindred come,
and treacherous tongues attack --
When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.

And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;
He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.
As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,
With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.

It chanced one day, when the north wind blew
in his face like a furnace-breath,
He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death;
For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack,
And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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