We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a nation’s slime;
Better a shred of a deep-dyed rag from the storms of the olden time.
From grander clouds in our `peaceful skies’ than ever were there before
I tell you the Star of the South shall rise — in the lurid clouds of war.
It ever must be while blood is warm and the sons of men increase;
For ever the nations rose in storm, to rot in a deadly peace.
There comes a point that we will not yield, no matter if right or wrong,
And man will fight on the battle-field
while passion and pride are strong —
So long as he will not kiss the rod, and his stubborn spirit sours,
And the scorn of Nature and curse of God are heavy on peace like ours.
. . . . .
There are boys out there by the western creeks, who hurry away from school
To climb the sides of the breezy peaks or dive in the shaded pool,
Who’ll stick to their guns when the mountains quake
to the tread of a mighty war,
And fight for Right or a Grand Mistake as men never fought before;
When the peaks are scarred and the sea-walls crack
till the furthest hills vibrate,
And the world for a while goes rolling back in a storm of love and hate.
. . . . .
There are boys to-day in the city slum and the home of wealth and pride
Who’ll have one home when the storm is come, and fight for it side by side,
Who’ll hold the cliffs ‘gainst the armoured hells
that batter a coastal town,
Or grimly die in a hail of shells when the walls come crashing down.
And many a pink-white baby girl, the queen of her home to-day,
Shall see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist of our dawn away —
Shall live to shudder and stop her ears to the thud of the distant gun,
And know the sorrow that has no tears when a battle is lost and won, —
As a mother or wife in the years to come, will kneel, wild-eyed and white,
And pray to God in her darkened home for the `men in the fort to-night’.
. . . . .
But, oh! if the cavalry charge again as they did when the world was wide,
‘Twill be grand in the ranks of a thousand men
in that glorious race to ride
And strike for all that is true and strong,
for all that is grand and brave,
And all that ever shall be, so long as man has a soul to save.
He must lift the saddle, and close his `wings’, and shut his angels out,
And steel his heart for the end of things,
who’d ride with a stockman scout,
When the race they ride on the battle track, and the waning distance hums,
And the shelled sky shrieks or the rifles crack
like stockwhip amongst the gums —
And the `straight’ is reached and the field is `gapped’
and the hoof-torn sward grows red
With the blood of those who are handicapped with iron and steel and lead;
And the gaps are filled, though unseen by eyes,
with the spirit and with the shades
Of the world-wide rebel dead who’ll rise and rush with the Bush Brigades.
All creeds and trades will have soldiers there —
give every class its due —
And there’ll be many a clerk to spare for the pride of the jackeroo.
They’ll fight for honour and fight for love, and a few will fight for gold,
For the devil below and for God above, as our fathers fought of old;
And some half-blind with exultant tears, and some stiff-lipped, stern-eyed,
For the pride of a thousand after-years and the old eternal pride;
The soul of the world they will feel and see
in the chase and the grim retreat —
They’ll know the glory of victory — and the grandeur of defeat.
The South will wake to a mighty change ere a hundred years are done
With arsenals west of the mountain range and every spur its gun.
And many a rickety son of a gun, on the tides of the future tossed,
Will tell how battles were really won that History says were lost,
Will trace the field with his pipe, and shirk
the facts that are hard to explain,
As grey old mates of the diggings work the old ground over again —
How `this was our centre, and this a redoubt,
and that was a scrub in the rear,
And this was the point where the guards held out,
and the enemy’s lines were here.’
. . . . .
They’ll tell the tales of the nights before
and the tales of the ship and fort
Till the sons of Australia take to war as their fathers took to sport,
Their breath come deep and their eyes grow bright
at the tales of our chivalry,
And every boy will want to fight, no matter what cause it be —
When the children run to the doors and cry:
`Oh, mother, the troops are come!’
And every heart in the town leaps high at the first loud thud of the drum.
They’ll know, apart from its mystic charm, what music is at last,
When, proud as a boy with a broken arm, the regiment marches past.
And the veriest wreck in the drink-fiend’s clutch,
no matter how low or mean,
Will feel, when he hears the march, a touch
of the man that he might have been.
And fools, when the fiends of war are out and the city skies aflame,
Will have something better to talk about than an absent woman’s shame,
Will have something nobler to do by far than jest at a friend’s expense,
Or blacken a name in a public bar or over a backyard fence.
And this you learn from the libelled past,
though its methods were somewhat rude —
A nation’s born where the shells fall fast, or its lease of life renewed.
We in part atone for the ghoulish strife,
and the crimes of the peace we boast,
And the better part of a people’s life in the storm comes uppermost.
The self-same spirit that drives the man to the depths of drink and crime
Will do the deeds in the heroes’ van that live till the end of time.
The living death in the lonely bush, the greed of the selfish town,
And even the creed of the outlawed push is chivalry — upside down.
‘Twill be while ever our blood is hot, while ever the world goes wrong,
The nations rise in a war, to rot in a peace that lasts too long.
And southern nation and southern state, aroused from their dream of ease,
Must sign in the Book of Eternal Fate their stormy histories.
Interesting that thought. I sat here mulling over these thoughts, sounds straight forward until if go over our family pedigree (?) . As I added to my family name ancestry oh my goodness me ..First I’m just a mongrel breed crossed with white, black, man made religious groups , at least now I know for shore WTF who cares who you are mate. Cause at the end of the day you not getting out alive 🥂🍺
Sent from Yahoo7 Mail on Android
On Fri., 14 Jun. 2019 at 8:57 am, Allen<firstname.lastname@example.org> wrote:
The term “Racist” is an important tool in the Marxist tool bag, a very effective one it seems.
“This is an interesting and different point of view from Britain. Food for thought.
Does make you stop and think. When does political correctness go too far?”
Racist – ME?
A thought provoking passage written by an ENGLISHMAN about the current situation in HIS homeland – this is thought provoking and is equally relevant in other countries…
I have been wondering about why whites are racists, and no other race is?
There are British Africans, British Chinese, British Asian, British Turks, etc., etc., etc.
And then there are just British. You know what I mean, plain ‘ole’ English people that were born here. You can include the Welsh, the Scottish and the people who live off our shores of Great Britain on tiny , Towel Head, Paki, Camel Jockey, Beaner, Gook or Chink, you call me a racist.
You say that whites commit a lot of violence against you. So why are the ghettos the most dangerous places to live?
You have the Muslim Council of Great Britain.
You have Black History Month.
You have swimming pools for Asian women.
You have Islamic banks for Muslims only.
You have year of the dragon day for Chinese people.
If we had a White Pride Day, you would call us racists.
If we had White History Month, we’d be racists.
If we had any organisation for only whites to ‘advance’ OUR lives, we’d be racists.
A white woman could not be in the Miss Black Britain or Miss Asia, but any colour can be in the Miss UK.
If we had a college fund that only gave white students scholarships, you know, we’d be racists.
There are over 200 openly proclaimed Muslim only schools in England. Yet if there were ‘White schools only’, that would be racist!
In the Bradford riots and the Toxteth riots, you believed that you were standing-up for your race and rights. If we stood-up for our race and rights, you would call us racists.
You are proud to be black, brown, yellow and orange, and you’re not afraid to announce it. But when we announce our white pride, you call us racists.
We fly our flag, we are racists. If we celebrate St George’s day we are racists.
You can fly your flag and it’s called diversity. You celebrate your cultures and it’s called multiculturalism.
You rob us, car-jack us, and rape our daughters. But, when a white police officer arrests a black gang member or beats up an Asian drug dealer running from the law and posing a threat to society, you call him a racist.
I am proud, but you call me a racist.
Why is it that only whites can be racists??
There is nothing improper about this e-mail. Let’s see which of you are proud enough to send it on.
I sadly don’t think many will. That’s why we have LOST most of OUR RIGHTS in this country. We won’t stand up for ourselves!
BEING PROUD TO BE WHITE! It’s not a crime, YET, but it’s getting very close!
It has been estimated that ONLY 55% of those reaching this point in this e-mail, will pass it on.
“You cannot hope
to bribe or twist,
thank God! the
But seeing what
the man will do
no occasion to.”
— Humbert Wolfe (1886 – 1940)
Federal police raid journalists’ offices & homes. Whistleblowers fiercely prosecuted. Encryption laws, face-recognition technology, widespread plans to spy on citizens. You’d think a third-generation Australian journalist would be appalled at the way things are shaping up for our media and its freedoms.
Well, this one isn’t. Our newspapers & TV stations are in trouble not because of the stuff they’ve written, but because of what they haven’t written. You can’t reasonably expect to do a deal with the devil & then think you have a right to complain about the heat.
Back in the ’60s I recall the vastly talented cartoonist Bruce Petty, then on The Australian, telling a bunch of young cadets what he thought his work involved: “If you have a bad government & a weak Opposition, it seems to me the job of a newspaper is to BE that Opposition.” The rumpled, slow-talking Petty was the first authentic genius I’d ever encountered, though I didn’t realise it at the time, brimming with the arrogance of youth as we all were, but his words ring truer than ever today.
Our media, for the most part, tells the public not what the Government of the day is doing, but what politicians claim they are doing. The two are worlds apart. Our media also tends to work itself into a fine frenzy over non-stories (Labor’s death tax being a prime recent example) while it ignores or glosses over vastly more important issues.
In the past few years several major stories have gone largely uninvestigated , or at best been seriously under-reported, in a disturbing pattern that does our news organisations no credit. Among these:
- Malcolm Turnbull’s sneaky move which transferred $450 million to a ragtag crew of dodgy bankers & family friends claiming (with no visible reason) to be protecting the Great Barrier Reef;
- The large-scale and long-term fraud involving water, with names from all parties including Joyce, Taylor, Littleproud, Sinodinos, & Tripodi, ignoring party allegiances to strip the Commonwealth of tens of millions ;
- Johnnie Howard’s franking credits scam, in which wealthy retirees (conservative voters every one!) receive unneeded cash handouts from a variety of governments too nervous to try to set things right;
- Clive Palmer & his empire. Nobody seems interested in where his money’s coming from, nor in asking who will eventually pay the $100 million-plus needed to clean up the vast ponds of toxic sludge left behind at his failed nickel mine. If you continue to look the other way as criminals go about their business, sooner or later you’ll be wondering why your house has been burgled. Ladies & gentlemen of the Australian press, you have only yourselves to blame. It’s fatuous in the year 2019 to be complaining about the loss of media freedom. You gave it away willingly decades ago.
- Siren of the Sea~
- “(S)HE’S BA-A-A-A-ACK!” a poem August 25, 2019 (Sunday)
- “THE RIVERBED!” a poem a.k.a.: “Why All The Suffering?” August 25, 2019 (Sunday!)
- Turn on girl ~
- For seniors exclusively ~ Funny adult trends
- Oh my goodness, funny naughty things
- Funny little things ~
- They walk among us, they breed, and they vote ~ Funny things
- “GOD IS DRUNK, GOD IS GOOD, A FORCE OF NATURE, IF YOU WOULD!” a poem, written too late to remember:* August 22, 2019 (Thursday)
- Melanie’s Season ~ Goodbye 👋
- “GUARDING AGAINST WILD THINGS FROM H – L L!” a poem Aug. 24, 2019 (Saturday) in the series: “Mr. & Mrs. Cuddly Poo In Love!”
- Film Review ~
- Tiny Dancers~
- Fairy Land
- Aliens came today ~
- So, GOOD LABELERS & THERAPISTS, what am I to do?
- Laughter ~
- Awful ~ roses of love
- The Professor ~
- Knock me out with a feather
- Fool’s paradise ~ lesson regretted
- “CRYSTAL HEARTS BROKEN!” a poem, a.k.a.: “The Shattering of Karaoke Dreams!” August 20, 2019 (Tuesday) ALPHINE texas
- I married a Mob Boss ~Lies Plus Secrets At last told
- Secrets ~ you skirt chaser 😂😜😂😜😂 meeting of old forgotten maidens 🤪🤪
- Nifty Trick ~
- Happiness~ never less
- I dunno No ~ keep trying 😂
They lie, the men who tell us for reasons of their own
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 scrape 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 God 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.
I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still,
And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill;
But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet,
They haunted me the shadows of those faces in the street,
Flitting by, flitting by,
Flitting by with noiseless feet,
And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street.
Once I cried: ‘Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure,
Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.’
And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city’s street,
And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet,
Coming near, coming near,
To a drum’s dull distant beat,
And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street.
Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall,
The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all,
And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution’s heat,
And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street.
Pouring on, pouring on,
To a drum’s loud threatening beat,
And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.
And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course,
The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse,
But not until a city feels Red Revolution’s feet
Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street
The dreadful everlasting strife
For scarcely clothes and meat
In that pent track of living death the city’s cruel street.
~ Faces In The Street – Henry Lawson
CHRISTMAS AT BURLEIGH. (Gold Coast) QLD. 1932
⛱ Tents have been pitched – and cars parked alongside – on the Esplanade and on the beach at Burleigh Heads for the Christmas break… 1932.
⛱ The headland and (now) National Park in plain view beyond.
(State Library of Qld)