Analysis of The City Bushman
Henry Lawson 1867 (Grenfell) – 1922 (Sydney)
It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went,
For you sought the greener patches and you travelled like a gent;
And you curse the trams and buses and the turmoil and the push,
Though you know the squalid city needn't keep you from the bush;
But we lately heard you singing of the `plains where shade is not',
And you mentioned it was dusty -- `all was dry and all was hot'.
True, the bush `hath moods and changes' -- and the bushman hath 'em, too,
For he's not a poet's dummy -- he's a man, the same as you;
But his back is growing rounder -- slaving for the absentee --
And his toiling wife is thinner than a country wife should be.
For we noticed that the faces of the folks we chanced to meet
Should have made a greater contrast to the faces in the street;
And, in short, we think the bushman's being driven to the wall,
And it's doubtful if his spirit will be `loyal thro' it all'.
Though the bush has been romantic and it's nice to sing about,
There's a lot of patriotism that the land could do without --
Sort of BRITISH WORKMAN nonsense that shall perish in the scorn
Of the drover who is driven and the shearer who is shorn,
Of the struggling western farmers who have little time for rest,
And are ruined on selections in the sheep-infested West;
Droving songs are very pretty, but they merit little thanks
From the people of a country in possession of the Banks.
And the `rise and fall of seasons' suits the rise and fall of rhyme,
But we know that western seasons do not run on schedule time;
For the drought will go on drying while there's anything to dry,
Then it rains until you'd fancy it would bleach the sunny sky --
Then it pelters out of reason, for the downpour day and night
Nearly sweeps the population to the Great Australian Bight.
It is up in Northern Queensland that the seasons do their best,
But it's doubtful if you ever saw a season in the West;
There are years without an autumn or a winter or a spring,
There are broiling Junes, and summers when it rains like anything.
In the bush my ears were opened to the singing of the bird,
But the `carol of the magpie' was a thing I never heard.
Once the beggar roused my slumbers in a shanty, it is true,
But I only heard him asking, `Who the blanky blank are you?'
And the bell-bird in the ranges -- but his `silver chime' is harsh
When it's heard beside the solo of the curlew in the marsh.
Yes, I heard the shearers singing `William Riley', out of tune,
Saw 'em fighting round a shanty on a Sunday afternoon,
But the bushman isn't always `trapping brumbies in the night',
Nor is he for ever riding when `the morn is fresh and bright',
And he isn't always singing in the humpies on the run --
And the camp-fire's `cheery blazes' are a trifle overdone;
We have grumbled with the bushmen round the fire on rainy days,
When the smoke would blind a bullock and there wasn't any blaze,
Save the blazes of our language, for we cursed the fire in turn
Till the atmosphere was heated and the wood began to burn.
Then we had to wring our blueys which were rotting in the swags,
And we saw the sugar leaking through the bottoms of the bags,
And we couldn't raise a chorus, for the toothache and the cramp,
While we spent the hours of darkness draining puddles round the camp.
Would you like to change with Clancy -- go a-droving? tell us true,
For we rather think that Clancy would be glad to change with you,
And be something in the city; but 'twould give your muse a shock
To be losing time and money through the foot-rot in the flock,
And you wouldn't mind the beauties underneath the starry dome
If you had a wife and children and a lot of bills at home.
Did you ever guard the cattle when the night was inky-black,
And it rained, and icy water trickled gently down your back
Till your saddle-weary backbone fell a-aching to the roots
And you almost felt the croaking of the bull-frog in your boots --
Sit and shiver in the saddle, curse the restless stock and cough
Till a squatter's irate dummy cantered up to warn you off?
Did you fight the drought and pleuro when the `seasons' were asleep,
Felling sheoaks all the morning for a flock of starving sheep,
Drinking mud instead of water -- climbing trees and lopping boughs
For the broken-hearted bullocks and the dry and dusty cows?
Do you think the bush was better in the `good old droving days',
When the squatter ruled supremely as the king of western ways,
When you got a slip of paper for the little you could earn,
But were forced to take provisions from the station in
Scheme | AABBCC DDEEFFGG HHIIJJKK LLMMNNJJOO PPDDQQ RRNNSSTTUUKXVV DDWWXX YYZZXX1 1 2 2 TTUX |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 111010101010111 111010100110101 01101010001001 111010101011101 111011101011111 011011101110111 101110100010111 111010101010111 1111101011001 011011101010111 111010101011111 111010101010001 00111011010101 01101110111111 101110100111101 101110001011101 111010101110001 101011100010111 1010010101110111 011010100010101 11110101110101 101010100010101 001011101010111 111110101111101 10111110111011 111011101110101 11111101010101 10100101010101 11101011010111 111011101010001 111011101010101 11101010111110 001110101010101 1011011011101 10101110010111 11101110101111 00110010111111 1110101101001 1110110110111 1110101010101 101010111001 111110101111101 0110110001101 001101101010101 1110101010101101 101110100110101 10101101011101001 10101100010111 111111011010001 011010101010101 01101010101001 1110101101010101 11111110101111 111011101111111 011000101111101 111010101011001 01101010010101 111010100011111 111010101011101 011010101010111 11101011010101 01110101011011 101000101010101 1010110111111 1110101101001 10110101011101 101011101010101 101010100010101 11101110001111 1010101001011101 111011101010111 1011101010100 |
Closest metre | Iambic octameter |
Characters | 4,520 |
Words | 853 |
Sentences | 16 |
Stanzas | 9 |
Stanza Lengths | 6, 8, 8, 10, 6, 14, 6, 10, 4 |
Lines Amount | 72 |
Letters per line (avg) | 49 |
Words per line (avg) | 12 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 391 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 95 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:21 min read
- 124 Views
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"The City Bushman" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 30 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/17973/the-city-bushman>.
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