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Henry Lawson - Grace Jennings Carmicheal
Work rating: Medium

I hate the pen, the foolscap fair,
    The poet’s corner, and the page,
For Grief and Death are written there,
    In every land and every age.
The poets sing and play their parts,
    Their daring cheers, their humour shines,
But, ah! my friends! their broken hearts
    Have writ in blood between the lines. 
They fought to build a Commonwealth,
    They write for women and for men,
They give their youth, we give their health
    And never prostitute the pen.
Their work in other tongues is read,
    And when sad years wear out the pen,
Then they may seek their happy dead
    Or go and starve in exile then. 

A grudging meed of praise you give,
    Or, your excuse, the ready lie—
(O! God, you don’t know how they live!
    O! God, you don’t know how they die!)
The poetess, whose gentle tone
    Oft cheered your mothers’ hearts when down;
A lonely woman, fought alone
    The bitter fight in London town. 

Your rich to lilac lands resort,
    And old-world luxuries they buy;
You pour out gold to Cant and Sport
    And give a million to a lie.
You give to cheats who rant and rave
    With eyes that glare and arms that whirl,
But not a penny that might save
    The children of the Gippsland girl.
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