When my last long-beer has vanished and the truth is left unsaid; <br />When each sordid care is banished from my chair and from my bed, <br />And my common people sadly murmur: " 'Arry Lawson dead," <br /> <br />When the man I was denounces all the things that I was not, <br />When the true souls stand like granite, while the souls of liars not – <br />When the quids I gave are counted, and the trays I cadged forgot; <br /> <br />Shall my spirit see the country that it wrote for once again? <br />Shall it see the old selections, and the common street and lane? <br />Shall it pass across the Black Soil and across the Red Soil Plain? <br /> <br />Shall it see the gaunt Bushwoman "slave until she's fit to drop", <br />For the distant trip to Sydney, all depending on the crop? <br />Or the twinkling legs of kiddies, running to the lollie-shop? <br /> <br />Shall my spirit see the failures battling west and fighting here? <br />Shall it see the darkened shanty, or the bar-room dull and drear? <br />Shall it whisper to the landlord to give Bummer Smith a beer? <br /> <br />Will they let me out of Heaven, or Valhalla, on my own – <br />Or the Social Halls of Hades (where I shall not be alone) – <br />Just to bring a breath of comfort to the hells that I have known?<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wide-spaces/
