THE CROSS-CUT and the crowbar cross, and hang them on the wall, <br />And make a greenhide rack to fit the wedges and the maul, <br />The “done” long-handled shovel and the thong-bound axe that fell, <br />The crowbar, pick-axe and the “throw”—the axe that morticed well. <br />The old patched tent and “fly”, bag bunk and pillow of sugee, <br />The frying-pan and billy-can, for all the land to see. <br /> <br />The cross-cut, after pounds of files, is narrowed down and thin, <br />With here and there a tooth cut out as th’ curve straightened in, <br />The axe close to the iron ground, the shovel to the shaft, <br />The handle from the first worn smooth with sweat and dust and graft. <br />The maul and wedges burred and split, spell bravest history— <br />These were the arms our fathers bore, for none but they to see. <br /> <br />Then look you round on all that is, on cities proud and fair, <br />And look you westward from the range—towns, farms and homesteads there. <br />Then hurry to a place you know lest you should be too late, <br />And clear the scrub some little space—small place, say—three-by eight. <br />A blackened post stump stands where four rough panels used to be <br />And there take off your panama where none but God might see.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/for-all-the-land-to-see-a-song-of-the-tools/
