BEATEN back in sad dejection, <br />After years of weary toil <br />On that burning hot selection <br />Where the drought has gorged his spoil. <br /> <br />All in vain ’gainst him, the vulture, <br />I have battled without rest— <br />In the van of agriculture, <br />Marching out into the West. <br /> <br />Now the eagle-hawks are feeding <br />On my perished stock that reek <br />Where the water-holes receding <br />Long had left the burning creek. <br /> <br />I must labour without pity— <br />I the pick and spade must wield <br />In the streetways of the city <br />Or upon another’s field! <br /> <br />Can it be my reason’s rocking, <br />For I feel a burning hate <br />For the God who, only mocking, <br />Sent the prayed-for rain too late? <br /> <br />Pour, ye mocking rains, and rattle <br />On the bare, brown, grassless plain, <br />On the shrivelled hides of cattle <br />That shall ne’er want grass again! <br /> <br />Rush, ye yellow floods, to Murray, <br />Over thirsty creek-banks foam; <br />And o’er all, ye black clouds, hurry; <br />Ye can bring not back my home!<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beaten-back/
