He works in the glen where the waratah grows, <br />And the gums and the ashes are tall, <br />’Neath cliffs that re-echo the sound of his blows <br />When the wedges leap in from the mawl. <br /> <br />He comes of a hardy old immigrant race, <br />And he feels not the rain nor the drouth. <br />His sinews are tougher than wire; and his face <br />Has been tanned by the sun of the south. <br /> <br />Now doomed to be shorn of its glory at last <br />Is the stately old tree he attacks; <br />Its moments of life he is numbering fast <br />With the keen steady strokes of his axe. <br /> <br />Loud cracks at the butt; and the strong wood is burst; <br />And the splitter steps backward, and turns <br />His eyes to the boughs that move slowly at first <br />Ere they rush to their grave in the ferns. <br /> <br />He strips off the bark with slight effort of strength <br />And stretches it out on the weeds, <br />And marks off the trunk with a measure the length <br />Of the rails or the palings he needs. <br /> <br />The teeth of his crosscut so truly are set <br />That it swings from his elbow at ease; <br />And the song of the saw—I am hearing it yet— <br />Has the music of wind in the trees. <br /> <br />Strong blows on the wedge, and a rip and a tear, <br />And the log opens up to the butt; <br />And, spreading around through the pure mountain air, <br />Is the scent of the wood newly cut. <br /> <br />A lover of comfort and cronies is he; <br />And when the day’s work is behind, <br />A fire, and a yarn, and a billy of tea, <br />At the hut of the splitter you’ll find. <br /> <br />His custom is sought in the town by the range; <br />For well to the future he looks: <br />His cheques in an instant the storekeepers change; <br />And his name is the best on the books.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-mountain-splitter/
