They proved that in the Southern Land
    We all led vicious lives;
They’ve proved we starved our children, and—
    They’ve proved we beat our wives.
They’ve proved we never worked, and we
    Were never out of debt;
They’ve proved us bad as we can be
    And they’re not happy yet.

The Daily Press, with paltry power—
    For reasons understood—
Have aye sought to belittle our
    Unhappy brotherhood.
Because we fought in days like these,
    Where rule the upper tens—
Because we’d not write journalese,
    Nor prostitute our pens.

They gave our rivals space to sneer—
    Their mediocrities;
The drunkard’s mind is pure and clear
    Compared with minds like these.
They sought to damn with pitying praise
    Or the coward’s unsigned sneer,
For honour in the “critics’” ways
    Had never virtue here.

They’ve proved our names shall not be known
    A few short years ahead;
They hied them back through years of moan,
    And damned our happy dead.
A newer tribe of scribes we’ve got,
    Exclusive and alone,
To prove our work was childish rot,
    And none of it our own.

The cultured cads of First Gem cells,
    Of Mansion, Lawn and Club,
Not fit to clean the busted boots
    Of “Poets of the Pub.”
They prove the partners of the part,
    The wholeness of the whole,
The gizzardness of gizzards, and
    The Soulness of the Soul.

They’ve proved that all is nought—but there
    Are things they cannot do—
The summer skies are just as fair
    And just as brightly blue.
They’ve buried us with muddied shrouds,
    When our strong hearts they’ve broke.
They can’t bring down yon fleecy clouds
    And make them factory smoke.

They’ve proved the simple bard a fool,
    But still, for all their pains,
The children prattling home from school
    Go tripping down the lanes.
They’ve proved that Love is lust or hate,
    True marriage is no more,
But Jim and Mary at the gate
    Are happy as of yore.

These insects seeking to unloose
    The Bards of Sympathy!
Who strike with the sledge hammer force
    Of their simplicity.
(They cannot turn the world about,
    Nor damp the father’s joy,
When some old doctor bustles out,
    And nurse says “It’s a boy!”)

They want no God but many a god,
    And many gods, and none—
The preacher by the upturned sod
    Shall pray when all is done.
Amongst the great ’twas aye the same—
    The envious crawler’s part—
The lies that blackened Byron’s name
    And banished poor Brett Harte.

We’ve learnt in bitter schools to teach
    Man’s glory and his shame
Since Gordon walked along the beach
    In search of bigger game.
Maybe, our talents we’ve abused
    At times, and ne’er been blind
Since Barcroft Boake went out and used
    His stockwhip to be kind.

But laugh, my chums, in prose and rhyme,
    And worry not at all,
They’re insects whom the wheels of time
    Shall crush exceeding small.
Have faith, my friends, who stand by me,
    In spite of all the lies—
I tell you that a man shall die
    On the day that Lawson dies.