Henry+Lawson-+Christina+and+Holden

Early life- Born on the Grenfell goldfields in NSW on 17th June, 1867. Family lived in a poor selection in the Mudgee district. Lawson suffered from deafness Also suffered from manic depression and sought refuge from his mood swings in alcohol. Had two children with Bertha Bredt in 1896. Divorced in 1903. Spent periods of time in institutions from his alcoholism and periods of time in jail for failing to support his family. Died 2nd September 1922

Key works- While the Billy Boils (1894) In the Days When The World Was Wide (1896) On the Track (1900) Over The Sliprails (1900) The Country I Come From (1901) Joe Wilson and His Mates (1901) Children of the Bush (1902) Send Round the Hat (1907) For Australia (1913) Song of the Dardanelles (1916)

Main Events: At age 14 he lost his hearing In 1883, Lawson joined his mother in Sydney. He failed his university entrance exams and was told by hospitals nothing could be done about his hearing. Married Bertha Bredt Jr. in 1896, had two children, Jin (Joseph) and Bertha 'A Song of the English' was his first published poem, appearing in 1st October 1887. Received an offer to write for the 'Boomerang' in 1891, but because the company was in trouble, he only lasted 7-8 months. Wrote for Bulletin after that. In 1898 he was a prominent member of the Dawn and Dusk club. Was thrown in Darlinghurst Goal for not paying child support fees. Died in Mrs Isabella Bryer's home in 1922. He was given a state funeral, which the Prime Minister at the time (W.M.Hughes) and Premier of NSW attended, as well as thousands of funerals. First to be granted a NSW state funeral.

Up the Country I am back from up the country - very sorry that I went - Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track, Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back. Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast, But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast. Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town, Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down. 'Sunny plains'! Great Scott! - those burning wastes of barren soil and sand With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land! Desolation where the crow is! Desert where the eagle flies, Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes; Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep. Stunted peak of granite gleaming, glaring like a molten mass Turned from some infernal furnace on a plain devoid of grass. Miles and miles of thirsty gutters - strings of muddy water-holes In the place of 'shining rivers' - 'walled by cliffs and forest boles.' Barren ridges, gullies, ridges! where the ever-madd'ning flies - Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt - swarm about your blighted eyes! Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees Nothing - Nothing! but the sameness of the ragged, stunted trees! Lonely hut where drought's eternal, suffocating atmosphere Where the God-forgotten hatter dreams of city life and beer. Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, endless roads that gleam and glare, Dark and evil-looking gullies, hiding secrets here and there! Dull dumb flats and stony rises, where the toiling bullocks bake, And the sinister 'gohanna', and the lizard, and the snake. Land of day and night - no morning freshness, and no afternoon, When the great white sun in rising bringeth summer heat in June. Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall From the sad heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum worst of all. Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift O'er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift - Dismal land when it is raining - growl of floods, and, oh! the woosh Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush - Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are piled In the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild. Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men, Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again: Homes of men! if home had ever such a God-forgotten place, Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face. Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell, Heaven of the shanty-keeper - fitting fiend for such a hell - And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the curlew's call - And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward through it all! I am back from up the country, up the country where I went Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; I have shattered many idols out along the dusty track, Burnt a lot of fancy verses - and I'm glad that I am back. I believe the Southern poets' dream will not be realised Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised. I intend to stay at present, as I said before, in town Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down. Henry Lawson published July 9, 1892 In this poem, Henry Lawson is declaring that he is back from a world by the seaside, and has regretted going as it is nothing as what people say it is. He is describing the landscape there as boring, and the same as everywhere else. He is comparing the seaside by the country by mentioning the differences such as morning freshness, etc..