The Sunny South at best is hardAn' cold to Southern writers--But oh! it's frozen to the bardAmongst the othersiders.They hear the song, but not the groanWhilst horses they are backin'.He asks for bread--they grudge a stoneWhen he is dead! Tom Bracken.
He's left to starve when stony broke,To put his trust the Lord on--To hang himself, like Barcroft Boake,Or shoot himself, like Gordon.He's left to battle in the ruck,With poverty attacking--You should be glad that you have struckA softer spot, Tom Bracken!
Oh! had you tracked where Kendall trodI think you would be kneelin'Three times a week and thankin' GodThat you are of New Zealan'!For this I'll say, to make it short,An' keep my tongue from clackin',The people are a kinder sortYou're singin' for, Tom Bracken.
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Canonical recordPOEM-000739
Copy-textLawson corpus evidence graph; selected complete copy-text with independently corroborated wording and retained line/stanza boundaries; selected copy-text retained exactly under D-180/D-208
While The Billy BoilsSearch