Botany Bay Courtship Barnett Levy- Published in a newspaper in 1832

The Currency Lads may fill their glasses, And drink to the health of the Currency Lasses; But the lass I adore, the lass for me, Is a lass in the Female Factory, O! Mollys her name, and her name is Molly, Although she was tried by the name of Polly; She was tried and was cast for death at Newry, But the judge was bribed and so were the jury. She got death recorded in Newry town, For stealing her mistresss watch and gown; Her little boy Paddy can tell you the tale, His father was turnkey of Newry jail. The first time I saw the comely lass Was at Parramatta, going to Mass; Says I, Ill marry you now in an hour, Says she, Well, go and fetch Father Power. But I got in trouble that very same night! Being drunk in the street I got into a fight, A constable seized me- I gave him a boxAnd was put in the watch-house and then in the stocks. O! its very unaisy as I may remember, To sit in the stocks in the month of December; With the north wind so hot, and the sun right over, O! sure, and its no place at all for a lover! Its worse than the treadmill, says I, Mr Dunn, To sit here all day in the hate of the sun! Either that or a dollar, says he, for your folly, But if Id a dollar Id drink it with Molly. But now I am out again, early and late I sigh and I cry at the Factory gate, O!Mrs R---, late Mrs F---n, O! wont you let Molly out very soon? Is it Molly Mcguigan says she to me, Is it not? Says I, for she knowed it was she. Is it her you mean that was put in the stocks For beating her mistress, Mrs Cox? O! yes and it is, madam, pray let me in, I have brought her a half-pint of Coopers best gin, She likes it as well as she likes her own mother, O! now let me in, madam, I am her brother. So the Currency Lads may fill their glasses, And drink to the health of the Currency Lasses; But the lass I adore, the lass for me, Is a lass in the Female Factory.

Mary Gilmore 1865-1962 Nationality I have grown past hate and bitterness, I see the world as one; But though I can no longer hate, My son is still my son. All men at Gods round table sit, And all men must be fed; But this loaf in my hand, This loaf is my sons bread.

Frank Wilmot a.k.a. Furnley Maurice 1881-1942 Whenever I Have Whenever I have, in all humility, moved Amid dire forests of fact, unproved and overproved, Then only the incomprehensible thing has vividness of hue, And only the unutterable is true. Theres weariness in the columned and tabular shame Of elaborate amplification of law half-discerned Which from their thrones of authority the hooded doctors declaim. So I light my path with a candle lit from the altar that burned In the deep arbours of vision, remote and untended. And there I return for solace to things only apprehended, The uncapturable, the indefinable thing, the unlearned.

No More Boomerang Oodgeroo Nooncuccal a.k.a. Kath Walker 1920-1993 No more boomerang No more spear; Now all civilisedColour bar and beer. No more corroboree, Gay dance and din. Now we got movies, And pay to go in. No more sharing What the hunter brings. Now we work for money, Then pay it back for things. Now we track bosses To catch a few bob, Now we got walkabout On bus to the job.

One time naked, Who never knew shame; Now we put clothes on To hide whatsaname. No more gunya, Now bungalow, Paid by hire purchase In twenty year or so. Lay down the stine axe, Take up the steel, And work like a nigger For a white man meal. No more firesticks That made the whites scoff. Now all electric, And no better off. Bunyip he finish, Now got instead White fella Bunyip, Call him Red. Abstract picture nowWhat they coming at? Cripes, in our caves we Did better than that. Black hunted wallaby, White hunt dollar; White fella witchdoctor Wear dog-collar. No more message-stick; Lubras and lads. Got television now, Mostly ads. Lay down the woomera, Lay down the waddy. Now we got atom-bomb, End everybody.