A draft poem

 It is well known that Henry Lawson spent some time in Mallacoota (apparently trying to dry out - a strange place to come for that purpose).  It is less well know that he left behind a manuscript of a poem, subsequently reworked by John O'Brien.  

Having heard a few complaints recently about low temperatures I thought I would reveal Lawson's unknown gem.

SAID Hanrahan

"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,

In accents most forlorn,

Outside the church, ere Mass began,

One frosty Summer’s morn.

 

The congregation stood in turn,

Boardshorts to their knees,

And talked of waves, and fish, and sunburn,

As it had done to please.

 

"It's lookin' crook," said Daniel Croke;

"Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,

For never since the banks went broke

Has seasons been so bad."

 

"It's cold, all right," said young O'Neil,

With which astute remark

He squatted down upon his heel

And chewed a piece of bark.

 

And so around the chorus ran

"It's keepin' cool, no doubt."

"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,

"Before the year is out.

 

"The tans are pale; ye'll likely fail

To spot one dusky chest;

From here as far as Bairnsdale

They're ashen to the West.

 

"They're singin' out for sun," he said,

"And all the tanks are full."

The congregation scratched its head,

And talked a load of bull.

 

"There won't be warmth, in any case,

Enough to heat an ass;

There's lots of cloud o’er Casey's place

As I came through the grass."

 

"If heat don't come this month," said Dan,

And cleared his throat to speak--

"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,

"If sun don't shine this week."

 

A heavy silence seemed to steal

On all at this remark;

And each man squatted on his heel,

And chewed a piece of bark.

 

"We want a week of 35, we do,"

O'Neil observed at last;

But Croke "maintained" we need a month of that (or two)

To put the coldness past.

 

"If we don't get some centuries, man,

(Imperial terms to use),

We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,

"all get all of us the blues."

 

In God's good time out came the sun;

And all the afternoon

On iron roof and window-pane

It flamed like Pommie June.

 

And through the week it scorched still,

And lightsome, gladsome elves

On browning grass and distant hill

Kept talking to themselves.

 

It sizzled, sizzled all week long,

A-stinging in its heat,

Till every heart took up the song

Down each and every street.

 

And every creek no longer ran,

And dams dried up and cracked;

"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,

"If this heat soon isn’t packed."

 

And packed it was, in God's good time;

And autumn came in to fold

A mantle o'er the hills sublime

Of green, not brown and and gold.

 

And days went by into the weeks,

With skiing-hopes intense,

And laughing eyes beheld the peaks

With snowfields so immense.

 

And, oh, the smiles on every face,

As happy lad and lass

Through frozen grass on Casey's place

Went riding up the pass.

 

While round the church in clothes genteel

Discoursed the men of mark,

And each man squatted on his heel,

And chewed his piece of bark.

 

"There'll be floods for sure, me man,

When this lot melts;

We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,

"So tighten up your belts."