G'daay Joe...Manfred...Peeley...or other clever ones....
I'm in the throes of helping a newbie. He has sent me a copy of 'Sweeney' by Lawson & asked me to demonstrate the structure our Henry used.
I see some deviations from normally required structure which leads me to wonder about the authenticity of this particular 'copy' of Lawson's poem. I would love to see a copy of the actual original piece that Lawson wrote....any chance of that? & if so where?
I note that Lawson's structure began every line with 2 unstressed syllables....except in:
His brow was broad and roomy, but its lines were somewhat harsh,
And a sensual mouth was hidden by a drooping, fair moustache --
(His hairy chest was open to what poets call the `wined' --
And I would have bet a thousand that his pants were gone behind).
It seems curious to me that he would abandon such a meticulously crafted structure in this one stanza. As you can see, the above begins with only one unstressed. And to add to my anxiety 'sensual' is 3 sylls where 2 are required to correctly sustain the metre.
One other question is re the very 1st line of the poem:
It was somewhere in September, and the sun was going down
Would not Lawson have written 'some-time' in September???
You can see why I'd really like to see an authentic copy of his original draft.
Hope you can help.
Many thanks
Glenny
HELP WITH 'SWEENEY'...calling Joe..Manfred..Peeley
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Glenny Palmer
- Posts: 1816
- Joined: Wed Nov 03, 2010 12:47 am
HELP WITH 'SWEENEY'...calling Joe..Manfred..Peeley
The purpose of my life is to serve as a warning to others.
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manfredvijars
Re: HELP WITH 'SWEENEY'...calling Joe..Manfred..Peeley
In the Days When the World was Wide and Other Verses by Henry Lawson
[This is from a 1913 printing.] - Scroll Down For Sweeney
Preface
Most of the verses contained in this volume were first published
in the Sydney `Bulletin'; others in the Brisbane `Boomerang',
Sydney `Freeman's Journal', `Town and Country Journal', `Worker',
and `New Zealand Mail', whose editors and proprietors I desire to thank
for past kindnesses and for present courtesy in granting me
the right of reproduction in book form.
`In the Days When the World was Wide' was written in Maoriland
and some of the other verses in Victoria, Queensland and Western Australia.
The dates of original publication are given in the Table of Contents.
Those undated are now printed for the first time.
HENRY LAWSON.
To J. F. Archibald
To an Old Mate
Old Mate! In the gusty old weather,
When our hopes and our troubles were new,
In the years spent in wearing out leather,
I found you unselfish and true --
I have gathered these verses together
For the sake of our friendship and you.
You may think for awhile, and with reason,
Though still with a kindly regret,
That I've left it full late in the season
To prove I remember you yet;
But you'll never judge me by their treason
Who profit by friends -- and forget.
I remember, Old Man, I remember --
The tracks that we followed are clear --
The jovial last nights of December,
The solemn first days of the year,
Long tramps through the clearings and timber,
Short partings on platform and pier.
I can still feel the spirit that bore us,
And often the old stars will shine --
I remember the last spree in chorus
For the sake of that other Lang Syne,
When the tracks lay divided before us,
Your path through the future and mine.
Through the frost-wind that cut like whip-lashes,
Through the ever-blind haze of the drought --
And in fancy at times by the flashes
Of light in the darkness of doubt --
I have followed the tent poles and ashes
Of camps that we moved further out.
You will find in these pages a trace of
That side of our past which was bright,
And recognise sometimes the face of
A friend who has dropped out of sight --
I send them along in the place of
The letters I promised to write.
__________________________________________________
Sweeney
It was somewhere in September, and the sun was going down,
When I came, in search of `copy', to a Darling-River town;
`Come-and-have-a-drink' we'll call it -- 'tis a fitting name, I think --
And 'twas raining, for a wonder, up at Come-and-have-a-drink.
'Neath the public-house verandah I was resting on a bunk
When a stranger rose before me, and he said that he was drunk;
He apologised for speaking; there was no offence, he swore;
But he somehow seemed to fancy that he'd seen my face before.
`No erfence,' he said. I told him that he needn't mention it,
For I might have met him somewhere; I had travelled round a bit,
And I knew a lot of fellows in the bush and in the streets --
But a fellow can't remember all the fellows that he meets.
Very old and thin and dirty were the garments that he wore,
Just a shirt and pair of trousers, and a boot, and nothing more;
He was wringing-wet, and really in a sad and sinful plight,
And his hat was in his left hand, and a bottle in his right.
His brow was broad and roomy, but its lines were somewhat harsh,
And a sensual mouth was hidden by a drooping, fair moustache;
(His hairy chest was open to what poets call the `wined',
And I would have bet a thousand that his pants were gone behind).
He agreed: `Yer can't remember all the chaps yer chance to meet,'
And he said his name was Sweeney -- people lived in Sussex-street.
He was campin' in a stable, but he swore that he was right,
`Only for the blanky horses walkin' over him all night.'
He'd apparently been fighting, for his face was black-and-blue,
And he looked as though the horses had been treading on him, too;
But an honest, genial twinkle in the eye that wasn't hurt
Seemed to hint of something better, spite of drink and rags and dirt.
It appeared that he mistook me for a long-lost mate of his --
One of whom I was the image, both in figure and in phiz --
(He'd have had a letter from him if the chap were living still,
For they'd carried swags together from the Gulf to Broken Hill.)
Sweeney yarned awhile and hinted that his folks were doing well,
And he told me that his father kept the Southern Cross Hotel;
And I wondered if his absence was regarded as a loss
When he left the elder Sweeney -- landlord of the Southern Cross.
He was born in Parramatta, and he said, with humour grim,
That he'd like to see the city ere the liquor finished him,
But he couldn't raise the money. He was damned if he could think
What the Government was doing. Here he offered me a drink.
I declined -- 'TWAS self-denial -- and I lectured him on booze,
Using all the hackneyed arguments that preachers mostly use;
Things I'd heard in temperance lectures (I was young and rather green),
And I ended by referring to the man he might have been.
Then a wise expression struggled with the bruises on his face,
Though his argument had scarcely any bearing on the case:
`What's the good o' keepin' sober? Fellers rise and fellers fall;
What I might have been and wasn't doesn't trouble me at all.'
But he couldn't stay to argue, for his beer was nearly gone.
He was glad, he said, to meet me, and he'd see me later on;
He guessed he'd have to go and get his bottle filled again,
And he gave a lurch and vanished in the darkness and the rain.
. . . . .
And of afternoons in cities, when the rain is on the land,
Visions come to me of Sweeney with his bottle in his hand,
With the stormy night behind him, and the pub verandah-post --
And I wonder why he haunts me more than any other ghost.
Still I see the shearers drinking at the township in the scrub,
And the army praying nightly at the door of every pub,
And the girls who flirt and giggle with the bushmen from the west --
But the memory of Sweeney overshadows all the rest.
Well, perhaps, it isn't funny; there were links between us two --
He had memories of cities, he had been a jackeroo;
And, perhaps, his face forewarned me of a face that I might see
From a bitter cup reflected in the wretched days to be.
. . . . .
I suppose he's tramping somewhere where the bushmen carry swags,
Cadging round the wretched stations with his empty tucker-bags;
And I fancy that of evenings, when the track is growing dim,
What he `might have been and wasn't' comes along and troubles him.
---
[This is from a 1913 printing.] - Scroll Down For Sweeney
Preface
Most of the verses contained in this volume were first published
in the Sydney `Bulletin'; others in the Brisbane `Boomerang',
Sydney `Freeman's Journal', `Town and Country Journal', `Worker',
and `New Zealand Mail', whose editors and proprietors I desire to thank
for past kindnesses and for present courtesy in granting me
the right of reproduction in book form.
`In the Days When the World was Wide' was written in Maoriland
and some of the other verses in Victoria, Queensland and Western Australia.
The dates of original publication are given in the Table of Contents.
Those undated are now printed for the first time.
HENRY LAWSON.
To J. F. Archibald
To an Old Mate
Old Mate! In the gusty old weather,
When our hopes and our troubles were new,
In the years spent in wearing out leather,
I found you unselfish and true --
I have gathered these verses together
For the sake of our friendship and you.
You may think for awhile, and with reason,
Though still with a kindly regret,
That I've left it full late in the season
To prove I remember you yet;
But you'll never judge me by their treason
Who profit by friends -- and forget.
I remember, Old Man, I remember --
The tracks that we followed are clear --
The jovial last nights of December,
The solemn first days of the year,
Long tramps through the clearings and timber,
Short partings on platform and pier.
I can still feel the spirit that bore us,
And often the old stars will shine --
I remember the last spree in chorus
For the sake of that other Lang Syne,
When the tracks lay divided before us,
Your path through the future and mine.
Through the frost-wind that cut like whip-lashes,
Through the ever-blind haze of the drought --
And in fancy at times by the flashes
Of light in the darkness of doubt --
I have followed the tent poles and ashes
Of camps that we moved further out.
You will find in these pages a trace of
That side of our past which was bright,
And recognise sometimes the face of
A friend who has dropped out of sight --
I send them along in the place of
The letters I promised to write.
__________________________________________________
Sweeney
It was somewhere in September, and the sun was going down,
When I came, in search of `copy', to a Darling-River town;
`Come-and-have-a-drink' we'll call it -- 'tis a fitting name, I think --
And 'twas raining, for a wonder, up at Come-and-have-a-drink.
'Neath the public-house verandah I was resting on a bunk
When a stranger rose before me, and he said that he was drunk;
He apologised for speaking; there was no offence, he swore;
But he somehow seemed to fancy that he'd seen my face before.
`No erfence,' he said. I told him that he needn't mention it,
For I might have met him somewhere; I had travelled round a bit,
And I knew a lot of fellows in the bush and in the streets --
But a fellow can't remember all the fellows that he meets.
Very old and thin and dirty were the garments that he wore,
Just a shirt and pair of trousers, and a boot, and nothing more;
He was wringing-wet, and really in a sad and sinful plight,
And his hat was in his left hand, and a bottle in his right.
His brow was broad and roomy, but its lines were somewhat harsh,
And a sensual mouth was hidden by a drooping, fair moustache;
(His hairy chest was open to what poets call the `wined',
And I would have bet a thousand that his pants were gone behind).
He agreed: `Yer can't remember all the chaps yer chance to meet,'
And he said his name was Sweeney -- people lived in Sussex-street.
He was campin' in a stable, but he swore that he was right,
`Only for the blanky horses walkin' over him all night.'
He'd apparently been fighting, for his face was black-and-blue,
And he looked as though the horses had been treading on him, too;
But an honest, genial twinkle in the eye that wasn't hurt
Seemed to hint of something better, spite of drink and rags and dirt.
It appeared that he mistook me for a long-lost mate of his --
One of whom I was the image, both in figure and in phiz --
(He'd have had a letter from him if the chap were living still,
For they'd carried swags together from the Gulf to Broken Hill.)
Sweeney yarned awhile and hinted that his folks were doing well,
And he told me that his father kept the Southern Cross Hotel;
And I wondered if his absence was regarded as a loss
When he left the elder Sweeney -- landlord of the Southern Cross.
He was born in Parramatta, and he said, with humour grim,
That he'd like to see the city ere the liquor finished him,
But he couldn't raise the money. He was damned if he could think
What the Government was doing. Here he offered me a drink.
I declined -- 'TWAS self-denial -- and I lectured him on booze,
Using all the hackneyed arguments that preachers mostly use;
Things I'd heard in temperance lectures (I was young and rather green),
And I ended by referring to the man he might have been.
Then a wise expression struggled with the bruises on his face,
Though his argument had scarcely any bearing on the case:
`What's the good o' keepin' sober? Fellers rise and fellers fall;
What I might have been and wasn't doesn't trouble me at all.'
But he couldn't stay to argue, for his beer was nearly gone.
He was glad, he said, to meet me, and he'd see me later on;
He guessed he'd have to go and get his bottle filled again,
And he gave a lurch and vanished in the darkness and the rain.
. . . . .
And of afternoons in cities, when the rain is on the land,
Visions come to me of Sweeney with his bottle in his hand,
With the stormy night behind him, and the pub verandah-post --
And I wonder why he haunts me more than any other ghost.
Still I see the shearers drinking at the township in the scrub,
And the army praying nightly at the door of every pub,
And the girls who flirt and giggle with the bushmen from the west --
But the memory of Sweeney overshadows all the rest.
Well, perhaps, it isn't funny; there were links between us two --
He had memories of cities, he had been a jackeroo;
And, perhaps, his face forewarned me of a face that I might see
From a bitter cup reflected in the wretched days to be.
. . . . .
I suppose he's tramping somewhere where the bushmen carry swags,
Cadging round the wretched stations with his empty tucker-bags;
And I fancy that of evenings, when the track is growing dim,
What he `might have been and wasn't' comes along and troubles him.
---
-
manfredvijars
Re: HELP WITH 'SWEENEY'...calling Joe..Manfred..Peeley
His brow was broad and roomy, but its lines were somewhat harsh,
"brow" is stressed ...
I get shades of deja-vu here Glenny (we've argued this before
)
And a sensual mouth was hidden by a drooping, fair moustache --
"sen/sual" is one of those words where the syllable count CAN BE CONTRACTED
ALL the masters have done this
They (the Masters) also PUSH the stresses
High COUNTREE (Paterson)
Water LILEE (Lawson)
Throw out the calomine and use some soothing oils instead Glenny ...
His verses are basically seven foot iambic with a two unstressed opening syllables.
But for whatever reason, he sometimes 'slips' ... and ONLY has one.
The two opening unstressed syllables is a clever device because it gives the piece a 'galloping' anapaest feel without using "mixed metre"
Glenny, these blokes are only human after all ...
(and THAT'S why we love em)
Be interested to hear Hully's spin on this ...
"brow" is stressed ...
I get shades of deja-vu here Glenny (we've argued this before
) And a sensual mouth was hidden by a drooping, fair moustache --
"sen/sual" is one of those words where the syllable count CAN BE CONTRACTED
ALL the masters have done this
They (the Masters) also PUSH the stresses
High COUNTREE (Paterson)
Water LILEE (Lawson)
Throw out the calomine and use some soothing oils instead Glenny ...
His verses are basically seven foot iambic with a two unstressed opening syllables.
But for whatever reason, he sometimes 'slips' ... and ONLY has one.
The two opening unstressed syllables is a clever device because it gives the piece a 'galloping' anapaest feel without using "mixed metre"
Glenny, these blokes are only human after all ...
(and THAT'S why we love em)
Be interested to hear Hully's spin on this ...
-
Glenny Palmer
- Posts: 1816
- Joined: Wed Nov 03, 2010 12:47 am
Re: HELP WITH 'SWEENEY'...calling Joe..Manfred..Peeley
Many thanks Manfred. You're a legend. No, I'm not scratching, just bewildered. I certainly don't presume to be qualified to critique the masters. It's just how do I explain these 'deviations' to a newbie?... find out from better informed folk like you I guess. So thanks Mannie for explaining that. So far I think I've managed to convey what you've explained, to them, by saying that when accomplished/acclaimed poets deviate (poetically that is) they know what they're doing, & why. But when we mere mortals do it, it's more likely to be out of a certain ignorance.
Great to see the original & to hear of that publication.
Oooh. Look at the time. y a w n.
G'nite
Glenny
Great to see the original & to hear of that publication.
Oooh. Look at the time. y a w n.
G'nite
Glenny
Last edited by Glenny Palmer on Fri Mar 25, 2011 11:30 am, edited 1 time in total.
The purpose of my life is to serve as a warning to others.
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Peely
- Moderator
- Posts: 456
- Joined: Sun Oct 31, 2010 11:50 am
- Location: Tumut, NSW
Re: HELP WITH 'SWEENEY'...calling Joe..Manfred..Peeley
G'day Glenny
The stanza in question agrees with what I have in my book of Lawson poems (collected by Colin Roderick). It is also interesting to see the version that Manfred has posted. I have seen some versions where the second stanza starts, "Underneath the pub verandah..." instead of "'Neath the public house verandah...".
The National Library of Australia do hold some of Henry Lawson's manuscripts, but what they contain does not appear to listed on the web unfortunately.
The sources that I have looked at say that Sweeney was first published in 1893, not long after Lawson's trip to Western NSW (when he travelled through Burke) in late 1892 and is thought to have been inspired by an encounter that Lawson had on that trip.
If you look closely enough at some of the old poems, you do find some variations in the metre in places where it may not be expected. Just a few that I have found in Paterson's poems:
"..one would doubt his power to stay" (Man from Snowy River - finishes with an anapest in what is otherwise an iambic line)
"And the hurrying people daunt me..." (Clancy of the Overflow - hurrying is a dactyl in a line that is otherwise trochaic).
"Would you make it a tea garden..." (In Defence of the Bush - 'a' and 'tea' interrupt what is otherwise an iambic line)
I have seen other examples in Lawson before (besides Sweeney that is), but some titles escape me at the moment (I studied these particular poems closely some time ago and did not make a note of which ones).
Otherwise, I have noted the same sorts of variation in "Come Sing Australian Songs to Me" by John O'Brien and "Pitcher Show" by CJ Dennis, if you are interested in looking more closely at their structures.
Regards
John Peel
The stanza in question agrees with what I have in my book of Lawson poems (collected by Colin Roderick). It is also interesting to see the version that Manfred has posted. I have seen some versions where the second stanza starts, "Underneath the pub verandah..." instead of "'Neath the public house verandah...".
The National Library of Australia do hold some of Henry Lawson's manuscripts, but what they contain does not appear to listed on the web unfortunately.
The sources that I have looked at say that Sweeney was first published in 1893, not long after Lawson's trip to Western NSW (when he travelled through Burke) in late 1892 and is thought to have been inspired by an encounter that Lawson had on that trip.
If you look closely enough at some of the old poems, you do find some variations in the metre in places where it may not be expected. Just a few that I have found in Paterson's poems:
"..one would doubt his power to stay" (Man from Snowy River - finishes with an anapest in what is otherwise an iambic line)
"And the hurrying people daunt me..." (Clancy of the Overflow - hurrying is a dactyl in a line that is otherwise trochaic).
"Would you make it a tea garden..." (In Defence of the Bush - 'a' and 'tea' interrupt what is otherwise an iambic line)
I have seen other examples in Lawson before (besides Sweeney that is), but some titles escape me at the moment (I studied these particular poems closely some time ago and did not make a note of which ones).
Otherwise, I have noted the same sorts of variation in "Come Sing Australian Songs to Me" by John O'Brien and "Pitcher Show" by CJ Dennis, if you are interested in looking more closely at their structures.
Regards
John Peel
John Peel - The Man from Gilmore Creek
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keats
- Posts: 1044
- Joined: Thu Nov 11, 2010 11:43 pm
Re: HELP WITH 'SWEENEY'...calling Joe..Manfred..Peeley
Yeah he wasn't much of a poet breaking all the rules like that!
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vwalla
- Posts: 160
- Joined: Sun Oct 31, 2010 10:44 am
Re: HELP WITH 'SWEENEY'...calling Joe..Manfred..Peeley
On this subject it seems to me that ignorance is truly bliss.
I just read and or listen to Bush Poetry and enjoy - not analyse and destroy.
That's why I prefer bush poetry ie For the simplicity of grasping the meaning of the story and the skill of Rhyme and meter.
Val W
I just read and or listen to Bush Poetry and enjoy - not analyse and destroy.
That's why I prefer bush poetry ie For the simplicity of grasping the meaning of the story and the skill of Rhyme and meter.
Val W
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Neville Briggs
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- Joined: Sun Oct 31, 2010 12:08 pm
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Re: HELP WITH 'SWEENEY'...calling Joe..Manfred..Peeley
I reckon there are four way of looking at it Glenny.
1. As Manfred said.. Lawson is not perfect, we all make mistakes.
2. What's wrong with variations in the metre occasionally ? Scansion is not a mathematical scientific formula. Is it ?
3. What if there are "mistakes" ? If it makes the music of poetry, then in that case it is forgivable, acceptable and enjoyable. Henry Lawson is allowed to break the rules because he knew the rules.
4. Perhaps there is no mistake at all, maybe we need to learn a bit more about scansion.
1. As Manfred said.. Lawson is not perfect, we all make mistakes.
2. What's wrong with variations in the metre occasionally ? Scansion is not a mathematical scientific formula. Is it ?
3. What if there are "mistakes" ? If it makes the music of poetry, then in that case it is forgivable, acceptable and enjoyable. Henry Lawson is allowed to break the rules because he knew the rules.
4. Perhaps there is no mistake at all, maybe we need to learn a bit more about scansion.
Neville
" Prose is description, poetry is presence " Les Murray.
" Prose is description, poetry is presence " Les Murray.
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Neville Briggs
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- Joined: Sun Oct 31, 2010 12:08 pm
- Location: Here
Re: HELP WITH 'SWEENEY'...calling Joe..Manfred..Peeley
Marty, as far as I can remember , the saying is actually
" ignorance is bliss where 'tis folly to be wise "
Val, I'm surprised to hear you giving that opinion. Why should we assume that to analyse is to destroy. That doesn't logically follow.
I reckon if any person wants to style themselves a poet, then ignorance of the way to construct the forms of poetry is not bliss, it's shameful.
" ignorance is bliss where 'tis folly to be wise "
Val, I'm surprised to hear you giving that opinion. Why should we assume that to analyse is to destroy. That doesn't logically follow.
I reckon if any person wants to style themselves a poet, then ignorance of the way to construct the forms of poetry is not bliss, it's shameful.
Neville
" Prose is description, poetry is presence " Les Murray.
" Prose is description, poetry is presence " Les Murray.
-
Neville Briggs
- Posts: 6946
- Joined: Sun Oct 31, 2010 12:08 pm
- Location: Here
Re: HELP WITH 'SWEENEY'...calling Joe..Manfred..Peeley
Well Val and Marty, perhaps we should join the football team and just enjoy the game, don't worry about such inconvenient jargon like forward pass, double handling, illegal tackle, offside etc, that's just too intellectual.,
That referee who is analysing and blowing his whistle is very destructive of our enjoyment, ignore him and the game will be bliss.
That referee who is analysing and blowing his whistle is very destructive of our enjoyment, ignore him and the game will be bliss.
Neville
" Prose is description, poetry is presence " Les Murray.
" Prose is description, poetry is presence " Les Murray.