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Albany's Literary Guests
Henry Lawson and Banjo Paterson in Albany: Literary Giants at the Edge of a Nation.
By Tanya McColgan | 3 Aug 2025
Two of Australia’s most iconic literary voices, Henry Lawson (1867–1922) and A.B. “Banjo” Paterson (1864–1941), are best remembered for capturing the spirit, struggle and stories of a young nation. Their work is most often associated with the bush landscapes of New South Wales and Queensland, yet both men share enduring links with Albany — a town that, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, stood as a vital gateway between Australia and the wider world.
What is less widely known is that in May 1890, Henry Lawson arrived in Albany with his younger brother and the pair lived and worked in the town for four months. The Lawson Brothers were employed as journalist's with the Albany Observer, then the principal opposition newspaper to the Albany Advertiser. During his time in Albany, Lawson immersed himself in the rhythms of local life, reporting on daily events while also observing the character of the town and its people with the quiet attentiveness that would later define his literary voice.
It was here, during this period of reflection and observation, that Lawson composed the poem “On the Summit of Mount Clarence.” Inspired by the sweeping views over King George Sound, the poem is both reflective and atmospheric. In it, Lawson captures the vastness and quiet majesty of the southern landscape, blending his familiar realism with an unusual sense of stillness, solitude and awe — a reminder that Albany, too, played a role in shaping the literary imagination of one of Australia’s most enduring writers.
On the Summit of Mount Clarence
On the summit of Mount Clarence rotting slowly in the air
Stands a tall and naked flagstaff, relic of the Russian scare—
Russian scare that scares no longer, for the cry is “All is well”—
Yet the flagstaff still is standing like a lonely sentinel.
And it watches through the seasons—winter’s cold and summer’s heat,
Watches seaward, watches ever for the phantom Russian fleet.
In a cave among the ridges, where the scrub is tall and thick
With no human being near him dwells a wretched lunatic:
On Mount Clarence in the morning he will fix his burning eyes,
And he scans the sea and watches for the signal flag to rise;
In his ears the roar of cannon and the sound of battle drums
While he cleans his gun and watches for the foe that never comes.
And they say, at dreary nightfall, when the storms are howling round
Comes a phantom ship to anchor in the waters of the “Sound”,
And the lunatic who sees it wakes the landscape with his whoops,
Loads his gun and marches seaward at the head of airy troops—
To the summit of Mount Clarence leads them on with martial tread,
Fires his gun and sends the Russians to the mustering of the dead.
— Henry Lawson, 1891
This poem stands as a rare literary impression of Albany in the 1890s, offering a moment of quiet contemplation that contrasts sharply with the often harsh and dry world depicted in Lawson’s inland writing. It shows the versatility of his voice and the influence of Western Australia’s coastal grandeur on his imagination.
Henry Lawson’s poem “Possum" A Lay of New Chum Land is one of his lesser known but reflects Lawson’s deep appreciation for friendship and the emotional toll of loss and isolation, recurring themes in his work. It is a poignant reminder of the hardships endured by men on the road, particularly in the 1890s, when Lawson himself was experiencing poverty, depression and disillusionment. During his time in Albany, Lawson was already grappling with many of these themes. He had travelled west seeking stability and briefly worked at the Albany Observer, this poem written especially for the Albany Observer and was published on 5 August 1890.
Lawson writes at the end of the poem and article that : In publishing the above I wish to thank a new chum friend of mine for the loan (and the loneliness) of his diary.
Taken almost word for word from the speech of an old eastern bushman, he said, "For Gorsake len' us yer little fly-catchin' veil; the flies are a-worrit, worrit, worrit—narm the eyes out ov me!" Worrit is evidently used to express the action of
worrying; but I dare not attempt to give a derivation of the word "narm" or "knarm" (if word it really is), though by the sound of it, it certainly does seem expressive of the intended meaning. The bushman in question came of a Kentish family, but this goes for nothing; in the backblocks of Australia the "home" dialects become so mixed and blended that they often produce the most extraordinary and, I may say, the "most expressive words."
The story behind the poem was inspired by the loan of Mr. Bourne's diary to the poet, in 1890 at Albany, shortly after Mr. Bourne, then a youth of 19, had arrived in Australia from England. Mr. Bourne stated that in one respect Lawson took poetic license to assume that he was " allers getting drunk." —This, Mr Bourne adds, was not correct of either of them.
"Possum"
A Lay of New Chum Land
So yer trav'lin' for yer pleasure while yer writin'm for the press?
An' yer huntin' arter "copy?" Well, I've heer'd o' that I guess.
You are gorn ter write a story that is gorn ter be yer best,
'Bout the ''Blunders an' advcnchers ov a new chum in the west?"
An' you would be very thankful an' acknowledge any hint?
Well, I karn't say as I hankers fur ter see my name in print;
But I knowed a little story an' I'll tell it out ov hand
If yer'll put it down in writin' that thc swells kin understand.
(It's a story ov a new chum, and-a story ov the land.)
He had lately kum from Inglan'-yon cud tell it by's cap—
Fur "kerlonial exper'ence" (an' he got it, too, poor chap)
"Twas in town he met the squatter, an' he asked as if in fun,
"If the boss 'ud want a flunkey or a coachy on the run?"
Well, it riz the boss' dander, an' he jumps, clean orf 'is 'oss—
"Now, me fresh, sweet-scented beauty, watyer giv'n us?" sez the boss;
"I hev met yer kidney of'en an' yer mighty fresh an' free,
Yer needn't think yer gorn ter -lardin' over me!"
But the new chum sed that 'onest he was lookin' for a job,
An' in spite of his appearance he had blued 'is bottom, bob.
An' as beggars karn't be choosers same as people wot are rich,
Said he'd go as stoo'rd or gard'ner, but he warn't partickler which.
Well, the joker seemed in earliest, so the boss began ter cool,
An' he only blanked the new chum for a thund'rin' jumpt-up fool.
Then he sed,"Well, there's the fencin'; if yer'll tramp it up from Perth
"The boys'll find yer su'thin' p'r'aps, an' giv' yer what yer worth."
Ov course the squatter never thort ter see 'im any more,
But he wa'n't the kind ov new-chum that the squatter tuk' 'im fur;
No, he wa'n't the kind ov cockeroach that on'y kums ter shirk,
That wants ter git the sugar, but is fri'tened ov the work;
For he sold 'is watch 'n ' jool 'ry, 'n ' his lardidardy suits,
Stuck a swag upon his shoulder, 'n' 'is feet in blucher boots;.
An' I dunno how he did it; he was anythin'"but strong,
But he, 'umped his bluey ninety mile an' kum to Bunglelong.
He earnt 'is pound and tucker borin' holes an' running wire,
An' he'd work from dawn to sunset an' he never seemed ter tire,
But he must have suffered orful from the tucker an' the heat,
An' the everlastin' trampin' made 'im tender in the feet,
An' he must hev thort ov England w'en the everlastin' flies
Ware a-worrit, worrit, worrit, worrit, an' n-narmin' at 'is eyes;
An' he used to swear like thunder w'en the yaller sergent ants
Took a mornin' stroll, promiscus, on the inside ov 'is pants.
He uster make 'is damper six to seven inches thick—
It was doughey on the inside an' the shell was like a brick,
An' while thc damper made 'im dream ov days ov long ago,
The little boodie rats 'ud kum an' nibble out the dough.
He biled 'is taters soggy, an' 'is junk was biled to rags
(The little boodie rats 'ud kum an' chew 'is tucker bags),
But he took 'is troubles cheerful an' he fixed 'em like a pome,
An' writ 'em in his diary to amuse the folks at 'ome.
At first he flashed a collar an' was keerful with 'is hat,
An' he'd black 'is boots ov Sundays, but he soon grew out of that;'
An' he learnt ter bake 'is damper, an' he learnt ter bile 'is junk
An' sleep without a-getting up all night ter shake 'is bunk.
He soon got out ov takin' "shorter cuts" across the flats,
An' he learnt to fling 'ole bottles to the sorrer of the rats,
An' learnt ter sling kerlonial and like the bushman's ways,
An' it did us good ter see 'im smoke 'is "******" in a clay.
He would sing, an' play 'is fiddle when we gathered round the blaze,
Till ole Frenchy got excited while he'd play the Marcylays;
An' Bill 'ud take 'is hat off while he'd spout the Light Brigade,
An' Scotchy got oneasy when the "Bonny 'Ills" was played.
So we got ter like the new chum, for we'd meet with many wuss,
An' we made it easy for 'im an' he seemed to take to us; '
The toilin' an' the trampin' was a-cookin' 'im we found,
So we made 'im cook an' just ter keep thc chap around.
Well, the months went bakin', broilin' on until Christmas next,
When we tramped it down to Perth to spend our 'ollyday (and cheques);
But Possum sed he'd save 'is tin an' stay and mind the camp,
So we left 'im in possession au' we started on our tramp—
(We useter call 'im Possum, but for short we called him Poss.;
For 'is eyes was black an' twinklin' anda little chap' he was),
We never would have left 'im if we'd know'd (but that's the rub),
Comin' back we found 'im dyin' in 'is gunyan in the scrub.
We fixed 'im up an' nursed 'im; but we seen without a doubt
That consumption was the matter, an' the chap was peggin' out;
But the lion heart inside 'im was as strong an ' stout as six,
An ' while he'd smile an ' thank us he would joke about 'is fix;
An' he sed 'twas very jolly to be dry-nursed in a tent,
An' he reckoned that the Christmas was the best he'd ever spent; He would talk of 'ome and Inglan' when 'is head began ter swim,
But he never blamed the country that had been so 'ard on 'im.
He would say: "I like the country; if a feller's blind er halt,
Or if he's got consumption, why it ain't the country's fault.
The tea that's boiled in billies is far sweeter stuff. I know,
Than the cursed drink w'at blasted all my chances long ago.
I would hev cum out sooner if it was my destiny,
An' I daresay that the country would have made a man ov me.
But w'at's the good ov energy, an' w'at's the good er "push"
W'en a feller's sick an' dyin' in a gunyah in the bush!"
But he tole me all about it as I sat beside 'is bunk—
How he'd spent 'is tin in Melbourne an' was allers gettin' drunk;
How he thort he'd take it easy while he had a little gold,
And, before he turned the new leaf, how he scibbled on the old;
An' among a lot ov nonsense' w'en 'is mind began ter drift,
He tole me that the new leaf was a heavy leaf ter lift.
But w'at's the good er writin' this, it's nothin' very new,
The West will see enough ov it an' suffer for it, too.
An' he said w'en hè was dyin' (when 'is lung was spit away),
An' we all was standin' round 'im in the gunyah where he lay;
An' he said, "I've watched the sunset—when 'the wind began to
'whoosh'—
Like a layer ov coals a-glowin'—on the'dark bed ov the bush—
An' I felt my fingers slippin'—slippin'—slowly—from the ropes,
W'en the West was cold—like ashes—like the-ashes of my hopes;
An'—I—sit beside me—Peter—let me 'old—a—bushman's hand
For I'm—gorn toump my bluey—to'the gates ov—Newchumland."
—Henry Lawson, 1890
Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson was more than a poet, he was a war correspondent, soldier, sportsman, lawyer and a keen observer of the human condition. Paterson’s connection to Albany was fleeting and honorable. He is known to have passed through our port town in 1905 during a voyage to England, one of many notable figures to do so when Albany was still Australia’s main entry point for international steamers.
In late 1914, as troops and war correspondents gathered for the long voyage to an uncertain war, Banjo Paterson was already a household name across Australia, known for beloved verses like “Waltzing Matilda,” “The Man from Snowy River,” and “Clancy of the Overflow.” Paterson found himself aboard a troopship bound for the battlefields of World War I. Like tens of thousands of Australians during that period, he passed through Albany.
Initially, Paterson intended to serve as a correspondent, but upon reaching the front, he instead enlisted as an ambulance driver with the Australian Voluntary Hospital, a role he fulfilled with characteristic dedication and courage. He was present during the Gallipoli campaign, one of the most harrowing chapters in Australia’s military history.
Although Paterson did not see direct combat, his time at Gallipoli exposed him to the full brutality of war. Paterson, transported wounded soldiers under fire, navigated the chaos of beach landings and witnessed the grim cost of Australia’s
involvement firsthand. These experiences left a deep impression on him and tempered the romantic nationalism that had coloured much of his earlier work.
During his wartime service, Paterson also served in France and Egypt. He later served with the 2nd Remount Unit, Australia Imperial Forces positioned initially in France, where he was wounded and reported missing in July 1916 and later as commanding officer of the unit based in Egypt overseeing the management of war horses, a role suited to his lifelong love of horsemanship. He rose to the rank of major and was appointed an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) in 1919 for his service.
Though Paterson’s time in Albany was brief, it links him to a key chapter in the town’s and the nation’s history. As the last port of call for thousands of soldiers headed to Gallipoli, the Western Front and the Middle East. Albany became a place of farewell and reflection. In later years, Paterson would recount the dignity and spirit of those who served, not from the front lines of battle, but from the difficult roles that supported them, such as ambulance driving, nursing and logistics.
Paterson never published a poem specifically about Albany, but his wartime writings echo the emotional complexity of that moment in 1914, hope mixed with fear, duty paired with uncertainty. Albany was the last Australian landscape many soldiers ever saw and for Paterson, it was a place of departure on a journey that would forever change his understanding of heroism, hardship and the Australian character.
His wartime experience marked a shift in tone in his post war writings. While he remained known for his bush ballads like “The Man from Snowy River” and “Clancy of the Overflow,” the Banjo who returned from Gallipoli was more subdued, reflective and world weary and gone was the wide eyed bush romanticism of the 1890s. In its place came a deeper, sometimes quieter nationalism, shaped by sacrifice and service by the Anzacs.
In the 1890s, Henry Lawson and Andrew Barton “Banjo” Paterson found themselves at odds in what became one of the most well known literary exchanges in Australian history. Dubbed the “Bulletin Debate”, this spirited clash of perspectives played out in the pages of The Bulletin, a Sydney-based publication known for championing nationalist and anti imperialist views, and for nurturing emerging Australian writers.
The heart of the debate centred on their conflicting portrayals of the Australian bush. Lawson, shaped by personal hardship and deep disillusionment, wrote stark and gritty stories that emphasised isolation, poverty and despair in rural Australia. He rejected romanticised visions of bush life, instead depicting it as a harsh and unforgiving environment that bred loneliness and hardship. In poems such as “Up the Country” (1892), Lawson directly attacked what he labelled the “City Bushmen”, writers like Paterson, who, in his view, idealised the bush from a safe distance.
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, 1892
Paterson, in turn, responded with poems like “In Defence of the Bush”, arguing that Lawson’s view was unreasonably bleak and that the bush, while tough, was full of character, beauty, and nobility. Paterson’s writing, full of lively drovers, clever horses, and galloping verse, captured the romance and myth of the bush and helped shape Australia’s cultural identity in the lead up to Federation.
Defence of the Bush
So you’re back from up the country, Mister Lawson, where you went,
And you’re cursing all the business in a bitter discontent;
Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear
That it wasn’t cool and shady — and there wasn’t plenty beer,
And the loony bullock snorted when you first came into view;
Well, you know it’s not so often that he sees a swell like you;
And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown,
And no doubt you’re better suited drinking lemon-squash in town.
Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went
In a month or two at furthest you would wonder what it meant,
Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain
You would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain,
And the miles of thirsty gutters blocked with sand and choked with mud,
You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood;
For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street,
In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet;
But the bush hath moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall,
And the men who know the bush-land — they are loyal through it all.
But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight,
Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers’ huts at night?
Did they “rise up, William Riley” by the camp-fire’s cheery blaze?
Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days?
And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet –
Were their faces sour and saddened like the “faces in the street”,
And the “shy selector children” — were they better now or worse
Than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse?
Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and square
Where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare,
Where the sempstress plies her sewing till her eyes are sore and red
In a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread?
Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush
Than the roar of trams and ‘buses, and the war-whoop of “the push”?
Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange?
Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range?
But, perchance, the wild birds’ music by your senses was despised,
For you say you’ll stay in townships till the bush is civilised.
Would you make it a tea-garden and on Sundays have a band
Where the “blokes” might take their “donahs”, with a “public” close at hand?
You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the “push”,
For the bush will never suit you, and you’ll never suit the bush.
— Banjo Patterson, 1892
While the feud was poetic and intellectual, it reflected a deeper national conversation about class, hardship, identity, and what it meant to be Australian. In hindsight, the “clash” was less about who was right and more about representing the two faces of the nation. Lawson gave voice to the battler, the loner, and the underdog, while Paterson celebrated mateship, freedom, and the rugged charm of the outback.
Despite their differences, both men helped define Australia’s emerging literary voice. Together, their works continue to shape how generations have understood the nation’s landscape and character. Their so-called “War of Words” remains one of the most significant and defining moments in Australian literary and cultural history.