Grace Jennings Carmicheal

I hate the pen, the foolscap fair,     The poets corner, and the page,     For Grief and Death are written there,     In every land and every age.     The poets sing and play their parts,     Their daring cheers, their humour shines,     But, ah! my friends! their broken hearts     Have writ in blood between the lines.     They fought to build a Commonwealth,     They write for women and for men,     They give their youth, we give their health     And never prostitute the pen.     Their work in other tongues is read,     And when sad years wear out the pen,     Then they may seek their happy dead     Or go and starve in exile then.     A grudging meed of praise you give,     Or, your excuse, the ready lie,     (O! God, you dont know how they live!     O! God, you dont know how they die!)     The poetess, whose gentle tone     Oft cheered your mothers hearts when down;     A lonely woman, fought alone     The bitter fight in London town.     Your rich to lilac lands resort,     And old-world luxuries they buy;     You pour out gold to Cant and Sport     And give a million to a lie.     You give to cheats who rant and rave     With eyes that glare and arms that whirl,     But not a penny that might save     The children of the Gippsland girl.