Who is Henry Lawson

Henry Archibald Hertzberg Lawson (17 June 1867 – 2 September 1922) was an Australian writer and bush poet. Along with his contemporary Banjo Paterson, Lawson is among the best-known Australian poets and fiction writers of the colonial period and is often called Australia's "greatest short story writer".A vocal nationalist and republican, Lawson regularly contributed to The Bulletin, and many of his works helped popularise the Australian vernacular in fiction. He wrote prolifically into the 1890s, after which his output declined, in part due to struggles with alcoholism and mental illness. At times destitute, he spent periods in Darlinghurst Gaol and psychiatric institutions. After he died in 1922 following a cerebral haemorrhage, Lawson became the first Australian writer to be granted a ...
Read Full Biography of Henry Lawson


Henry Lawson Poems

Read All Poems


Top 10 most used topics by Henry Lawson

Never 267 World 219 Long 199 Heart 195 Night 194 Home 157 Good 152 Life 150 Time 146 I Love You 135


Henry Lawson Quotes

Read All Quotes


Comments about Henry Lawson

Livetrafficsyd: peakhurst: all westbound lanes of henry lawson dr are closed due to fallen wires at simone pl. diversion via jacques av and belmore rd. follow directions of emergency services and traffic crews,
Livetrafficsyd: update: one westbound lane and two eastbound lanes of henry lawson dr are now closed at simone pl in peakhurst. the diversion has been lifted but continue to allow extra travel time.
Livetrafficsyd: update: one eastbound lane of henry lawson dr is still closed at peakhurst. all westbound lanes are open.
Gettrafficnsw: villawood - traffic delayed westbound hume highway at henry lawson dr
Realbencasey1: funny you would say that, i have met and spoken to many green voters who tell me with a straight face that there is no culture in oz, no banjo patterson, no henry lawson, just me and now
Read All Comments


Write your comment about Henry Lawson


Poem of the day

Edgar Albert Guest Poem
The Killing Place
 by Edgar Albert Guest

We're hiking along at a two-forty pace
We 're making life seem like a man-killing race,
With our nerves all on edge and our jaws firmly set
We go rushing along; with our brows lined with sweat
And our cheeks pale and drawn every minute we dash,
And the goal that we 're after is merely more cash.

We 're out for the money, the greenbacks and gold,
...

Read complete poem

Popular Poets