In the Days When the World Was Wide | Page 6

wreck by tempests beat --?A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.
But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes, For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums, Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet, And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street --
Rotting out, rotting out,?For the lack of air and meat --?In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street.
I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure?Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor??Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat, When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street,
The wrong things and the bad things?And the sad things that we meet?In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.
I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still, And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill;?But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet, They haunted me -- the shadows of those faces in the street,
Flitting by, flitting by,?Flitting by with noiseless feet,?And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street.
Once I cried: `Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure, Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.'?And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city's street, And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet,
Coming near, coming near,?To a drum's dull distant beat,?And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street.
Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall,?The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all,?And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat, And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street.
Pouring on, pouring on,?To a drum's loud threatening beat,?And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.
And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course, The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse, But not until a city feels Red Revolution's feet?Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street --
The dreadful everlasting strife?For scarcely clothes and meat?In that pent track of living death -- the city's cruel street.
The Roaring Days
The night too quickly passes?And we are growing old,?So let us fill our glasses?And toast the Days of Gold;?When finds of wondrous treasure?Set all the South ablaze,?And you and I were faithful mates?All through the roaring days!
Then stately ships came sailing?From every harbour's mouth,?And sought the land of promise?That beaconed in the South;?Then southward streamed their streamers?And swelled their canvas full?To speed the wildest dreamers?E'er borne in vessel's hull.
Their shining Eldorado,?Beneath the southern skies,?Was day and night for ever?Before their eager eyes.?The brooding bush, awakened,?Was stirred in wild unrest,?And all the year a human stream?Went pouring to the West.
The rough bush roads re-echoed?The bar-room's noisy din,?When troops of stalwart horsemen?Dismounted at the inn.?And oft the hearty greetings?And hearty clasp of hands?Would tell of sudden meetings?Of friends from other lands;?When, puzzled long, the new-chum?Would recognise at last,?Behind a bronzed and bearded skin,?A comrade of the past.
And when the cheery camp-fire?Explored the bush with gleams,?The camping-grounds were crowded?With caravans of teams;?Then home the jests were driven,?And good old songs were sung,?And choruses were given?The strength of heart and lung.?Oh, they were lion-hearted?Who gave our country birth!?Oh, they were of the stoutest sons?From all the lands on earth!
Oft when the camps were dreaming,?And fires began to pale,?Through rugged ranges gleaming?Would come the Royal Mail.?Behind six foaming horses,?And lit by flashing lamps,?Old `Cobb and Co.'s', in royal state,?Went dashing past the camps.
Oh, who would paint a goldfield,?And limn the picture right,?As we have often seen it?In early morning's light;?The yellow mounds of mullock?With spots of red and white,?The scattered quartz that glistened?Like diamonds in light;?The azure line of ridges,?The bush of darkest green,?The little homes of calico?That dotted all the scene.
I hear the fall of timber?From distant flats and fells,?The pealing of the anvils?As clear as little bells,?The rattle of the cradle,?The clack of windlass-boles,?The flutter of the crimson flags?Above the golden holes.
. . . . .
Ah, then our hearts were bolder,?And if Dame Fortune frowned?Our swags we'd lightly shoulder?And tramp to other ground.?But golden days are vanished,?And altered is the scene;?The diggings are deserted,?The camping-grounds are green;?The flaunting flag of progress?Is in the West unfurled,?The mighty bush with iron rails?Is tethered to the world.
`For'ard'
It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep, For there's near a hundred for'ard, and they're stowed away like sheep, -- They are trav'lers for the most part in a straight 'n' honest path; But their linen's rather scanty, an' there isn't any bath -- Stowed away like ewes and wethers that