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Writ in Barracks
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And Worth-wrought sheen
Rub textures in the street!
Sing hey! for the Town, as a town,
A song of its bricks and its plaster;
The slum that is mouldering down —
The mansion that's rising the faster.
Sing hey! for its one-storied past,
Be-flagged, and be-stoeped, and be-whitened;
Its five-storied future more vast,
Its breadth to be broadened and heightened.
The grim old, prim old town,
A brand-new vestment wears,
And arc-lights purr
Where blue-gums were,
And the blanket-Kafir stares!
BY SIMON'S BAY
In the mountain fold
By the green-blue bay,
Where the waves are flecked
By the evening gold
At the close of day;
And the berg is decked
With a film of grey,
And the mountain's frown
On the darkening town —
My mem'ries stray.
By the fringing beach,
By the restless wave,
Is the straggling town,
And its limits reach
From the highest place
By the mountain's crown
To the mountain's base —
Where the waters lave.
Hopeful Town
By the Cape of Hope;
By the sandy slope
Where the Hills look down;
By the wind-swept kloof —
On the barrack, grim:
On the whitened roof,
On the garden trim:
On the restless Bay
Where the sea-fowl whirls
And the spume-dust swirls
To the Zephyr's whim —
At the close of day.
Darkening Bay,
Where ever lay
Alert to slip
From leashes taut
A blood-flecked hound
In the pale lean ship;
And where the sound
Of echoing boom
From far away
Is a full-mouthed bay,
As the quarry's found.
Mournful bay
In green and grey,
I've thought on you
This many a day.
THE SQUIRE
Sir John of the Isles,
'E stood on 'is lands,
An' looked round 'is large estates:
The lands of waste, an' the lands of corn;
The rose-clad lands, an' the lands of thorn;
An' 'is many gun guarded gates.
Sir John of the Isles,
'E sez to T.A.,
'E sez to T.A., sez 'e,
'Oh, you an' your chum, the sailor-man,
Must scour the country as far as you can
For you are gamekeepers to me.'
Sir John of the Isles,
'E sez to the swells —
The Downing Street frock-coated crew —
'You are stewards of mine, on Colonial land,
An' my tenants, with seventeen guns an' a band,
Shall pay their respects unto you!'
Sez John of the Isles
To one of the swells,
'Near the lands where you're goin' to Be
Is the dusty estate of a crotchety cuss,
'Oo from time to time causes a great deal of fuss,
For 'e thinks 'e's better nor me.'
Rub textures in the street!
Sing hey! for the Town, as a town,
A song of its bricks and its plaster;
The slum that is mouldering down —
The mansion that's rising the faster.
Sing hey! for its one-storied past,
Be-flagged, and be-stoeped, and be-whitened;
Its five-storied future more vast,
Its breadth to be broadened and heightened.
The grim old, prim old town,
A brand-new vestment wears,
And arc-lights purr
Where blue-gums were,
And the blanket-Kafir stares!
BY SIMON'S BAY
In the mountain fold
By the green-blue bay,
Where the waves are flecked
By the evening gold
At the close of day;
And the berg is decked
With a film of grey,
And the mountain's frown
On the darkening town —
My mem'ries stray.
By the fringing beach,
By the restless wave,
Is the straggling town,
And its limits reach
From the highest place
By the mountain's crown
To the mountain's base —
Where the waters lave.
Hopeful Town
By the Cape of Hope;
By the sandy slope
Where the Hills look down;
By the wind-swept kloof —
On the barrack, grim:
On the whitened roof,
On the garden trim:
On the restless Bay
Where the sea-fowl whirls
And the spume-dust swirls
To the Zephyr's whim —
At the close of day.
Darkening Bay,
Where ever lay
Alert to slip
From leashes taut
A blood-flecked hound
In the pale lean ship;
And where the sound
Of echoing boom
From far away
Is a full-mouthed bay,
As the quarry's found.
Mournful bay
In green and grey,
I've thought on you
This many a day.
THE SQUIRE
Sir John of the Isles,
'E stood on 'is lands,
An' looked round 'is large estates:
The lands of waste, an' the lands of corn;
The rose-clad lands, an' the lands of thorn;
An' 'is many gun guarded gates.
Sir John of the Isles,
'E sez to T.A.,
'E sez to T.A., sez 'e,
'Oh, you an' your chum, the sailor-man,
Must scour the country as far as you can
For you are gamekeepers to me.'
Sir John of the Isles,
'E sez to the swells —
The Downing Street frock-coated crew —
'You are stewards of mine, on Colonial land,
An' my tenants, with seventeen guns an' a band,
Shall pay their respects unto you!'
Sez John of the Isles
To one of the swells,
'Near the lands where you're goin' to Be
Is the dusty estate of a crotchety cuss,
'Oo from time to time causes a great deal of fuss,
For 'e thinks 'e's better nor me.'
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