Oh Mary this London's a wonderful sight
With people here workin' by day and by night
'Twas in the month of March and in the year of 1899,
Which will be remembered for a very long time;
'Twas on the 1st of April, and in the year of Eighteen thirteen,
That the whaler "Oscar" was wrecked not far from Aberdeen;
Ye landsmen, all pray list to me,
While I relate a terrible tale of the sea,
Edward Teach was a native of Bristol, and sailed from that port
On board a privateer, in search of sport,
SO YER trav’lin’ for yer pleasure while yer writin’ for the press?
An’ yer huntin’ arter “copy”?—well, I’ve heer’d o’ that. I guess
This is the cave of which I spoke,
These are the blackened stones, and these
When the African Arts,
home again,
Who were the builders of Great Zimbabwe?
No man knows . . .
ALL NIGHT long the sea out yonder—all night long the wailful sea,
Vext of winds and many thunders, seeketh rest unceasingly!
They towed the Seabolt down the stream,
And through the harbour’s mouth;
You lie at peace within a city square,
Who sailed wide seas with Phillip to our shoe;
On the summit of Mount Clarence rotting slowly in the air
Stands a tall and naked flagstaff, relic of the Russian scare—
Today I bought a warrior’s head
Of carved and polished ebony,
I’m one of the has-beens, a shearer I mean;
I once was a ringer and used to shear clean;
In Rome within the Sistine Chapel,
Covered over with Christian signs,
Have you never seen sweet Ellen Vale,
Or roamed the spacious park?
Nigh the mouldering staithe
Where the lads came to bathe,
As I lay sleeping
on Bakery Hill
Biddings good morrow to all our cares,
Riding along with a joyful heart.
A Slave sold at Auction.
A time there was, when no one thought
(The War Memorial of the University of Sydney)
Death is an ocean, an uncharted deep.
Behind this door
Now buried in deep grass
SAMUEL PEPYS, as all men know,
Loved ladies and ships in the long ago;
The sale began—young girls were there,
Defenseless in their wretchedness,
The workers of Kembla, those leaders of men,
Those leaders of deed as in thought.
In boundless mercy, the Redeemer left,
The bosom of his Father, and assumed
Campin’ round Coonamble.
Keepin’ up the strike,
Where the early settler lingered,
Sometimes pitched his tent and stayed,
In the old raftered loft
Where the winds blow
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