Classic Poem

It is not on the summer sands
Of Fashion where no heart is stirred,
Nor where the tall Australia stands—
It is not there my songs are heard.
'Tis not in Pitt, nor Collins Street,
Nor on the Point, nor in Toorak,
Nor where all Wealth and Fashion meet—
But in the Lane, and on the Track.

'Tis not in Dilettante Land,
Nor in the Greenery Gallery school;
'Tis not where Membership will stand
For some most lost, conceited fool:
'Tis not on Lawn, 'tis not in Clubs,
'Tis not where ladies take the air
In motor cars; but low-down pubs,
Lock-ups, and dens—my lines are there.

I've read them pencilled with a scrawl
In dens where souls were black as jet—
My lines upon a prison wall
Are showing through the whitewash yet.
From lips that seldom tell the truth
I've heard my lines come with a hiss—
From lips that were a girl's in youth,
But you would hardly care to kiss.

I've heard my songs recited through
In one beer-stained bar parlour room;
(And, ah, my friends! they little knew
That drunkard sotted in the gloom.)
I've heard the little children speak
My recitation shrill and fast—
The author was not far to seek:
The dirty bummer slinking past.

Down, deeper down, I heard at length
A song of mine, from lips unclean,
With all the scorn and all the strength
And mystery of Magdalen.
And I—not there as other men—
Unknown, ashamed, aghast I stood,
While tears ran down the ruined cheeks
Of her unhappy sisterhood.