Classic Poem

He painted a face on the studio door
And a jest on the window pane —
Those strong, brown hands that shall paint no more —
And I'll never go there again.
They'll clean the window and colour the wall,
And they'll paint the face away;
For they raised the rent when my money was spent.
And I gave up the key to-day.

The Waratah sails and she cannot sink —
She sails in the Indian Sea;
Now down, far down by the cold ice-blink,
And now far up by the Cape, I think,
The Waratah sails and she cannot sink —
She floats and sails for me.

His brush was clever, his hopes were high,
And he in his youth aglow;
But few in his native land would buy,
Though the prices were always low.
" I'll follow the others to London, " he said,
" The place where we all pull through;
And, when I am certain of board and bed,
O then I will send for you! "

The spirit lamp served, and the folding bed,
The boxes and cheap cretonne;
And the fat, plain faces of wealthy dames
Were themes that he worked upon.
We pinched and slaved in the long years dead,
Ere he sailed for wealth and fame;
" And I'll go by the Waratah , girl, " he said —
" 'Tis a good Australian name. "

I worked for the journals night and day,
(O the Waratah's overdue),
For I used to think in my small, poor way
That I was an artist, too.
Sketch and doggerel, skit and par,
Satire on show and ball;
" Guest " perforce where the upstarts are.
(And the Waratah sails through all.)

The hand-lines run on the sloping decks,
And the passengers cling once more;
And they stare and stare at the drifting wrecks
Where ships never sailed before.
And I see a face on the bridge above
That never sea could drown,
The brave, brave face of my husband love,
And his pitying eyes look down.

And the Waratah sails on starlit nights
Past the palms on a tropic strand;
And I lie in the dark and I watch her lights,
Like a scene in fairyland.
She is sailing home as a good ship should,
But she steams with a broken screw;
And it's long to wait, and I would, I would
That I'd sailed with the Waratah too.

The Waratah sails and she does not sink,
She sails on the Indian Sea;
Now down, far South by the strange ice-blink,
And now far up by the Cape, I think,
The Waratah sails and she does not sink —
She will never sink for me.