Ship from the Thames
Stay, ship from Thames with fettered sails
in Sydney Cove, this ebb of tide;
your gear untangled from the gales,
imprisoned at your anchor ride.
The portly gentleman who are
the pillars of the land come down
and greet the Newcomes voyaged far
to make a name in Sydney town.
The Recoats, too with shouldered arms,
marshal pale wretches from the hold,
who, cramped in tempest and in calms
have learned to do as they are told.
Flash phaetons fill the streets to-day;
inn-tables rock to sailor fists;
the Governor, while the town is gay,
checks over new assignment lists.
Aloof, the slandered and abhorred
behold from of a quarried rise,
the cause of all the stir aboard
a fiercer glitter in their eyes.
poem by Rex Ingamells
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How’s My Boy?
“HO, Sailor of the sea!
How’s my boy—my boy?”
“What’s your boy’s name, good wife,
And in what good ship sail'd he?”
“My boy John— He that went to sea—
What care I for the ship, sailor?
My boy's my boy to me.
“You come back from sea,
And not know my John?
I might as well have ask’d some landsman
Yonder down in the town.
There ’s not an ass in all the parish
But he knows my John.
“How’s my boy—my boy?
And unless you let me know
I’ll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no,
Brass buttons or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no!
Sure his ship was the ‘Jolly Briton’”—
“Speak low, woman, speak low!”
“And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John?
If I was loud as I am proud
I’d sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor?”
“That good ship went down.”
“How’s my boy—my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor?
I was never aboard her.
Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I’ll be bound,
Her owners can afford her!
I say, how’s my John?”
“Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her.”
“How’s my boy—my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I’m not their mother—
How’s my boy—my boy?
Tell me of him and no other!
How ’s my boy—my boy?”
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Nothing Much Happens in Sydney
Nothing much happens in Sydney
Nothing much happens at all
Unless you count all the cricket
And tennis and squash and football.
Nothing much happens in Sydney
No life on the streets or in town
That's unless you count all the tourists
But then they do stick around
The things they always call 'icons'
Like the bridge and the rocks and the beach
You see there's nothing much happens in Sydney
Not too much to do in the heat.
There's one special building in Sydney
Right on the water it stands
Its roof looks like sails made of concrete
No wonder it's stuck on dry land
They called it the Opera House somehow
Not sure why they did at the time
Its got concerts and shows does the Opera
But not that much singing in rhyme.
Nothing much happens in Sydney
We're too far away don't you see
That's unless you count all the cafes,
Restaurants and brasseries.
Nothing much happens in Sydney
Some say it’s the arse end of the world
It takes a whole day to get anywhere
Anywhere else on this earth.
So why has the number of people
Who live here quite gone through the roof?
There's close on four million in Sydney
That's if they're telling the truth.
Perhaps things do happen in Sydney
Perhaps it isn't that bad
Perhaps there is life here in Sydney
But we take it for granted and have
A view that our city is lacking
And I find that really quite sad.
It's time to wake up to Sydney
It's time to open our eyes
Where else in this world that we live in
Are signs saying 'Arancini and Pies'?
The truth is this land called Australia
Was first settled by the dour pommes
Now there's every race in Australia
Yet we still feel we don't quite belong.
We think that nothing much happened
From when we got here till today
Our history's stuck in a closet
Locked up with the key thrown away.
Now two hundred years is a long time
A long time in all history books
But there's something quite strange about Sydney
We miss things 'cause we don’t look
For the history that does surround us
In every part of this town
That history's living and breathing
If only we do look around.
There's the barracks and then there's the gaol house
Which for maximum impact were planned
To keep these new Australians
In line with the laws of the land.
The gaol house, it stands on a corner
On a higher part of the town
People looked up to the goal house
And the law on the people looked down.
There's clear sentiment in this story
A sentiment best not forgot
And that we won’t value our future
If we don't value what we have got
From the people that were here before us
Our ancestors here on this land
If we don't get to know our own history
Then our present we won't understand.
19 October 2004
David Keig
poem by David Keig
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Bound for Sourabaya!
OH, the moon shines bright, and we sail to-night,
And we’re bound for Sourabaya!
So it’s ‘Farewell, Jane!’ for we’re off again
With the turning of the tide!
Oh, the Java girls haven’t got no curls,
But they’ll meet us on the Praya,
And, Malay or Dutch, well, the odds ain’t much,
And the ocean’s deep and wide!
We’re bound for Sourabaya, boys,
Where the girls are kind and brown!
By the break of day we’ll be far away!
Farewell to Sydney town!
Oh, the girls look glum, when the parting’s come,
And we’re bound for Sourabaya!
And they weep and wail, cos’ the ship must sail
With the turning of the tide!
But we soon forget, when our sheets are wet
And the dancing dolphins play—ah,
And the gale pipes high in the mackerel sky,
And the ocean’s deep and wide!
We’re bound for Sourabaya, boys,
Where the girls are kind and brown,
And they hope and pray that we’ve come to stay!
Farewell to Sydney town!
When the coin’s all gone, and the hatches on,
And we’re bound for Sourabaya,
There’s a kiss for Nell, and a long farewell,
With the turning of the tide!
But there’s not much wrong, and it don’t last long,
Tho’ she mourns you for a day—ah!
And she wears no black if you don’t come back!
For the ocean’s deep and wide!
And we’re bound for Sourabaya, boys,
Where the girls are kind and brown,
So we’ll drink once more,
While we’re on the shore,
Farewell to Sydney town!
poem by Charles Henry Souter
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Now You're Here
No, we don’t care where you come from
Now you’re here
No, we don’t care where you come from
Have a beer
We don’t care if you are black or white or
Of another hue
Now you’re here in Western Sydney
Now you’re part of Western Sydney
Now all over Western Sydney
We love you.
We are very proud of our diversity
Out on the streets it’s very clear to see
We don’t care if you’re a Christian or a Jew
Or a Bhuddist or Islamic or Hindu
‘Cos we don’t care where you come from
We don’t care where you come from
We don’t care where you come from
Now you’re here.
We’re very proud of long history
And we pay respect to Aborigines
And there’s just one thing I’ll tell ya
Yes, to you and other fellas
That we don’t care where you come from
Now you’re here.
No, we don’t care where you come from
Now you’re here
No, we don’t care where you come from
Have a beer
We don’t care if you are black or white or
Of another hue
Now you’re here in Western Sydney
Now you’re part of Western Sydney
Now all over Western Sydney
We love you.
We’re proud of where we are going
You can see
We’re using all our creativity
To build a better future
And we’ll get there soon we betcha
‘Cos we don’t care where you come from
Now you’re here.
No, we don’t care where you come from
Have a beer
We don’t care if you are black or white or
Another hue
Now you’re here in Western Sydney
Now you’re part of Western Sydney
Now all over Western Sydney
We love you.
Now you’re here in Western Sydney
Now you’re part of Western Sydney
Now all over Western Sydney
We love you.
poem by David Keig
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Simple Sister Goes To Sydney
When Flo resolved to go to town from brothers three a yell went up,
Predicting ruin and distress. Bill in his horror dropped a cup.
“Gorstruth!” he said, “in Sydney there what is a simple girl to do?
They took me down. I lost me watch and seven quid. What ‘ope for you?”
Ben turned on her in pale dismay. “Look here, me girl, ain’t you bin told
How one iv them there spieler blokes done me for twenty pound in gold?
He was as nice a gentleman as any in the blessed shops:
He got away with all I had, and took a luner at the cops.”
“Me, too,” said Dave, “that time I went to Sydney town to see the Show
One trimmed me for me bran’ new suit. You stay where we can watch you, Flo.”
Flo packed. “If spieler comes at me his finish will be sharp,” she said;
And when the boys next heard of her she’d got a bloke, and then was wed.
She wrote: “He’s rather nice, I think, and I am putting him to work.
Next Chrissmiss we are comin’ up to see yous people back o’ Bourke.”
And when he came he brought for Bill a silver watch and seven quid,
For Dave a bran’ new suit of check, a ruby tie-pin and a lid.
To Ben he handed twenty pounds, in nice new minted sovereigns, too.
And still the brothers gaped at him, and still their great amazement grew.
He was a natty kind of chap, with gentle manners, small and slim.
And when they spoke ‘twas as one man. “So ‘elp me cat,” they said, “it’s ‘im!”
poem by Edward George Dyson
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Sydney my Love
Sydney my love, Sydney my city.
Pretty pretty place,
Plenty- plenty beauty.
Sydney my love, Sydney my city.
First rays of sun –
Spread here fun,
Splendour and majesty,
Nothing so beauty.
Sydney my love, Sydney my city.
Tidy beaches, green green trees,
Heavenly blowing cool cool breeze,
Kissing the shore waves sporty.
Sydney my love, Sydney my city.
Fort Dension, port Jackson,
Kings Cross, Opera attraction,
Harbour bridge, Bondi beach,
Place to find calm & peace,
Sydney is our identity.
Sydney my love, Sydney my city.
Kangaroo, emu, blue mountain,
Adventure, romance, 4x, fun.
Flora fauna, folk, fidelity.
Sydney my love, Sydney my city.
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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The Road to Gundagai
The mountain road goes up and down
From Gundagai to Tumut Town
And, branching off, there runs a track
Across the foothills grim and black,
Across the plains and ranges grey
To Sydney city far away.
It came by chance one day that I
From Tumut rode to Gundagai,
And reached about the evening tide
The crossing where the roads divide;
And, waiting at the crossing place,
I saw a maiden fair of face,
With eyes of deepest violet blue,
And cheeks to match the rose in hue --
The fairest maids Australia knows
Are bred among the mountain snows.
Then, fearing I might go astray,
I asked if she could show the way.
Her voice might well a man bewitch --
Its tones so supple, deep, and rich.
"The tracks are clear," she made reply,
"And this goes down to Sydney Town,
And that one goes to Gundagai."
Then slowly, looking coyly back,
She went along the Sydney track
And I for one was well content
To go the road the lady went;
But round the turn a swain she met --
The kiss she gave him haunts me yet!
I turned and travelled with a sigh
The lonely road to Gundagai.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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I performed in Sydney some years ago for the Sydney Festival and I am just so pleased to be returning to the wonderful Sydney Opera House and also performing in Melbourne for the first time.
quote by Lesley Garrett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Stranded Ship: (The “Vincennes”)
’Twas the glowing log of a picnic fire where a red light should not be,
Or the curtained glow of a sick room light in a window that faced the sea.
But the Manly lights seemed the Sydney lights, and the bluffs as the “Heads” were seen;
And the Manly beach was the channel then—and the captain steered between.
The croakers said with a shoulder shrug, and a careless, know-all glance:
“You might pull out her stem, or pull out her stern—but she’ll sail no more for France!”
Her stem was dry when the tide was out, and behind her banked the sand,
Where strong gales come from the Hurricane east and the sun sets on the land.
When the tide was high and the rollers struck she shuddered as if in pain,
She had no hope for the open sea and the fair full breeze again.
She turned her side to the pounding seas and the foam glared over the rails,
It seemed her fate to be sold and stripped, and broken by winter gales.
But they sent strong gear, and they sent the gangs, and they sent her a man who knew,
And the tugs came nosing round from the Heads to see what a tug could do;
The four-ton anchors they laid to sea in the waves and the wind and rain,
And the great steel hawser they hove aboard made fast to her cable chain.
And then, while the gaping townsfolk stared from the shining beach in doubt,
The crew and the shore-gangs lowered her yards and they hove the ballast out.
(To lie like a strange sea-grave upheaved on the smooth sand by her side)
And they made all ready and clear for the tugs to come on the rising tide.
And so, in the night when the tide was in and a black sky hid the stars,
The shoremen worked at the jumping winch and the crew at the capstan bars.
To seaward the two tugs rose and fell in their own wild stormy glare
And her head came round for a fathom’s length! for a mighty heave was there.
So, tide by tide, and yard by yard, they hove her off the shore
To fit, and load for her ports of call, and to sail for France once more.
Till at last she came with the wild blind rush of a frightened thing set free,
And they towed her round to the Sydney Heads and in from the stormy sea.
And the croakers say, when a man is down, with a shrug and a know-all glance,
Oh, he’ll never get out of the gutter again, he has done with every chance;
But we’ll “haul and heave on the block and sheeve”, wave-beaten and black-rock hemmed,
And we’ll sail with cargoes that they shall buy, when their ships are all condemned.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Small Town Girl
(arnold goland / aaron. h. schroeder)
Am I just a small town girl
With big town dreams
That wont come true?
Thinking everything that means anything to me
Means something to you, too?
Am I just a small town girl?
Hey, big town boy
Dont let me down
You know I got it real bad
I gotta make good somehow
cause thats all theyre saying now
(shes a small town girl with big town dreams)
(big town dreams that never will come true)
Yeah, Im just a small town girl with big town dreams
But, just you wait
Ill make em all come true, yes I will
Oh, take this little small town girl, yeah
In your arms and hold her tight
Make her life start tonight, yeah, yeah, yeah
Come on and take this little small town girl
With big town dreams that wont come true
Come on and make her dreams
cause she loves you
Come on now, big town boy
Come on, dont let her down
You gotta fill my heart
You gotta
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Bonny Port of Sydney
The lovely Port of Sydney
Lies laughing to the sky,
The bonny Port of Sydney,
Where the ships of nations lie.
You shall never see such beauty,
Though you sail the wide world o’er,
As the sunny Port of Sydney,
As we see it from the Shore.
The shades of night are falling
On many ports of call,
But the harbour lights of Sydney
Are the grandest of them all;
Such a city set in jewels
Has ne’er been seen before
As the harbour lights of Sydney
As we see them from the Shore.
I must sail for gloomy London,
Where there are no harbour lights,
Where no sun is seen in winter,
And there are no starry nights;
And the bonny port of Sydney—
I may never see it more,
But I’ll always dream about it
As we view it from North Shore.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The New-Chum Swell
I’ll sing just now a little song,
For you must understand,
’Tis of a fine young gentleman,
That left his native land—
That bid his ma and pa farewell,
And started brave and bold,
In a ship of fourteen hundred tons,
To come and dig for gold.
He dress was spicy as could be,
His fingers hung with rings,
White waistcoats, black silk pantaloons,
And other stylish things.
His berth was in the cuddy,
Which is on deck, you know,
And all the intermediates
He voted ‘deuced low.’
When the vessel left the London Docks,
Most jovial did he seem;
But in the Downs, a change came o’er
The spirit of his dream.
His ruddy cheeks turned very pale,
His countenance looked rum,
And with a mournful sigh, said he,
‘I wish I’d never come.’
The ship at length cast anchor,
And he was glad once more;
Six large trunks he then packed up,
And started for the shore—
His traps quite filled a whale-boat,
So of course I needn’t say,
That for the freight thereof, he had
A tidy sum to pay.
He came to town, and then put up
At the Criterion Hotel
If you’ve been there, you know the place,
And the charges pretty well.
He played at billiards half the day,
And smoked and lounged about,
Until the hundred pounds he’d brought,
Had precious near run out.
With five pounds in his pocket,
He went to Bendigo;
And when he saw the diggings,
They filled his heart with woe—
‘What! must I venture down a hole,
and throw up filthy clay?
If my mother could but see me now,
Whatever would she say?’
He went and bought a shovel
And a pick and dish as well;
But to every ten minutes’ work,
He took an hour’s spell.
The skin from off his fair, white hands
In blisters peeled away—
And thus he worked, and sunk about
Twelve inches every day.
When off the bottom just a foot,
He got quite out of heart,
And threw his pick down in a rage,
And off he did depart;
But when he’d left his hole, and gone,
A cove named Sydney Bob
Stepped into it, and soon took out
A pretty handsome ‘lob’.
With five shillings in his pocket,
He started in disgust,
And then we went upon the roads
As many a young swell must:
And if through the Black Forest
You ever chance to stray,
You may see him do the Gov’ment stroke
At eight bob every day.
poem by Charles Thatcher
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Old North Sydney
They're shifting old North Sydney—
Perhaps ’tis just as well—
They’re carting off the houses
Where the old folks used to dwell.
Where only ghosts inhabit
They lay the old shops low;
But the Spirit of North Sydney,
It vanished long ago.
The Spirit of North Sydney,
The good old time and style,
It camped, maybe, at Crow’s Nest,
But only for a while.
It left about the season,
Or at the time, perhaps,
When old Inspector Cotter
Transferred his jokes and traps.
A brand new crowd is thronging
The brand new streets aglow
Where the Spirit of North Sydney
Would gossip long ago.
They will not know to-morrow—
Tho’ ’twere but yesterday—
Exactly how McMahon’s Point
And its ferry used to lay.
The good old friendly spirit
Its sorrows would unfold,
When householders were neighbours
And shop-keeping was old;
But now we’re busy strangers,
Our feelings we restrain—
The Spirit of North Sydney
Shall never come again!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Aboard At A Ship's Helm
ABOARD, at a ship's helm,
A young steersman, steering with care.
A bell through fog on a sea-coast dolefully ringing,
An ocean-bell--O a warning bell, rock'd by the waves.
O you give good notice indeed, you bell by the sea-reefs ringing,
Ringing, ringing, to warn the ship from its wreck-place.
For, as on the alert, O steersman, you mind the bell's admonition,
The bows turn,--the freighted ship, tacking, speeds away under her
gray sails,
The beautiful and noble ship, with all her precious wealth, speeds
away gaily and safe.
But O the ship, the immortal ship! O ship aboard the ship! 10
O ship of the body--ship of the soul--voyaging, voyaging, voyaging.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Ears in the Turrets Hear
Ears in the turrets hear
Hands grumble on the door,
Eyes in the gables see
The fingers at the locks.
Shall I unbolt or stay
Alone till the day I die
Unseen by stranger-eyes
In this white house?
Hands, hold you poison or grapes?
Beyond this island bound
By a thin sea of flesh
And a bone coast,
The land lies out of sound
And the hills out of mind.
No birds or flying fish
Disturbs this island’s rest.
Ears in this island hear
The wind pass like a fire,
Eyes in this island see
Ships anchor off the bay.
Shall I run to the ships
With the wind in my hair,
Or stay till the day I die
And welcome no sailor?
Ships, hold you poison or grapes?
Hands grumble on the door,
Ships anchor off the bay,
Rain beats the sand and slates.
Shall I let in the stranger,
Shall I welcome the sailor,
Or stay till the day I die?
Hands of the stranger and holds of the ships,
Hold you poison or grapes?
poem by Dylan Thomas
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On the road to Gundagai
Oh, we started down from Roto when the sheds had all cut out.
We'd whips and whips of Rhino as we meant to push about,
So we humped our blues serenely and made for Sydney town,
With a three-spot cheque between us, as wanted knocking down.
Chorus
But we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.
The road to Gundagai! Not five miles from Gundagai!
Yes, we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.
Well, we struck the Murrumbidgee near the Yanko in a week,
And passed through old Narrandera and crossed the Burnet Creek.
And we never stopped at Wagga, for we'd Sydney in our eye.
But we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.
Oh, I've seen a lot of girls, my boys, and drunk a lot of beer,
And I've met with some of both, chaps, as has left me mighty queer;
But for beer to knock you sideways, and for girls to make you sigh,
You must camp at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.
Well, we chucked our blooming swags off, and we walked into the bar,
And we called for rum-an'-raspb'ry and a shilling each cigar.
But the girl that served the pizen, she winked at Bill and I —
And we camped at Lazy Harry's, not five miles from Gundagai.
In a week the spree was over and the cheque was all knocked down,
So we shouldered our "Matildas," and we turned our backs on town,
And the girls they stood a nobbler as we sadly said "Good bye,"
And we tramped from Lazy Harry's, not five miles from Gundagai.
poem by Anonymous Oceania
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On The Road To Gundagai
Oh, we started down from Roto when the sheds had all cut out.
We'd whips and whips of Rhino as we meant to push about,
So we humped our blues serenely and made for Sydney town,
With a three-spot cheque between us, as wanted knocking down.
But we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai
The road to Gundagai! Not five miles from Gundagai!
Yes, we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.
Well, we struck the Murrumbidgee near the Yanko in a week,
And passed through old Narrandera and crossed the Burnet Creek.
And we never stopped at Wagga, for we'd Sydney in our eye.
But we camped at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.
Oh, I've seen a lot of girls, my boys, and drunk a lot of beer,
And I've met with some of both, chaps, as has left me mighty queer;
But for beer to knock you sideways, and for girls to make you sigh,
You must camp at Lazy Harry's, on the road to Gundagai.
Well, we chucked our blooming swags off, and we walked into the bar,
And we called for rum-an'-raspb'ry and a shilling each cigar.
But the girl that served the pizen, she winked at Bill and I
And we camped at Lazy Harry's, not five miles from Gundagai.
In a week the spree was over and the cheque was all knocked down,
So we shouldered our "Matildas," and we turned our backs on town,
And the girls they stood a nobbler as we sadly said "Good bye,"
And we tramped from Lazy Harry's, not five miles from Gundagai;
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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They Make Them Tough In Beech Forest
They make them tough in Beech Forest it has become a well known place
As the former home of Cliff Young the ageing man who won the great race
From Sydney all of the way to Melbourne some two decades ago
Even in death the great man's legend does seem to grow and grow.
Forty five kilometres south of Colac the nearest big country Town
And though Beech Forest has a small population 'tis a place that has won renown
For it's hardy breed of people who possess great pride of place
A pride and courage that Cliff Young displayed in his greatest ever race.
They make them tough in Beech Forest in the potato growing countryside
The achievements of Cliff Young their most famous athlete to them a source of pride
A stranger there made to feel welcome of which many do testify
Of their friendly and hospitable nature of them none can deny.
They make them tough in Beech Forest the once home of the great Cliff Young
For his Sydney to Melbourne ultra Marathon winning run
His praises have been sung
One of the hardy breed of men from that famous place south of old Colac Town
Who from Sydney all of the way to Melbourne jogged his way to renown.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Widow's Lullaby
She droops like a dew-dropping lily,
'Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!'
The sun comes up from the lea,
As he who will never come more
Came up that first day to her door,
When the ship furled her sails by the shore,
And the spring leaves were green on the tree.
But she droops like a dew-dropping lily,
'whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!'
The sun goes down in the sea,
As he who will never go more
Went down that last day from her door,
When the ship set her sails from the shore,
And the dead leaves were sere on the tree.
But she droops like a dew-dropping lily,
'Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!'
The year comes glad o'er the lea,
As he who will never come more,
Never, ah never!
Came up that first day to her door,
When the ship furled her sails by the shore,
And the spring leaves were green on the tree.
Never, ah never!
He who will come again, never!
But she droops like a dew-dropping lily,
'Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!'
The year goes sad to the sea,
As he who will never go more
For ever went down from her door,
Ever, for ever!
When the ship set her sails by the shore,
And the dead leaves were sere on the tree.
Ever, for ever!
For ever went down from her door.
But she droops like a dew-dropping lily,
'Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!'
A gun, and a flash, and a gun,
The ship lies again where she lay!
High and low, low and high, in the sun,
There's a boat, a boat on the bay!
High and low, low and high, in the sun,
All as she saw it that day,
When he came who shall never come more,
And the ship furled her sails by the shore.
But she droops like a dew-dropping lily,
'Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!'
All as she saw it that day,
With a gun, and a flash, and a gun,
The ship lies again where she lay,
And they run, and they ride, and they run,
Merry, merry, merry, down the merry highway,
To the boat, high and low in the sun.
Nearer and nearer she hears the rolling drum,
Clearer and clearer she hears the cry, 'They come,'
Far and near runs the cheer to her ear once so dear,
Merry, merry, merry, up the merry highway,
As it ran when he came that day
And said, 'Wilt thou be my dearie?
Oh, wilt thou be my dearie?
My boat is dry in the bay,
And I'll love till thou be weary!'
And she could not say him nay,
For his bonny eyes o' blue,
And never was true-love so true,
To never so kind a dearie,
As he who will never love more,
When the ship furls her sails by the shore.
Then she shakes like a wind-stricken lily,
'Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!'
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lonesome Town
Theres a place where lovers go
To cry their troubles away
And we call it lonesome town
Where the broken hearts stay
You can buy a dream or two
To last you all through the years
And the only price you pay
Is heart full of tears
Going down to lonesome town, where the broken hearts stay
Im going down to lonesome town, to cry my troubles away
And in the town of broken dreams
The streets are filled with regret
Maybe down in lonesome town
Well I can learn to forget
Lead solo
Going down to lonesome town, where the lonely hearts stay
Im going down to lonesome town, to cry, to cry my troubles away
And in the town of broken dreams
The streets are filled with regret
Maybe down in lonesome town
I can learn to forget
Maybe down in lonesome town
I can learn to forget
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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