Stop-And-See

Im stewing in a brick-built town;     My coat is quite a stylish cut,     And, morn and even, up and down,     I travel in a common rut;     But as the city sounds recede,     In dreamy moods I sometimes see     A vision of a busy lead,     And hear its voices calling me.     My flaccid muscles seem to tweak     To feel the windlass pall and strain,     To shake the cradle by the creek,     And puddle at the tom again.     Id gladly sling this musty shop     To see the sluicing waters flow     A pile of tucker, dirt on top,     And simply Lord knows what below.     Twas lightly left, tis lately mourned,     The tent life up at Stop-and-See,     When shirts with yellow clay adorned     Were badges of nobility,     When Sundays best was Mondays wear,     And Bennett gave us verse and book     Poor Dick! a crude philosopher,     But, bless his heart, a clever cook.     An easy life we lived and free;     The wash was only ten-weight stuff,     The bottom dry and soft at knee     With Hope to help us twas enough.     Then none could say us ay or nay     Did we agree to slave or smoke;     The pan was ready with the pay     Een though the graft was half in joke.     Twas good when spell-oh! had been said,     To watch the white smoke curl and cling     Against the gravel roof oerhead,     The candles dimly flickering     And circled with a yellow glow     To sprawl upon the broken reef,     And pensively to pull and blow     The fragrant incense from the leaf.     And where the creek ran by our tent,     Or lingered through embowered ponds,     In dusky nooks that held a scent     Of musk amid the drooping fronds,     It was a pleasant task to lay     The dish within the stream, and there     To puddle off the pug and clay,     And pan the gleaming prospect bare.     Oft in the strange deceit of dreams,     I swirl the old tin-dish again,     And Wondees rippling water seems     To cool my weary limbs as then;     And down the hill-side bare and dry     A diggers chorus faintly comes,     And mingles with the lullaby     Of locusts in the drowsy gums.     The barrels rattle on their stands,     And in the shaft the nail-kegs swing.     The short, sharp strokes of practised hands     Are making pick and anvil ring.     I hear the splitters measured blow,     The distant knocker rise and drop,     The cheery cry, Look up, below!     The muffled call of Heave, on top!     No piles were made at Stop-and-See,     No nuggets found of giant size,     But, looking back, it seems to me     That all who laboured there were wise.     For there was freedom void of pride,     There hate of forms and shallow arts,     And there were friendships all too wide     For narrow streets and narrow hearts.