William Street

Tis William Street, the link street,     That seems to stand alone;     Tis William Street, the vague street,     With terraces of stone:     That starts with clean, cool pockets,     And ancient stable ways,     And built by solid landlords     And in more solid days.     Beginning where the shadow streets     Of vacant wealth begin,     Street William runs down sadly     Across the vale of sin.     Tis William Street, the haggard,     Where all the streets are mean     Thats trying to be honest,     Thats trying to keep clean.     Tis William Street with method,     And nought of show or pride,     That tries to keep its business     Upon the right-hand side.     No pavement exhibition     Of carcases and slops;     But old-established principles     In old-established shops.     Tis William Street the highway,     Whichever way it be,     To business and the theatres,     Or empty luxury.     Tis William Street (the East-end),     The world-wise and exempt,     That sells Potts Point its purgatives     With something of contempt.     With fronts that hint of England,     As England used to be,     Old houses once in gardens,     And signs of Italy.     With hints of the forgotten,     Strange Sydney of the past,     When bricks were burnt for all time,     And walls were built to last.     Tis William Street that rises     From stagnant dust and heat,     (Old trees by the Museum     Hold back with hands and feet),     And where the blind are plying     Deft fingers, supple wrists,     Tis William Street, exclusive,     Where pray the Methodists.     The blind courts see the clearer,     Side lanes grow trim and neat,     The wretched streets are cleaner     That run from William Street.     The sick streets lonely matron     Seems stern, as matrons do,     Tis William Street, redeeming,     Regenerating Loo.