Читать книгу For Australia and Other Poems - Henry Lawson - Страница 10

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Macleay Streetlooks to Mosman,

Across the other side,

With brave asphalted pavements

And roadway clean and wide.

Macleay Street hath its mansions,

Its grounds and greenery;

Macleay Street hath its terraces

As terraces should be.

Red Rock Lane looks to nowhere,

With pockets into hell;

Red Rock Lane is a horror

Of heat and dirt and smell.

Red Rock Lane hath its brothels,

Of houses one in three;

Red Rock Lane hath its corner pubs

As fourth-rate pubs should be.

Macleay Street, cool and quiet,

Is marked off from the town,

And standing in the centre

The tall arc lamps look down.

The jealous closed cabs vanish

That stole from out the row,

Fair women stroll bareheaded,

And theatre parties go.

Red Rock Lane, hot with riot,

Hides things that none should know;

The furtive couples vanish

Through doorways dark and low.

Lust, thievery, drink and madness

In one infernal stew—

And Mrs Johnson, raving,

Walks out—bareheaded too.

Macleay Street hath its swindles,

But on a public scale;

Macleay Street hath its razzles

Until the night grows pale.

Macleay Street hath its scandals,

But—only this is plain,

That nothing is a scandal

Down there in Red Rock Lane.

Macleay Street looks to Mosman

In morning’s rosy glow,

And freshly to the city

The summer-suited go

While wild-eyed, foul and shaking,

Red Rock Lane wakes again.

This morning at the Central

They’re fining Red Rock Lane.

The Central says “the risin’”,

“Seven days”, or what you will;

Macleay Street says, “Drive slowly”

When any one is ill.

The law sends Black Maria

When Red Rock Lane is dead.

But doctors come in motor cars

When Macleay Street’s got a head.

The grey-faced, weedy parents

Sunk in Red Rock Lane holes—

They worry, pinch, and perish

To save their children’s souls.

The fairy of Macleay Street

Shall never soil her hands—

Her Pa is independent,

Or high up in “the Lands”.

And—well, there seems no moral,

And nothing more to tell,

But because of that fierce sympathy

Of souls to souls in hell;

And because of that wild kindness

To souls in sordid pain,

My soul I’d rather venture

With some in Red Rock Lane.