SAINT PETER

Now, I think there is a likeness

’ Twixt St. Peter’ s life and mine,

For he did a lot of trampin’

Long ago in Palestine.

He was‘ union’ when the workers

First began to organise,

And — I’ m glad that old St. Peter

Keeps the gate of Paradise.

When the ancient agitator

And his brothers carried swags,

I’ ve no doubt he very often

Tramped with empty tucker-bags;

And I’ m glad he’ s Heaven’ s picket,

For I hate explainin’ things,

And he’ ll think a union ticket

Just as good as Whitely King’ s.

He denied the Saviour’ s union,

Which was weak of him, no doubt;

But perhaps his feet was blistered

And his boots had given out.

And the bitter storm was rushin’

On the bark and on the slabs,

And a cheerful fire was blazin’,

And the hut was full of‘ scabs.’

When I reach the great head-station —

Which is somewhere‘ off the track’—

I won’ t want to talk with angels

Who have never been out back;

They might bother me with offers

Of a banjo — meanin’ well —

And a pair of wings to fly with,

When I only want a spell.

I’ ll just ask for old St. Peter,

And I think, when he appears,

I will only have to tell him

That I carried swag for years.

‘ I’ ve been on the track,’ I’ ll tell him,

‘ An’ I done the best I could,’

And he’ ll understand me better

Than the other angels would.

He won’ t try to get a chorus

Out of lungs that’ s worn to rags,

Or to graft the wings on shoulders

That is stiff with humpin’ swags.

But I’ ll rest about the station

Where the work-bell never rings,

Till they blow the final trumpet

And the Great Judge sees to things.