Saint Peter

by Henry Lawson

　　'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.