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.<BR><BR> He denied the Saviour's union,<BR> Which was weak of him, no doubt;<BR> But perhaps his feet was blistered<BR> And his boots had given out.<BR> And the bitter storm was rushin'<BR> On the bark and on the slabs,<BR> And a cheerful fire was blazin',<BR> And the hut was full of "scabs".<BR><BR> When I reach the great head-station –<BR> Which is somewhere "off the track" – <BR> I won't want to talk with angels<BR> Who have never been out back ;<BR> They might bother me with offers<BR> Of a banjo – meanin' well –<BR> And a pair of wings to fly with,<BR> When I only want a spell.<BR><BR> I'll just ask for old St Peter,<BR> And I think, when he appears,<BR> I will only have to tell him<BR> That I carried swag for years.<BR> "I've been on the track," I'll tell him,<BR> "an' I done the best I could,"<BR> And he'll understand me better<BR> Than the other angels would.<BR><BR> He won't try to get a chorus<BR> Out of lungs that's worn to rags,<BR> Or to graft the wings on shoulders<BR> That is stiff with humpin' swags.<BR> But I'll rest about the station<BR> Where the work-bell never rings,<BR> Till they blow the final trumpet<BR> And the Great Judge sees to things.<BR><BR>