The Blue Sky arches o’er mountain and valley, <br />The scene is as fair as a scene can be, <br />But I’m breaking my heart for a London alley, <br />And fogs that shall never come back to me. <br />I choke with tears when the day is dying— <br />The sunsets grand and the stars are bright; <br />But it’s O! for the smell of the fried fish frying <br />By the flaring stalls on a Saturday night. <br />And this, oh, this is the lonely sequel <br />Of all I pictured would come to pass! <br />They are treating me here as a friend and equal, <br />But they’d say in London that they’re no class. <br />When I think of their kindness my tears flow faster— <br />The girls are free and the chaps are grand: <br />It’s “the boss” and “the missus” for mistress and master, <br />And they may be right—But I don’t understand. <br /> <br />I see the air in its warm pulsation <br />On sandstone cliffs where the ocean dips, <br />But I’m miles and miles from the railway station <br />Where trains run down to the wharves and ships. <br />Those streets are dingy and dark and narrow, <br />The soot comes down with the rain and sleet; <br />But, O! for the sight of a coster’s barrow, <br />And Sunday morning in Chapel Street!<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-imported-servant/
