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Balladino Faces in the Street Henry Lawson Music amp Lyrics
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The song on lyrics of beautiful Henry Lawson's poem - The Army of the Rear. • Songs production can sometimes differentiate from the original poem text. • Faces in the Street, by Henry Lawson • They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone • That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown; • For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet • My window-sill is level with the faces in the street — • Drifting past, drifting past, • To the beat of weary feet — • While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street. • And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair, • To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care; • I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet • In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street — • Drifting on, drifting on, • To the scrape of restless feet; • I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street. • In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky • The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by, • Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet, • Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street — • Flowing in, flowing in, • To the beat of hurried feet — • Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street. • The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight, • Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late; • But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat • The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street — • Grinding body, grinding soul, • Yielding scarce enough to eat — • Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street. • And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down • Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town, • Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street, • Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat — • Drifting round, drifting round, • To the tread of listless feet — • Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street. • And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away, • And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day, • Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat, • Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street — • Ebbing out, ebbing out, • To the drag of tired feet, • While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street. • And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end, • For while the short `large hours' toward the longer `small hours' trend, • With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat, • Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street — • Sinking down, sinking down, • Battered wreck by tempests beat — • A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street. • But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes, • For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums, • Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet, • And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street — • Rotting out, rotting out, • For the lack of air and meat — • In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street. • I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure • Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor? • Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat, • When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street, • The wrong things and the bad things • And the sad things that we meet • In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street. • I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still, • And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill; • But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet, • They haunted me — the shadows of those faces in the street, • Flitting by, flitting by, • Flitting by with noiseless feet, • And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street. • Once I cried: `Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure, • Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.' • And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city's street, • And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet, • Coming near, coming near, • To a drum's dull distant beat, • And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street. • Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall, • The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all, • And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat, • And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street. • Pouring on, pouring on, • To a drum's loud threatening beat, • And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street. • And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course, • The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse, • But not until a city feels Red Revolution's feet • Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street — • The dreadful everlasting strife • For scarcely clothes and meat • In that pent track of living death — the city's cruel street. • #henrylawson #poetry #poems #australia #poetrymusic #poetrylovers #poetrycommunity
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