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.
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