| I was drivin' out through Mitchell
|
| Heard a lonesome railroad whistle
|
| So I stopped beside the highway for a spell
|
| And in this pleasant place
|
| Was a notice well displayed
|
| With a story I am now about to tell
|
| The notice was a roll of those who’d paid the toll
|
| While working on the railroad to the west
|
| Wives and workers perished
|
| With the children that they cherished
|
| And in lonely graves were gently laid to rest
|
| Then I found my vision misted
|
| As among the many listed
|
| The name of Clara Waters caught my eye
|
| I imagined my own daughter
|
| In the place of Clara waters
|
| While the busy highway traffic hurtled by
|
| How short her life had been
|
| She was only seventeen
|
| Yet her story may be very simply told
|
| A doctor might have saved her
|
| From the fever after labour
|
| Her baby died when he was four days old
|
| Then the scene before me shifted
|
| As back in time I drifted
|
| As back in time a hundred years I went
|
| And through my muddled dreaming
|
| A morning sun came beaming
|
| On a battered billy steaming by a tent
|
| For here was pretty Clara
|
| With her husband there to share a
|
| Simple meal before their daily task
|
| I am anxious now to meet her
|
| So I hurry on to greet her
|
| With the questions that I feel I have to ask
|
| And when the day is breaking
|
| Is there happiness in waking
|
| Have you had your share of laughter joy and cheer
|
| You were very young to marry
|
| And the baby that you carry
|
| Does it make you wish your mother could be near
|
| In the coolness of the morning
|
| In the piccaninnie dawning
|
| Does your husband tell you often of his love
|
| While the magpies merry singing
|
| In the higher branches ringing
|
| Is bringing morning greetings from above
|
| Does the gentle evening breeze
|
| Wave the smoke up through the trees
|
| Do you see the shafts of sunlight drifting down
|
| Or has drudgery and duty
|
| Made you blind to every beauty
|
| While the camp is turning dusty bare and brown
|
| (spoken)
|
| With a bed of planks and sacking
|
| And with every comfort lacking
|
| Growing heavy as your time is drawing near
|
| In your shabby tent so dreary
|
| Are you very often weary
|
| And do you sometimes shed a silent lonely tear
|
| (sung)
|
| And when her son was born
|
| On a hot December morn
|
| And the deadly fever started on its quest
|
| Was there time for her to hold him
|
| And in her love enfold him
|
| Was there time to give him comfort at her breast
|
| Of course there’s no replying
|
| To my questions and my prying
|
| And suddenly I know it’s time to go
|
| But I reckon I’ll remember
|
| What happened that December
|
| In the summertime a hundred years ago
|
| And then a road train passes
|
| There’s a ripple through the grasses
|
| As if to wave a fleeting sad goodbye
|
| To Clara and her son
|
| Their lives so briefly run
|
| And the busy highway traffic rushes by |