The Traveller’s Tale

Northland Age, Volume XVII, Issue 62, 7 May 1948, Page 3

The Traveller’s Tale

Some of our readers may remembe the elocutionary item, “The Travel ler’s Tale,” the last of a number o very popular pieces composed an presented by the Rev. L. R. Gilmore From Takapuna, Mr. Gilmore ha: kindly forwarded us a copy of thi 1 entertaining (and ‘ very pertinent item, which we publish for the ben< fit of those who may not have ha< the opportunity of hearing Mr. Gil more’s presentation : I’ll tell ye a tale both brief and witt; O’ the trip I had to the Capital City First of all, as a curtain-raiser, ’Oo should I meet but Peter Fraser. “Howdy!” says I, and I dips me lid “Come and have a milkshake,” an, so we did. “Padre,” says he, “me dear old fell I’ve settled dispute about ‘Wanga nella.’ There’s not a man of ’em now that’, sour ; I’ve given ’em all a quid an hour.” “Peter,” says I, “that’s pretty goo; pay ; “I’d sleep on a ship for a tenner £ day. “Now what if the soldiers cut ui funny An’ applied for arrears of dangei money.” Says Peter : “Leave that to Waite; Nash ; He’s the fella to get the cash.” After Peter had toddled orf, I wandered down to see the wharf. Around about sat many a wharfie, Smokin’ cigars and chewin’ torffie. Sez I to one, “’Ow’s tricks me lad?’ Sez he, “Our wages is pretty bad I’m the ’ardest worked man beneati . the sun ; A wharfie’s work is never done.” (Sez I to meself, “That just aboui fits it. NEVER is right! I’m glad he admits it !”) Sez he : “The moisture ye see arounc Can’t never no place else be found For look,” sez he, “this wharf is we: Wi’ gallons of waterside workers sweat.” “On Sundays they ask me to wast: me power For a bloomin’ miserable quid ai hour.” Sez I : “Me lad, I’m broken hearted It’s clear the wharfies is being martyred.”

On way back home fo r good o’ m soul I called at a place where they di; for coal. “I’ve a jolly good mind,” said a burl;

“To go and live in Argentina.” “Padre,” sez he when we later parted “Noo Zillon miners is being martyred.” On North express I met Sidney Smith And we began to converse forthwith. “Padre,” says he when properly started, “Noo Zillon farmers is being martyred.” Now r all this ’ere gave me the ’umn And down in me throat there rose a lump. That’s miners, wharfies and farmers too ; When they’re all martyred what’ll we do ? Yuh gotta travel before yuh can know The sufferin’s of men in this world o’ woe. But this I have learn- and I teii it to you (Perhaps by chance you’ve found it too) : A man if ’appier far no doubt When ’e’s got somethin’ nice to grumble about.