Classic Poem

It is a sordid tale to tell — and worse if it were true:
The bard was charged with being drunk — and using language too!
Such words as must be written down, and — I remember well —
Such words as used in shearing sheds, when shearing sheds were Hell.

The lies shall spread through private bars and through the city clubs,
But not amongst the working men who drink in common pubs;
My rivals sure shall mouth it round in a spirit all their own,
But not the men of Level Lands — the lands where I am known.

No shearing shed of bygone days — where once I worked with Men —
Could e'er be like the city-hell that I've gone through since then —
But I've lived down some blacker lies, in illness and distress;
And why should I hold down my head, for one lie, more or less?

There were some " ladies of the past " that I could tell about,
And some are in high places now (and some are down and out),
And if I met them in the street, or met them at " the Grand " ,
Perhaps I might say easy things for them to understand.

There are twenty years of ruined life (and I am still alive) —
There's hair — that should have now been brown — grown grey at forty-five;
And there are " books " of printed tripe, sold cheap for bitter bread,
Where volumes built on noble thoughts should bear my name instead.

They may take my picture from the wall, and, in the slime of shame,
Their feet can tread the canvas deep as others dragged my name;
But still the name shall live and last in days by them undreamt,
When they, and theirs, and all their works are memories of contempt.