A Song of Dust

The dust that blows in Melbourne
        town,
It blows to and fro;
It drifteth up, it falleth down,
 Like gently falling snow.
But, oh! the worthy citizen,
 He bends before the blast.
And many kindly Christian-men
 Wax blasphemous at last.

The dust that blows in Collins street,
  It gets into your eyes;
Your mouth it fills, it spoils the frills
  Of flappers passing by;
It drifteth through shopkeepers'
  doors—
Grit, sand, and stones—and worse—
It covers counters, shelves and floors,
  And makes the shoppmen curse.

The dust that blows in Swanston street
  It tastes of fish and chips
A nasty taste of food shops' waste
  And salt upon the lips
It bloweth from St Kilda Road
  Where the gay trees are in leaf
But, oh! the South wind's awful load
  Surpasses all belief.

The dust that blows in Flinders lane
  It smells of dust and wool;
The warehousemen wax near insane,
  For, lo! their rooms are full
Of dust that all the four winds bring,
  And filth one cannot name;
And if they curse like anything—
  Well, who shall give them blame?

The dust that blows in Flinders street
  Is full of smoke and coal;
And words that flow sincere but 
low - imperil many a soul  
Tis full of sand and brown park land
  It smells of printers' ink,
And the abuse that pressmen loose
  Is worse than you might think.

The dust that blows through Melbourne town
  It is a cursed thing.
When will they start a water cart
  And some slight respite bring?
I've never know Lord Mayors to curse
Nor Aldermen to swear;
But curse they must when Melbourne
  dust 
spreads havoc everywhere.