The tramway to the Glebe, they say,
Goes very slowly on its way;
Like the progression of a snail
Is the advance of log and rail.
Traffic is stopped, and all complain,
The ‘buses have to take the lane ;
The street is chopped and hacked about,
And here and there some lazy lout
Seems all the Government can spare’
To do the work that’s wanted there.
Now, Mr. Lackey, gentle sir-
Why cant you make a sort of stir ?
The tradesmen in the dug-up street
Have had a money-losing treat,
And now they talk and now they write
Of comfort small and business light —
Those living in that hole of woe,
The region where the tram’s to go,
Are want, sad case, to curse and frown,
It’s such a task to get to town—
And those who drive their vehicles
Are talking of the thousand ills ‘
That flesh is heir to; they aver
They’ve got them all together there !
Oh! Mr. Lackey, why is this?
There’s surely something much amiss.