The Walkers

(He speaks.)

Walking, walking, oh, the joy of walking!

Swinging down the tawny lanes with head held high;

Striding up the green hills, through the heather stalking,

Swishing through the woodlands where the brown leaves lie;

Marveling at all things - windmills gaily turning,

Apples for the cider-press, ruby-hued and gold;

Tails of rabbits twinkling, scarlet berries burning,

Wedge of geese high-flying in the sky's clear cold,

Light in little windows, field and furrow darkling;

Home again returning, hungry as a hawk;

Whistling up the garden, ruddy-cheeked and sparkling,

Oh, but I am happy as I walk, walk, walk!

(She speaks.)

Walking, walking, oh, the curse of walking!

Slouching round the grim square, shuffling up the street,

Slinking down the by-way, all my graces hawking,

Offering my body to each man I meet.

Peering in the gin-shop where the lads are drinking,

Trying to look gay-like, crazy with the blues;

Halting in a doorway, shuddering and shrinking

(Oh, my draggled feather and my thin, wet shoes).

Here's a drunken drover: "Hullo, there, old dearie!"

No, he only curses, can't be got to talk. . . .

On and on till daylight, famished, wet and weary,

God in Heaven help me as I walk, walk, walk!