Clara Waters

I was driving out through Mitchell
Heard a lonesome railroad whistle
So I stopped beside the highway for a spell
And in this pleasant glade
Was a notice well displayed
With the story I am now about to tell

The notice was a roll
Of those who'd paid the toll
While working on the railroad to the west
Wives and workers perished
With the children that they cherished
And in lonely graves were gently laid to rest

Then I found my vision misted
As among the many listed
The name of Clara Waters caught my eye
I imagined my own daughter
In the place of Clara Waters
While the busy highway traffic hurtled by

How short her life had been
She was only seventeen
Yet her story may be very simply told
A doctor might have saved her
From the fever after labor
Her baby died when he was four days old

Then the scene before me shifted
As back in time I drifted
As back in time a hundred years I went
And through my muddled dreaming
A morning sun came beaming
On a battered billy steaming by a tent

For here was pretty Clara
With her husband there to share a
Simple meal before their daily tasks
I'm anxious now to meet her
So I hurry on to greet her
With the questions that I feel I have to ask

And when the day is breaking
Is there happiness in waking?
Have you had your share of laughter, joy and cheer?
You were very young to marry
And the baby that you carry
Does it make you wish your mother could be near?

In the coolness of the morning
In the pickaninny dawning
Does your husband tell you often of his love?
While the magpie's merry singing
In the higher branches ringing
Is bringing morning greetings from above

Does the gentle evening breeze
Wave the smoke up through the trees?
Do you see the shafts of sunlight drifting down?
Or has drudgery and duty
Made you blind to every beauty
While the camp is turning dusty, bare and brown?

With a bed of planks and sacking
And with every comfort lacking
Growing heavy as your time is drawing near
In your shabby tent so dreary
Oh, are you very often weary
And do you sometimes shed a silent, lonely tear?

And when her son was born
On a hot December morn
And the deadly fever started on its quest
Was there time for her to hold him
And in her love enfold him?
Was there time to give him comfort at her breast?

Of course there's no replying
To my questions and my prying
And suddenly I know it's time to go
But I reckon I'll remember
What happened that December
In the summertime a hundred years ago

And then a road train passes
There's a ripple through the grasses
As if to wave a fleeting sad goodbye
To Clara and her son
Their lives so briefly run
And the busy highway traffic rushes by