Beginning where the shadow streets
    Of vacant wealth begin,
Street William runs down sadly
    Across the vale of sin.
’Tis William Street, the haggard,
    Where all the streets are mean
That’s trying to be honest,
    That’s trying to keep clean.

’Tis William Street with method,
    And nought of show or pride,
That tries to keep its business
    Upon the right-hand side.
No pavement exhibition
    Of carcases and slops;
But old-established principles
    In old-established shops.

’Tis William Street the highway—
    Whichever way it be—
To business and the theatres,
    Or empty luxury.
’Tis William Street (the East-end)—
    The world-wise and exempt—
That sells Potts Point its purgatives
    With something of contempt.

With fronts that hint of England,
    As England used to be,
Old houses once in gardens,
    And signs of Italy.
With hints of the forgotten,
    Strange Sydney of the past,
When bricks were burnt for all time,
    And walls were built to last.

’Tis William Street that rises
    From stagnant dust and heat,
(Old trees by the Museum
    Hold back with hands and feet)—
And where the blind are plying
    Deft fingers, supple wrists—
’Tis William Street, exclusive,
    Where pray the Methodists.

The blind courts see the clearer,
    Side lanes grow trim and neat,
The wretched streets are cleaner
    That run from William Street.
The sick streets’ lonely matron
    Seems stern, as matrons do—
’Tis William Street, redeeming,
    Regenerating “Loo.”