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People to climb with in Sydney on weekends 14-Nov-2008 At 6:10:03 AM Capt_mulch

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In fact, while I was at School, I climbed an old Mikl Law death route that followed an arete of a beautifully carved (but chossy - hmm, maybe there's a common theme here) sandstone wall on the outside of the Big School building (you Grammar boys know where I'm talking about) when I came across an old alcove with an old school exercise book containing the following poem (I could just make out the name Paterson on the front cover):

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan years ago;
He was climbing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just on spec, addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow."

And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in chalk);
'Twas his climbing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland climbing, and we don't know where he walk."

In my wild erratic fancy, visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-climbing "to the Frog" where the Northern climbers go;
As the ropes are slowly stringing, Clancy climbs behind them singing,
For the climber's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

And the crags have friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plain extended,
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.

I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city,
Through the open window floating, spreads it foulness over all.

And in place of seconds prattle, I can hear their racks a-rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street;
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

And the hurrying people daunt me,and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.

And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at climbing where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal
But I doubt he's suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.