At The Fair-Ground

At the fair ground I met, the drama girl, the theatre artiste, You looking beautiful, The face powdered and creamed, Wearing the glazy dresses, I saw you With your alighting from the train bogey And moving to the open field On a bullock-cart, With tents and poles and tarpaulin sheets, Camps and bivouacs. The barren stretch of land turned into a scenery With your coming, Your speeches and dialogues, Your sweet words and sayings, The drama girl, the drama girl, The theatre girl, The artiste exclaimed they, But in the inward of yours Beat it as a human being, Feeling homesickness and nostalgic sometimes. As the theatre artiste held you the stage, Public threw the coins and notes, You danced, sang and enacted As the opera queen, Reigning princess, But the heart of hearts People could not know it That you were too a woman, You were too an artiste, A poor soul, A poor heart which beat it for your own men. But such a day came too when the field turned empty, They packing the things for the journey home Or some other place, The fair spots And the same bullock-cart scenery taking them away, A caravan of the theatre men, Going on carts or moving on foot To board the train Or to go by van.