Dan, the Wreck

Tall, and stout, and solid-looking, Yet a wreck; None would think Death's finger's hooking Him from deck.

Cause of half the fun that's started -- 'Hard-case' Dan -- Isn't like a broken-hearted, Ruined man.

Walking-coat from tail to throat is Frayed and greened -- Like a man whose other coat is Being cleaned; Gone for ever round the edging Past repair -- Waistcoat pockets frayed with dredging After 'sprats' no longer there.

Wearing summer boots in June, or Slippers worn and old -- Like a man whose other shoon are Getting soled.

Pants? They're far from being recent -- But, perhaps, I'd better not -- Says they are the only decent Pair he's got.

And his hat, I am afraid, is Troubling him -- Past all lifting to the ladies By the brim.

But, although he'd hardly strike a Girl, would Dan, Yet he wears his wreckage like a Gentleman!

Once -- no matter how the rest dressed -- Up or down -- Once, they say, he was the best-dressed Man in town.

Must have been before I knew him -- Now you'd scarcely care to meet And be noticed talking to him In the street.

Drink the cause, and dissipation, That is clear -- Maybe friend or kind relation Cause of beer.

And the talking fool, who never Reads or thinks, Says, from hearsay: 'Yes, he's clever; But, you know, he drinks.'

Been an actor and a writer -- Doesn't whine -- Reckoned now the best reciter In his line.

Takes the stage at times, and fills it -- 'Princess May' or 'Waterloo'.

Raise a sneer! -- his first line kills it, 'Brings 'em', too.

Where he lives, or how, or wherefore No one knows; Lost his real friends, and therefore Lost his foes.

Had, no doubt, his own romances -- Met his fate; Tortured, doubtless, by the chances And the luck that comes too late.

Now and then his boots are polished, Collar clean, And the worst grease stains abolished By ammonia or benzine: Hints of some attempt to shove him From the taps, Or of someone left to love him -- Sister, p'r'aps.

After all, he is a grafter, Earns his cheer -- Keeps the room in roars of laughter When he gets outside a beer.

Yarns that would fall flat from others He can tell; How he spent his 'stuff', my brothers, You know well.

Manner puts a man in mind of Old club b.a.l.l.s and evening dress, Ugly with a handsome kind of Ugliness.

One of those we say of often, While hearts swell, Standing sadly by the coffin: 'He looks well.'

We may be -- so goes a rumour -- Bad as Dan; But we may not have the humour Of the man; Nor the sight -- well, deem it blindness, As the general public do -- And the love of human kindness, Or the GRIT to see it through!

A Prouder Man Than You

If you fancy that your people came of better stock than mine, If you hint of higher breeding by a word or by a sign, If you're proud because of fortune or the clever things you do -- Then I'll play no second fiddle: I'm a prouder man than you!

If you think that your profession has the more gentility, And that you are condescending to be seen along with me; If you notice that I'm shabby while your clothes are spruce and new -- You have only got to hint it: I'm a prouder man than you!

If you have a swell companion when you see me on the street, And you think that I'm too common for your toney friend to meet, So that I, in pa.s.sing closely, fail to come within your view -- Then be blind to me for ever: I'm a prouder man than you!

If your character be blameless, if your outward past be clean, While 'tis known my antecedents are not what they should have been, Do not risk contamination, save your name whate'er you do -- 'Birds o' feather fly together': I'm a prouder bird than you!

Keep your patronage for others! Gold and station cannot hide Friendship that can laugh at fortune, friendship that can conquer pride!

Offer this as to an equal -- let me see that you are true, And my wall of pride is shattered: I am not so proud as you!

The Song and the Sigh

The creek went down with a broken song, 'Neath the sheoaks high; The waters carried the song along, And the oaks a sigh.

The song and the sigh went winding by, Went winding down; Circling the foot of the mountain high, And the hillside brown.

They were hushed in the swamp of the Dead Man's Crime, Where the curlews cried; But they reached the river the self-same time, And there they died.

And the creek of life goes winding on, Wandering by; And bears for ever, its course upon, A song and a sigh.

The Cambaroora Star

So you're writing for a paper? Well, it's nothing very new To be writing yards of drivel for a tidy little screw; You are young and educated, and a clever chap you are, But you'll never run a paper like the CAMBAROORA STAR.

Though in point of education I am nothing but a dunce, I myself -- you mayn't believe it -- helped to run a paper once With a chap on Cambaroora, by the name of Charlie Brown, And I'll tell you all about it if you'll take the story down.

On a golden day in summer, when the sunrays were aslant, Brown arrived in Cambaroora with a little printing plant And his worldly goods and chattels -- rather damaged on the way -- And a weary-looking woman who was following the dray.

He had bought an empty humpy, and, instead of getting tight, Why, the diggers heard him working like a lunatic all night: And next day a sign of canvas, writ in characters of tar, Claimed the humpy as the office of the CAMBAROORA STAR.

Well, I cannot read, that's honest, but I had a digger friend Who would read the paper to me from the t.i.tle to the end; And the STAR contained a leader running thieves and spielers down, With a slap against claim-jumping, and a poem made by Brown.

Once I showed it to a critic, and he said 'twas very fine, Though he wasn't long in finding glaring faults in every line; But it was a song of Freedom -- all the clever critic said Couldn't stop that song from ringing, ringing, ringing in my head.

So I went where Brown was working in his little hut hard by: 'My old mate has been a-reading of your writings, Brown,' said I -- 'I have studied on your leader, I agree with what you say, You have struck the bed-rock certain, and there ain't no get-away; Your paper's just the thumper for a young and growing land, And your principles is honest, Brown; I want to shake your hand, And if there's any lumping in connection with the STAR, Well, I'll find the time to do it, and I'll help you -- there you are!'

Brown was every inch a digger (bronzed and bearded in the South), But there seemed a kind of weakness round the corners of his mouth When he took the hand I gave him; and he gripped it like a vice, While he tried his best to thank me, and he stuttered once or twice.

But there wasn't need for talking -- we'd the same old loves and hates, And we understood each other -- Charlie Brown and I were mates.