On a lonely selection far out in the West An old woman works all the day without rest,And she croons,as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome,`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.'
She mends all the fences,she grubs,and she ploughs,She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows,And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack,`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come back.'
It is five weary years since her old husband died;And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed `Sure one man can bring up ten children,he can,An'it's strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.'
Whenever the scowling old sundowners come,And cunningly ask if the master's at home,`Be off,'she replies,`with your blarney and cant,Or I'll call my son Andy;he's workin'beyant.'
`Git out,'she replies,though she trembles with fear,For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near;But she says to herself,when she's like to despond,That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond.
Ah,none of her children need follow the plough,And some have grown rich in the city ere now;Yet she says:`They might come when the shearing is done,And I'll keep the ould place if it's only for one.'
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 balls 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!
