Classic Poem

In an old north-western suburb that was once beyond the pale,
Where on pub and shop and office mostly Irish names prevail,
Stands a public-house that's sacred to the memories of Truth
And of Mateship, Love and Toohey, back in " mine hilarious youth " —
When each dear old pal as yet was out of chokey and unhung,
And the Landlord was McDonald, in the days when we were young!

He conducted business strictly without ken of creed or clan,
And the pub's name, as it happened, was " The Honest Irishman " .
My old mates — they all were workmen — when they'd got outside a few,
Each was certain to do something — and the unexpected too;
And the week-end rows were mostly — as it afterwards appeared —
Over nothings of great moment in the bylaws of the beered.

There was Cassidy, my cobber, who stood looking at the sign
In the moonlight on a pay-night, about half-past eight or nine;
" Does McDonald think, " he muttered (he'd been somewhat in the sun) —
" Does McDonald think! " (he shouted) " he's the only honest one
In the world-wide Irish Quarter? " and, still shouting as he ran,
He went in and stoushed the landlord of " The Honest Irishman " .

(It was not surprise that angered, it was not so much the pat
That he'd got upon his boko — Mac was used to things like that —
Not the sudden interruption; but in this there lay the sting —
'Twas the blasted impoliteness and injustice of the thing.
You should never, uninvited — and no matter where you are —
Stoush a Celt behind his grievance or a Gael behind his bar.)

Several pints of beer with froth on and a bottle of Three Star
Struck the floor with sad disaster as McDonald leapt the bar
With his chucker-out behind him and a peeler cousin too,
And a damned outlander joined them, so we had enough to do;
But the license was in danger and the lock-up very near,
So the cousin called a parley — and it ended up in beer.

And Tim Cassidy begged pardon and explained it was his pride
That the Irish all were Scotsmen back upon the mother's side.
And the Scots were likewise Irish, tribe for tribe and clan for clan,
So we each took home a bottle from " The Honest Irishman " .
And we quarrelled and were friendly as our homeward course we steered,
Over trifles of great moment and importance to the beered.

Now McDonald is forgotten in the Days of Long Ago,
And the old mates are all scattered, and the landlord's name is Crowe,
And we see no more the day-break in the lane or on the block,
Free from shame and free from censure — for we're " shot " at six o'clock
In a sea of sour faces that seems evermore to swell! —
O for old nights in your parlour, " Honest Irishman Hotel! "

In the parlour of the only " Honest Irishman Hotel "
I am sitting sad and lonely and I'm feeling far from well;
Cruel Fortune has bereft me of the quids willed by the dead,
And the passing years have left me one old pipe-fang in my head;
But the spirit of my work-days — work and rest and booze and plan —
Seems to help me in the parlour of " The Honest Irishman " .

Whence the sunset on the Ranges seems a sea of golden isles
And its burnished capes and headlands seem to run for miles and miles;
Where the old-time bullock-waggon groaned beneath its mighty load
As it started for the Northern Rivers by the Great North Road;
Past the city's Home of Learning — go and find it if you can —
Stands a pub of happy seasons called " The Honest Irishman " .