Classic Poem

The Light of Other Days—a little faded—
The star of other nights—a trifle dim;
One mule and one old horse (a wee bit jaded),
But, by the tilt behind of his hat's brim,
And by the way he travelled, all unaided,
Beneath the Curse of Rheumatism grim,
And by his old sheep-dog I knew 'twas him.

His hair, that once was black, is on the grey side;
His figure—once so straight—is now inclined;
He's hawking from Narrandera to the Hay side,
And out along the lonely tracks, and blind—
Just picking up the crumbs along the wayside;
And always leaving smiles and grins behind.
(His semi-private grin betrays his kind.)

They'll say at camps and settlers' homes and stations,
Where all know Dan the Hawker—“Crutchy Dan”
“'E's got no friends, an' 'e's got no relations,
An' so we allers helps him all we can.”
(Gaunt, casual plainsmen—best of all God's creatures!)
So Daniel goes through life—a friendless man!

“'E's got no friends.” With summer insects humming,
And twittering birds all round—magpies half tame—
The half-wild Outpost children hail his coming,
And to their brick-burnt mother shriek his name.
And after supper, with the family chumming,
Drought, war and rheumatism get the blame.
(And Granny gets her cures in just the same.)

They take his horses out and groom and feed them;
They wash his duds, and Mother mends and darns.
All things are his to use if he should need them—
And he repays with his untruthful yarns.
God bless these people and the Plains that breed them,
Where, travelling through a world that never ends,
I could be happy if I “'ad no friends!”