The Glass On The Bar

Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn,

And one of them called for the drinks with a grin;

They'd only returned from a trip to the North,

And, eager to greet them, the landlord came forth.

He absently poured out a glass of Three Star.

And set down that drink with the rest on the bar.

`There, that is for Harry,' he said, `and it's queer,

'Tis the very same glass that he drank from last year;

His name's on the glass, you can read it like print,

He scratched it himself with an old piece of flint;

I remember his drink — it was always Three Star' —

And the landlord looked out through the door of the bar.

He looked at the horses, and counted but three:

`You were always together — where's Harry?' cried he.

Oh, sadly they looked at the glass as they said,

`You may put it away, for our old mate is dead;'

But one, gazing out o'er the ridges afar,

Said, `We owe him a shout — leave the glass on the bar.'

They thought of the far-away grave on the plain,

They thought of the comrade who came not again,

They lifted their glasses, and sadly they said:

`We drink to the name of the mate who is dead.'

And the sunlight streamed in, and a light like a star

Seemed to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar.

And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen,

It stands by the clock, ever polished and clean;

And often the strangers will read as they pass

The name of a bushman engraved on the glass;

And though on the shelf but a dozen there are,

That glass never stands with the rest on the bar.