THERE’S a fellow on the station|
(He dropped in on a call,
Just casual—to stay a pleasant week),
He’s a banker’s near relation,
Strongly built, and very tall,
Not altogether destitute of cheek;
He’s a descent judge of whisky,
And the hardest working youth
Who ever played a polo on a cob;
His anecdotes are risky,
And to tell the honest truth,
He’s waiting here until he gets a job.
He’s waiting, as I mention,
And whene’er he says his prayers,
Which he doesn’t do as frequently as some,
And I fear that his intention
Isn’t quite so good as theirs—
For he prays to God the work may never come.
He marches with the banner
Of the noble unemployed,
He mixes with the fashionable mob,
But while he’s got a tanner
He scorns to be decoyed
Where there’s any chance he may get a job.
He’s an excellent musician,
And the song that suits him best,
“Old Stumpy” is a masterpiece of art;
’Tis a splendid composition
As he chucks it off his chest,
Though there’s something of a hitch about the start.
He’s an artist, too, in colours
For he painted up the boat.
You wonder—but he did, so help me bob,
And all the champion scullers,
When once he gets afloat,
Couldn’t catch him—if they offered him a job.
He’s very unpretending,
Most affable and kind,
He’ll take a whisky any time it suits;
He really does not mind,
He’ll even, when it’s muddy, wear your boots.
Some think he isn’t clever,
But it’s my distinct belief
That there’s much more than they fancy in his nob.
But he’s travelling on the “never”
And will surely die of grief
On the day when he’s compelled to take a job.