“Jack Robertson”


Henry Lawson

HOW OFT in public meetings past,
    Where sense was not and talk was loud,
We caught a glimpse of long white hair
    Upon the outskirts of the crowd;
And then the tide of talk ebbed back,
    While here and there above the din,
A workman cried, “Here’s old Sir Jack,”
    And made a path to let him in.

Now Peter sitting at the gate,
    While crowds of souls are waiting there,
Perchance upon the outer fringe
    May catch a glimpse of silvery hair;
While some rough soul who went from here
    To that great meeting in the blue
Will cry aloud, “Here’s old Sir Jack,”
    And make a path to let him through.

Back    |    Words Home    |    Lawson Home    |    Site Info.    |    Feedback