Poem by Henry Lawson

Dan, The Wreck

Tall, and stout, and solid-looking, 
Yet a wreck; 
None would think Death’s finger’s hooking 
Him from deck. 
Cause of half the fun that’s started -- 
`Hard-case’ Dan -- 
Isn’t like a broken-hearted, 
Ruined man. 

Walking-coat from tail to throat is 
Frayed and greened -- 
Like a man whose other coat is 
Being cleaned; 
Gone for ever round the edging 
Past repair -- 
Waistcoat pockets frayed with dredging 
After `sprats’ no longer there. 

Wearing summer boots in June, or 
Slippers worn and old -- 
Like a man whose other shoon are 
Getting soled. 
Pants? They’re far from being recent -- 
But, perhaps, I’d better not -- 
Says they are the only decent 
Pair he’s got. 

And his hat, I am afraid, is 
Troubling him -- 
Past all lifting to the ladies 
By the brim. 
But, although he’d hardly strike a 
Girl, would Dan, 
Yet he wears his wreckage like a 
Gentleman! 

Once -- no matter how the rest dressed -- 
Up or down -- 
Once, they say, he was the best-dressed 
Man in town. 
Must have been before I knew him -- 
Now you’d scarcely care to meet 
And be noticed talking to him 
In the street. 

Drink the cause, and dissipation, 
That is clear -- 
Maybe friend or kind relation 
Cause of beer. 
And the talking fool, who never 
Reads or thinks, 
Says, from hearsay: `Yes, he’s clever; 
But, you know, he drinks.’ 

Been an actor and a writer -- 
Doesn’t whine -- 
Reckoned now the best reciter 
In his line. 
Takes the stage at times, and fills it -- 
`Princess May’ or `Waterloo’. 
Raise a sneer! -- his first line kills it, 
`Brings ’em’, too. 

Where he lives, or how, or wherefore 
No one knows; 
Lost his real friends, and therefore 
Lost his foes. 
Had, no doubt, his own romances -- 
Met his fate; 
Tortured, doubtless, by the chances 
And the luck that comes too late. 

Now and then his boots are polished, 
Collar clean, 
And the worst grease stains abolished 
By ammonia or benzine: 
Hints of some attempt to shove him 
From the taps, 
Or of someone left to love him -- 
Sister, p’r’aps. 

After all, he is a grafter, 
Earns his cheer -- 
Keeps the room in roars of laughter 
When he gets outside a beer. 
Yarns that would fall flat from others 
He can tell; 
How he spent his `stuff’, my brothers, 
You know well. 

Manner puts a man in mind of 
Old club balls and evening dress, 
Ugly with a handsome kind of 
Ugliness. 

. . . . . 

One of those we say of often, 
While hearts swell, 
Standing sadly by the coffin: 
`He looks well.’ 

. . . . . 

We may be -- so goes a rumour -- 
Bad as Dan; 
But we may not have the humour 
Of the man; 
Nor the sight -- well, deem it blindness, 
As the general public do -- 
And the love of human kindness, 
Or the GRIT to see it through!

1. 'Tambaroora Jim'
2. Since Then
3. The Song of Old Joe Swallow
4. The Drunkard's Vision
5. The Tragedy

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