Henry Lawson

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.