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 gla** 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 gla** that he drank from last year;
‘His name's on the gla**, 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 gla** 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 gla** 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 gla**es, 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 gla** 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 pa**
The name of a bushman engraved on the gla**;
And though on the shelf but a dozen there are,
That gla** never stands with the rest on the bar.