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.
