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.