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 — Is n'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 — Does n'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!
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