Our Visitor
By Barcroft Boake
Theres a fellow on the station
(He dropped in on a call,
Just casual to stay a pleasant week),
Hes a bankers near relation,
Strongly built, and very tall,
Not altogether destitute of cheek;
Hes a descent judge of whisky,
And the hardest working youth
Who ever played a polo on a cob;
His anecdotes are risky,
And to tell the honest truth,
Hes waiting here until he gets a job.
Hes waiting, as I mention,
And wheneer he says his prayers,
Which he doesnt do as frequently as some,
And I fear that his intention
Isnt quite so good as theirs
For he prays to God the work may never come.
He marches with the banner
Of the noble unemployed,
He mixes with the fashionable mob,
But while hes got a tanner
He scorns to be decoyed
Where theres any chance he may get a job.
Hes an excellent musician,
And the song that suits him best,
Old Stumpy is a masterpiece of art;
Tis a splendid composition
As he chucks it off his chest,
Though theres something of a hitch about the start.
Hes an artist, too, in colours
For he painted up the boat.
You wonder but he did, so help me bob,
And all the champion scullers,
When once he gets afloat,
Couldnt catch him if they offered him a job.
Hes very unpretending,
Most affable and kind,
Hell take a whisky any time it suits;
Extremely condescending,
He really does not mind,
Hell even, when its muddy, wear your boots.
Some think he isnt clever,
But its my distinct belief
That theres much more than they fancy in his nob.
But hes travelling on the never
And will surely die of grief
On the day when hes compelled to take a job.