Three horsemen 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 please them,
the landlord came forth.
He absently poured out a glass of free star,
and sat 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 he drank from last year.
His name's on the glass,
you can read it like print.
He scratched it himself with an old bit of fillint.
I remember his drink, it was always free 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.
Sadly, they looked at the glass as they sipped.
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 drink,
leave the glass on the bar.
They
thought of the faraway grave on the plain,
thought of the comrade who came not again,
lifted their glasses,
sadly they sinned.
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,
always polished and clean.
And often the strangers may see as they pass,
the name of the 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.