Tall, and stout, and solid-looking,Yet a wreck;None would think Death's finger's hookingHim from deck.Cause of half the fun that's started—'Hard-case' Dan—Isn't like a broken-hearted,Ruined man.
Walking-coat from tail to throat isFrayed and greened—Like a man whose other coat isBeing cleaned;Gone for ever round the edgingPast repair—Waistcoat pockets frayed with dredgingAfter 'sprats' no longer there.
Wearing summer boots in June, orSlippers worn and old—Like a man whose other shoon areGetting soled.Pants? They're far from being recent—But, perhaps, I'd better not—Says they are the only decentPair he's got.
And his hat, I am afraid, isTroubling him—Past all lifting to the ladiesBy the brim.But, although he'd hardly strike aGirl, would Dan,Yet he wears his wreckage like aGentleman!
Once—no matter how the rest dressed—Up or down—Once, they say, he was the best-dressedMan in town.Must have been before I knew him—Now you'd scarcely care to meetAnd be noticed talking to himIn the street.
Drink the cause, and dissipation,That is clear—Maybe friend or kind relationCause of beer.And the talking fool, who neverReads or thinks,Says, from hearsay: 'Yes, he's clever;But, you know, he drinks.'
Been an actor and a writer—Doesn't whine—Reckoned now the best reciterIn 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 whereforeNo one knows;Lost his real friends, and thereforeLost his foes.Had, no doubt, his own romances—Met his fate;Tortured, doubtless, by the chancesAnd the luck that comes too late.
Now and then his boots are polished,Collar clean,And the worst grease stains abolishedBy ammonia or benzine:Hints of some attempt to shove himFrom 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 laughterWhen he gets outside a beer.Yarns that would fall flat from othersHe can tell;How he spent his 'stuff', my brothers,You know well.
Manner puts a man in mind ofOld club balls and evening dress,Ugly with a handsome kind ofUgliness.
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 humourOf 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!