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Poem	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.
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