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In the Days When the World Was Wide, and Other Verses

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<h2> Dan, the Wreck </h2> 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 — Isn'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 — Doesn'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! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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