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.
