Dan, the Wreck

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!