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BOB POLTER.
175
He lived among a working clan
(A wife he hadn't got at all),
A decent, steady, sober man—
No saint, however—not at all.
He smoked, but in a modest way,
Because he thought he needed it;
He drank a pot of beer a day,
And sometimes he exceeded it.
At times he'd pass with other men
A loud convivial night or two,
With, very likely, now and then,
On Saturdays, a fight or two.
But still he was a sober soul,
A labour-never-shirking man,
Who paid his way—upon the whole
A decent English working-man.
One day, when at the Nelson's Head,
(For which he may be blamed of you)
A holy man appeared and said,
"Oh, Robert, I'm ashamed of you."
