BEHIND M‘WHALAN’S BAR.

No theme for poet’s ecstasies, No Phyllis fond and fair, With sprouting wings and soulful eyes, And sunglints in her hair; No wood-nymph, clad in gossamer, A-treading daisied meads, No saintly nun, from sun to sun A-telling of her beads: She’s not the girl who wept upon Our shirt-front on the quay! She is no Frenchified Mignonne! No Scotch lass frae the Dee! No leaf culled from Romance’s page, No scintillating star, Is charming Luce—who jerks the juice Behind M‘Whalan’s bar. And yet the lads for miles and miles From mulga camp and mine Come in to bid for Lucy’s smiles And worship at her shrine: They dream of nectar from her lips, But drain the whisky jar, And leave their hearts’ own counterparts Upon M‘Whalan’s bar. She is no dreamy, droopy frond, No white rose of regret; But, oh! we leap in Lethe’s pond From Virtue’s minaret When deftly, with a flashing toe! She tips our panama, And in a whirl of clothes and girl Vaults back across the bar. She holds us with a silken thread, This hypnotising flirt: A wink that whispers, “Hope ahead!” The frou-frou of her skirt; But, Lord, it fairly breaks us up, Our eyes grow large as moons, When with despatch she strikes a match Upon her pantaloons. Then all the world may bow to-night To Beauty’s peerless queen, And all the world may fight its fight For “God and Gwendoline”; But we will lilt our serenade To bright eyes flashing far, And drink to Luce who jerks the juice Behind M‘Whalan’s bar!