DAN THE HATTER. An Old North Country Identity.

I tramped again ’neath a blazing sky, In a Western land where the deserts lie: But the rush and roar, and the life we knew, When the ’Nineties echoed the whole world through, Were silent, or uttered their speech alone With a drab and dreary monotone. I sought a field where a thousand men, Stout-limbed, strong-hearted, toiled madly then; But the hessian flapped on the rotting camps, And the rust was eating the silent stamps; And of all the throng of that mildewed past There was only one who stuck to the last. Just one old man, and his beard of grey Kept time with his chatter the live-long day. “What luck, old friend?”—and he turned around, Where his hopperings fell in a cone-shaped mound; And he rested his arm on the shaker’s side, With the air of a man when the world was wide— And his tongue ran off with a ceaseless flow, For the hermits talk of their cronies so. He spoke, with a digger’s quenchless zest, Of the early days of the Golden West: Of a surging wave, of a seething tide, That rolled to the fields from the Eastern side; Of the wondrous slugs and the mighty men Who answer not to the call again. “And I was right in their midst,” said he, “For I followed Bayley in ’Ninety-three.” Then he led the way, and he led me far With the changing trend of each dip and bar, And he pointed out with a palsied hand All the work he’d done, all the plans he’d planned; “For there’s gold,” he yelled, “that would pave a street, At the spot where the slate and granite meet.” I chanced that track on my way once more, And I sought my friend of a year before; But his shaker cracked in the midday sun, And the old man’s search for the joint was done, For he’d stacked his tools, and had drawn his stake. And had followed the army in Bayley’s wake. Oh, I trust he’s gone—as the priests insist— Where the streets are paved with the gold he missed; And they’ll weave his crown, and they’ll string his lyre, From the trusty strands of his shaker wire; And they’ll let him fossick for dip and bar In the likely places ’twixt star and star. It will please old Dan, for a man was he Not planned for an angel minstrelsy.

He rests at the foot of a kopi hill By the old Coolgardie track; But whether his name was Claude, or Bill, Or Clarence, or “Hell-fire Jack,” There isn’t a legend at all to say— And what does it signify, anyway? There’s nought of funereal pomp or show— Just a rough-hewn slab that states, The leisurely chap that lies below Had honestly paid his rates Somewhere in the summer of ’Ninety-four; And then he came hither—to pay no more. So he wearied soon of the storm and strife, And he cast his swag aside, When men were strong with the lust of life And the world seemed opened wide. Were the castles fair, that he built that day, Ere the Fever came in its cloak of grey? Does he rest well there, by his kopi hill, Now the tale of his life is told? Does a fear disturb his dreaming still, Or a sigh strike through the mould? Does a mother weep, or a sweetheart wait, Where they said “Good-bye,” at the old farm gate? However it be, by the wind-swept hills Of leisure he nothing lacks; And he laughs, perchance, at the dust that fills For ever his earthly tracks. —Peace, Peace, old chap! It is half a prayer In the name of a friend—Someone—Somewhere.