The Prophet

He lived in the days when the world was
wide,
And I was a boy at school;
And his prophecies most men denied,
For they counted him a fool.
He talked a lot; and the pewter pot
Was oft at his lips, one grants—
Little old Matt, with his cabbage-tree hat
And his mud-stained moleskin pants.

They were the days, the roaring days
When the land had cash to spend,
When the easy loan made carefree ways,
And few men lacked a friend.
“Great times,” said Matt; “an I’ll grant
you that,
But I ain’t so blind as some.
Drink an’ be glad today, me lad,
But the reckonin’ day will come.”

I can see him now where the tipplers are—
Half-tipsy pessimist,
Pint pot in hand, as he thumps the bar
With the other grimy fist.
“Posterity will pay!” says he,
“For the way we gallivants,”
Says little old Matt in his cabbage-tree hat
And his mud-stained moleskin pants.

Then a wobbling finger points at me,
A small, shy, gaping boy.
“See ’im? See that there kid?” says he,
“He’ll pay for all our joy.”
And I marvelled then that tipsy men
Such foolishness could think.
“You’ll pay,” roars Matt. “Go nap on that!
’Ere! Give’s another drink!”

Little old Matt has passed away—
Let’s hope to a happier land—
Out of my thought; till there came today
My income-tax demand.
Then my mind went straight—not to our
great,
Wise seers or sycophants—
But to little old Matt, with his cabbage-
tree hat
And his mud-stained moleskin pants.