Publisher's Synopsis
Oh, he was old and he was spare; His bushy whiskers and his hair Were all fussed up and very grey He said he'd come a long, long way And had a long, long way to go. Each boot was broken at the toe, And he'd a swag upon his back. His billy-can, as black as black, Was just the thing for making tea At picnics, so it seemed to me. 'Twas hard to earn a bite of bread, He told me. Then he shook his head, And all the little corks that hung Around his hat-brim danced and swung And bobbed about his face; and when I laughed he made them dance again. He said they were for keeping flies-- "The pesky varmints"--from his eyes. He called me "Codger". . . "Now you see The best days of your life," said he. "But days will come to bend your back, And, when they come, keep off the track. Keep off, young codger, if you can." He seemed a funny sort of man. He told me that he wanted work, But jobs were scarce this side of Bourke, And he supposed he'd have to go Another fifty mile or so. "Nigh all my life the track I've walked," He said. I liked the way he talked. And oh, the places he had seen!
