Henry Lawson (17 June 1867 – 2 September 1922 / Grenfell, New South Wales)

I WISH I’d never gone to board
In that house where I met
The touring lady from abroad,
Who mocks my nightmares yet.
I wish—I wish that she had saved
Her news of what she’d seen—
That Dan O’Connor is clean shaved
And parts his hair between.

The ladies down at Manly now—
And widows understood—
No more deplore their marriage vow
Or hopeless widowhood.
For Dan O’Connor is the same
As though he’d never been,
Since Daniel shaved that shave of shame,
And combed his hair between.

No more, Oh Bards, in Danyel tones
He’ll voice our several fames,
And nevermore he’ll mix our bones
As once he mixed our names.
Let Southern minstrels dree their weird
And lay their sad harps down,
For Dan O’Connor’s shorn of beard
And cracked across the crown.

The lobby and refreshment room
Are shorn of half their larks,
A newer ghost now haunts the gloom
That knew the ghost of Parkes:
The brightest joke Australia had
Is but a hopeless grunt—
It went for ever mad and bad
When Daniel shaved his front.

The fair Spotswhoshky weeps indeed—
Frogsleggi and Bung Lung—
With none to greet and none to speed
Them in their native tongue!
By Sucklar Key nor Golden Gate
No Dan is ever seen
Since Dan O’Connor wiped his “slate”
And notched his top between.

But—Dan O’Connor—(Lord knows best
The thing might be a sell)—
You surely will forgive a jest
From one who wished you well—
When we’ve forgot the face we feared
And Time has deadened pain,
Oh! Dan O’Connor, grow your beard,
And come to us again.