`There, that is for Harry,' he said, `and it's queer, 'Tis the very same glass that he drank from last year; His name's on the glass, you can read it like print, He scratched it himself with an old piece of flint; I remember his drink -- it was always Three Star' -- And the landlord looked out through the door of the bar.

He looked at the horses, and counted but three: `You were always together -- where's Harry?' cried he. Oh, sadly they looked at the glass as they said, `You may put it away, for our old mate is dead;' But one, gazing out o'er the ridges afar, Said, `We owe him a shout -- leave the glass on the bar.'

They thought of the far-away grave on the plain, They thought of the comrade who came not again, They lifted their glasses, and sadly they said: `We drink to the name of the mate who is dead.' And the sunlight streamed in, and a light like a star Seemed to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar.

And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen, It stands by the clock, ever polished and clean; And often the strangers will read as they pass The name of a bushman engraved on the glass; And though on the shelf but a dozen there are, That glass never stands with the rest on the bar.

When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West, On a spur among the mountains stood `The Bullock-drivers' Rest'; It was built of bark and saplings, and was rather rough inside, But 'twas good enough for bushmen in the careless days that died -- Just a quiet little shanty kept by `Something-in-Disguise', As the bushmen called the landlord of the Shanty on the Rise.

City swells who `do the Royal' would have called the Shanty low, But 'twas better far and purer than some toney pubs I know; For the patrons of the Shanty had the principles of men, And the spieler, if he struck it, wasn't welcome there again. You could smoke and drink in quiet, yarn, or else soliloquise, With a decent lot of fellows in the Shanty on the Rise.

'Twas the bullock-driver's haven when his team was on the road, And the waggon-wheels were groaning as they ploughed beneath the load; And I mind how weary teamsters struggled on while it was light, Just to camp within a cooey of the Shanty for the night; And I think the very bullocks raised their heads and fixed their eyes On the candle in the window of the Shanty on the Rise.

And the bullock-bells were clanking from the marshes on the flats As we hurried to the Shanty, where we hung our dripping hats; And we took a drop of something that was brought at our desire, As we stood with steaming moleskins in the kitchen by the fire. Oh! it roared upon a fireplace of the good, old-fashioned size, When the rain came down the chimney of the Shanty on the Rise.