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He had offices in Sydney, not so many years ago,
And his shingle bore the legend ‘Peter Anderson and Co.’,
But his real name was Careless, as the fellows understood —
And his relatives decided that he wasn’t any good.
‘Twas their gentle tongues that blasted any ‘character’ he had —
He was fond of beer and leisure — and the Co. was just as bad.
It was limited in number to a unit, was the Co. —
‘Twas a bosom chum of Peter and his Christian name was Joe.

‘Tis a class of men belonging to these soul-forsaken years:
Third-rate canvassers, collectors, journalists and auctioneers.
They are never very shabby, they are never very spruce —
Going cheerfully and carelessly and smoothly to the deuce.
Some are wanderers by profession, ‘turning up’ and gone as soon,
Travelling second-class, or steerage (when it’s cheap they go saloon);
Free from ‘ists’ and ‘isms’, troubled little by belief or doubt —
Lazy, purposeless, and useless — knocking round and hanging out.
They will take what they can get, and they will give what they can give,
God alone knows how they manage — God alone knows how they live!
They are nearly always hard-up, but are cheerful all the while —
Men whose energy and trousers wear out sooner than their smile!
They, no doubt, like us, are haunted by the boresome ‘if’ or ‘might’,
But their ghosts are ghosts of daylight — they are men who live at night!

Peter met you with the comic smile of one who knows you well,
And is mighty glad to see you, and has got a joke to tell;
He could laugh when all was gloomy, he could grin when all was blue,
Sing a comic song and act it, and appreciate it, too.
Only cynical in cases where his own self was the jest,
And the humour of his good yarns made atonement for the rest.
Seldom serious — doing business just as ’twere a friendly game —
Cards or billiards — nothing graver. And the Co. was much the same.

They tried everything and nothing ‘twixt the shovel and the press,
And were more or less successful in their ventures — mostly less.
Once they ran a country paper till the plant was seized for debt,
And the local sinners chuckle over dingy copies yet.

They’d been through it all and knew it in the land of Bills and Jims —
Using Peter’s own expression, they had been in ‘various swims’.
Now and then they’d take an office, as they called it, — make a dash
Into business life as ‘agents’ — something not requiring cash.
(You can always furnish cheaply, when your cash or credit fails,
With a packing-case, a hammer, and a pound of two-inch nails —
And, maybe, a drop of varnish and sienna, too, for tints,
And a scrap or two of oilcloth, and a yard or two of chintz).
They would pull themselves together, pay a week’s rent in advance,
But it never lasted longer than a month by any chance.

The office was their haven, for they lived there when hard-up —
A ‘daily’ for a table cloth — a jam tin for a cup;
And if the landlord’s bailiff happened round in times like these
And seized the office-fittings — well, there wasn’t much to seize —
They would leave him in possession. But at other times they shot
The moon, and took an office where the landlord knew them not.
And when morning brought the bailiff there’d be nothing to be seen
Save a piece of bevelled cedar where the tenant’s plate had been;
There would be no sign of Peter — there would be no sign of Joe
Till another portal boasted ‘Peter Anderson and Co.’