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And when times were locomotive, billiard-rooms and private bars —
Spicy parties at the cafe — long cab-drives beneath the stars;
Private picnics down the Harbour — shady campings-out, you know —
No one would have dreamed ’twas Peter —
no one would have thought ’twas Joe!
Free-and-easies in their ‘diggings’, when the funds began to fail,
Bosom chums, cigars, tobacco, and a case of English ale —
Gloriously drunk and happy, till they heard the roosters crow —
And the landlady and neighbours made complaints about the Co.
But that life! it might be likened to a reckless drinking-song,
For it can’t go on for ever, and it never lasted long.

. . . . .

Debt-collecting ruined Peter — people talked him round too oft,
For his heart was soft as butter (and the Co.’s was just as soft);
He would cheer the haggard missus, and he’d tell her not to fret,
And he’d ask the worried debtor round with him to have a wet;
He would ask him round the corner, and it seemed to him and her,
After each of Peter’s visits, things were brighter than they were.
But, of course, it wasn’t business — only Peter’s careless way;
And perhaps it pays in heaven, but on earth it doesn’t pay.
They got harder up than ever, and, to make it worse, the Co.
Went more often round the corner than was good for him to go.

‘I might live,’ he said to Peter, ‘but I haven’t got the nerve —
I am going, Peter, going — going, going — no reserve.
Eat and drink and love they tell us, for to-morrow we may die,
Buy experience — and we bought it — we’re experienced, you and I.’
Then, with a weary movement of his hand across his brow:
‘The death of such philosophy’s the death I’m dying now.
Pull yourself together, Peter; ’tis the dying wish of Joe
That the business world shall honour Peter Anderson and Co.

‘When you feel your life is sinking in a dull and useless course,
And begin to find in drinking keener pleasure and remorse —
When you feel the love of leisure on your careless heart take holt,
Break away from friends and pleasure, though it give your heart a jolt.
Shun the poison breath of cities — billiard-rooms and private bars,
Go where you can breathe God’s air and see the grandeur of the stars!
Find again and follow up the old ambitions that you had —
See if you can raise a drink, old man, I’m feelin’ mighty bad —
Hot and sweetened, nip o’ butter — squeeze o’ lemon, Pete,’ he sighed.
And, while Peter went to fetch it, Joseph went to sleep — and died
With a smile — anticipation, maybe, of the peace to come,
Or a joke to try on Peter — or, perhaps, it was the rum.

. . . . .

Peter staggered, gripped the table, swerved as some old drunkard swerves —
At a gulp he drank the toddy, just to brace his shattered nerves.
It was awful, if you like. But then he hadn’t time to think —
All is nothing! Nothing matters! Fill your glasses — dead man’s drink.

. . . . .

Yet, to show his heart was not of human decency bereft,
Peter paid the undertaker. He got drunk on what was left;
Then he shed some tears, half-maudlin, on the grave where lay the Co.,
And he drifted to a township where the city failures go.
Where, though haunted by the man he was, the wreck he yet might be,
Or the man he might have been, or by each spectre of the three,
And the dying words of Joseph, ringing through his own despair,
Peter ‘pulled himself together’ and he started business there.

But his life was very lonely, and his heart was very sad,
And no help to reformation was the company he had —
Men who might have been, who had been, but who were not in the swim —
‘Twas a town of wrecks and failures — they appreciated him.
They would ask him who the Co. was — that queer company he kept —
And he’d always answer vaguely — he would say his partner slept;
That he had a ‘sleeping partner’ — jesting while his spirit broke —
And they grinned above their glasses, for they took it as a joke.
He would shout while he had money, he would joke while he had breath —
No one seemed to care or notice how he drank himself to death;
Till at last there came a morning when his smile was seen no more —
He was gone from out the office, and his shingle from the door,
And a boundary-rider jogging out across the neighb’ring run
Was attracted by a something that was blazing in the sun;
And he found that it was Peter, lying peacefully at rest,
With a bottle close beside him and the shingle on his breast.
Well, they analysed the liquor, and it would appear that he
Qualified his drink with something good for setting spirits free.
Though ’twas plainly self-destruction — ”twas his own affair,’ they said;
And the jury viewed him sadly, and they found — that he was dead.