Classic Poem

In moleskin pants and blucher boots,
With sheath and knife behind him,
A flannel shirt and canvas cap,
Is always how you'll find him.
His clothes are often soiled with clay
And patched, but that's no matter,
A straight life goer all the way,
Is Happy Jack the Hatter.

He owns a little box bark hut,
Adorned with busts and faces
Of famous people, neatly cut
From pressmen's honoured places,
Newspaper cuttings line the walls,
With lives of famous fighters,
And all on whom the country calls—
The poets and the writers.

He gets his books from everywhere,
They seem to gyrate to him,
And papers float upon the air
And drop as if they knew him;
He culls and keeps biographies,
From many a wind worn tatter,
And studies every verse he sees,
Does Happy Jack the Hatter.

He rises ever with the sun
And gets to work full early,
And though a good day's work is done,
He's never sick or surly,
He helps the weak, but to the strong
He will not fawn or flatter—
He's one of nature's gentlemen,
Is Happy Jack the Hatter.

He lives content in simple way,
On no one does he trample,
The little gold he finds each day,
For every want is ample;
Each morning he salutes a friend,
What if a dog? no matter,
A faithful friend who at life's end,
Will die with Jack the Hatter.