There's the same old coaching stable that was used by Cobb and Co., <br />And the yard the coaches stood in more than sixty years ago; <br />And the public-private parlour, where they serve the passing swell, <br />Was the shoeing forge and smithy up at Callaghan’s Hotel. <br />There’s the same old walls and woodwork that our fathers built to last, <br />And the same old doors and wainscot and the windows of the past; <br />And the same old nooks and corners where the Jim-Jams used to dwell; <br />But the Fantods dance no longer up at Callaghan’s Hotel. <br /> <br />There are memories of old days that were red instead of blue; <br />In the time of “Dick the Devil” and of other devils too; <br />But perhaps they went to Heaven and are angels, doing well— <br />They were always open-hearted up at Callaghan’s Hotel. <br /> <br />Then the new chum, broken-hearted, and with boots all broken too, <br />Got another pair of bluchers, and a quid to see him through; <br />And the old chum got a bottle, who was down and suffering Hell;— <br />And no tucker-bag went empty out of Callaghan’s Hotel. <br /> <br />And I sit and think in sorrow of the nights that I have seen, <br />When we fought with chairs and bottles for the orange and the green; <br />For the peace of poor old Ireland, till they rang the breakfast bell— <br />And the honour of Old England, up at Callaghan’s Hotel.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/callaghan-s-hotel/
