How oft in public meetings past, <br />Where sense was not and talk was loud, <br />We caught a glimpse of long white hair <br />Upon the outskirts of the crowd; <br />And then the tide of talk ebbed back, <br />While here and there above the din, <br />A workman cried, “Here’s old Sir Jack,” <br />And made a path to let him in. <br /> <br />Now Peter sitting at the gate, <br />While crowds of souls are waiting there, <br />Perchance upon the outer fringe <br />May catch a glimpse of silvery hair; <br />While some rough soul who went from here <br />To that great meeting in the blue <br />Will cry aloud, “Here’s old Sir Jack,” <br />And make a path to let him through.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jack-robertson-2/
