There's a fellow on the station
(He dropped in on a call,
Just casual-to stay a pleasant week),
He-s a banker-s near relation,
Strongly built, and very tall,
Not altogether destitute of cheek;
He-s a descent judge of whisky,
And the hardest working youth
Who ever played a polo on a cob;
His anecdotes are risky,
And to tell the honest truth,
He-s waiting here until he gets a job.
He-s waiting, as I mention,
And whene-er he says his prayers,
Which he doesn-t do as frequently as some,
And I fear that his intention
Isn-t quite so good as theirs-
For he prays to God the work may never come.
He marches with the banner
Of the noble unemployed,
He mixes with the fashionable mob,
But while he-s got a tanner
He scorns to be decoyed
Where there-s any chance he may get a job.

He-s an excellent musician,
And the song that suits him best,
-Old Stumpy� is a masterpiece of art;
-Tis a splendid composition
As he chucks it off his chest,
Though there-s something of a hitch about the start.
He-s an artist, too, in colours
For he painted up the boat.
You wonder-but he did, so help me bob,
And all the champion scullers,
When once he gets afloat,
Couldn-t catch him-if they offered him a job.

He-s very unpretending,
Most affable and kind,
He-ll take a whisky any time it suits;
Extremely condescending,
He really does not mind,
He-ll even, when it-s muddy, wear your boots.
Some think he isn-t clever,
But it-s my distinct belief
That there-s much more than they fancy in his nob.
But he-s travelling on the -never�
And will surely die of grief
On the day when he-s compelled to take a job.