GONE 



In Collins Street standeth a statue tall, 



A statue tall on a pillar of stone, 

 Telling its story, to great and small, 



Of the dust reclaimed from the sand waste 

 lone ; 

 Weary and wasted, and worn and wan, 



Feeble and faint, and languid and low. 

 He lay on the desert a dying man ; 



Who has gone, my friend, where we all 

 must go. 



There are perils by land, and perils by water, 



Short, I ween, are the obsequies 

 Of the landsman lost, but they may be shorter 



With the mariner lost in the trackless 

 seas ; 

 And well for him, when the timbers start. 



And the stout ship reels and settles below. 

 Who goes to his doom with as bold a heart 



As that dead man gone where we all 

 must go. 



Man is stubborn his rights to yield. 

 And redder than dews at eventide 



9 



