It was the Casual Lunatic
That sought the hawker's camp.
The air was chill, the fog was thick,
And all outside was damp.
Two horses and an old black mule
Were to a sapling tied;
The hawker stood beside a stool
And warmed the other side.

The hawker's van had dribbled out —
Like some unconscious friend —
The camp-ware and the grub about
At its domestic end.
(The sheep-dog never said a word
When — Looney — hove in view —
He was a dog who'd chase a bird,
So he was looney too.)

The hawker's kids, who freeze and bake
Beside a blazing fire,
Were gulping tea and munching kake
In very scant attire;
While Mother found the missing sock
And little boot or shoe,
And little cotton pants and frock —
As other mothers do.

The hawker's wife was frank and free;
(She also was a brick.)
She poured and gave a pint of tea
Unto the looney-tic.
He drank it to the bottom drain,
And stood upon his head:
And then he found his feet again,
And — Thanky, Mum! — he said.

She'd had experience — gay, and grim —
But, so surprised was she,
She quite forgot to offer him
Another pint of tea.
And so he raised the billy lid
And filled the pint once more,
And drank it down — and then he did
What he had done before.

But now he clapped his battered heels,
And thrust his hands out thrice,
Before he stood as you might stand
When you want to be nice.
He bowed him low and kissed her hand,
And went his foggy way.
The hawker muttered, — Well I'm — — — ! —
'Twas all that he could say.

The hawker's kids were paralyzed —
At least, till little Nan
(The youngest of the three) surmised
It was a Cirkis Man.
The hawker thinks the Bloke was sort
Of natcherally queer —
Or mebbe it was wine-shop — port — ,
On top of shanty beer.