Three Bushmen One Morning Rode Up To An Inn, And One Of Them Called For The Drinks With A Grin; They'd Only Returned From A Trip To The North, And, Eager To Greet Them, The Landlord Came Forth. He Absently Poured Out A Glass Of Three Star. And Set Down That Drink With The Rest On The Bar. `There, That Is For Harry,' He Said, `And It's Queer, 'Tis The Very Same Glass That He Drank From Last Year; His Name'S On The Glass, You Can Read It Like Print, He Scratched It Himself With An Old Piece Of Flint; I Remember His Drink, It Was Always Three Star', And The Landlord Looked Out Through The Door Of The Bar. He Looked At The Horses, And Counted But Three: `You Were Always Together, Where's Harry?' Cried He. Oh, Sadly They Looked At The Glass As They Said, `You May Put It Away, For Our Old Mate Is Dead;' But One, Gazing Out O'Er The Ridges Afar, Said, `We Owe Him A Shout, Leave The Glass On The Bar.' They Thought Of The Far-Away Grave On The Plain, They Thought Of The Comrade Who Came Not Again, They Lifted Their Glasses, And Sadly They Said: `We Drink To The Name Of The Mate Who Is Dead.' And The Sunlight Streamed In, And A Light Like A Star Seemed To Glow In The Depth Of The Glass On The Bar. And Still In That Shanty A Tumbler Is Seen, It Stands By The Clock, Ever Polished And Clean; And Often The Strangers Will Read As They Pass The Name Of A Bushman Engraved On The Glass; And Though On The Shelf But A Dozen There Are, That Glass Never Stands With The Rest On The Bar.