THE LASCAR
His slop-made suit is of a British cut,
His boots are good Australian, and his tie
Was woven somewhere Melbourne way; his hand
Bears a gold ring a Pitt-street jeweller wrought,
And in that hand he carries with an air
A tattered magazine from U.S.A.
But over his brown eyes and sepia face
And pointed beard of wiry, iron grey,
His head is swathed about with dingy folds
Of the thick turban, worn perhaps to prove
The part he thinks with—that is Islam still!
His boots are good Australian, and his tie
Was woven somewhere Melbourne way; his hand
Bears a gold ring a Pitt-street jeweller wrought,
And in that hand he carries with an air
A tattered magazine from U.S.A.
But over his brown eyes and sepia face
And pointed beard of wiry, iron grey,
His head is swathed about with dingy folds
Of the thick turban, worn perhaps to prove
The part he thinks with—that is Islam still!
