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If once you strike our boarding house

You’ll know him by his hair,

It’s nearly seven inches long—

“Like all the artists wear,”

A kind of Barnum hard to beat,

A very cunning “kid,”

A fellow who accomplishes

What few men ever did,

He’s short, and straight, and shaven clean,

A funny little man—

One of a type you rarely meet

Is our “Professor” Stan.

And Stanley shows us tricks at times

With pennies up his sleeve,

Then ’kerchiefs vanish from his palm

And billiard balls deceive.

He spins a plate above his head,

And if you still insist

He takes a doll in either hand,

And turns ventriloquist.

He speaks of jugglers, long since dead,

And how the breeding ran,

And he was quite a marvel — was

The great grand dad of Stan?

Now, Stanley in his cunning way,

Don’t give away his wit,

The men who meet him every day

Have never dreamed of it.

But in the brain, beneath that hair,

Is much that’s come to stay.

The time will come, he told me once,

The time when it will pay,

And he will take the people’s cash

As not another can,

And all this arid Commonwealth

Will know the worth of Stan!

He hasn’t faced the public yet

To put it to the test,

But I, yes, I’m the chosen one,

Will take him somewhere West,

To see the bush land after rain,

And goodness only knows,

A small marquee, with gaudy sides,

At all the country shows.

At Dubbo, Bourke, and right away,

To Coonabarabran

Will people pay to hear the wit,

And see the tricks of Stan!

And should you read in papers soon

About a risky trip,

Where masked men wait for one with cash,

With tire arms on each hip,

Remember, that across the plain,

By humpy, creek, and rut,

I go with one who looks as if

His hair was never cut.

So should you get descriptions of

A dusty caravan,

And of a man whose locks are long,

You’ll know I’m out with Stan!