Jack Robertson

How oft in public meetings past, Where sense was not and talk was loud, We caught a glimpse of long white hair Upon the outskirts of the crowd; And then the tide of talk ebbed back, While here and there above the din, A workman cried, 'Here's old Sir Jack,' And made a path to let him in. Now Peter sitting at the gate, While crowds of souls are waiting there, Perchance upon the outer fringe May catch a glimpse of silvery hair; While some rough soul who went from here To that great meeting in the blue Will cry aloud, 'Here's old Sir Jack,' And make a path to let him through.