Burleigh Gorman

A GOOD old sport has gone out west — And with him goes a cheery smile, A hearty laugh, a ready jest, A free and pleasing easy style.

We’ll miss those tales in prose and rhyme.

Bright stories of an older day, Tales of other men and time, Now Burleigh Gorman’s passed away.

On football fields his fame was made — This youngster played a slashing game— He went at once to play first grade, And honours clustered round his name.

They always knew he’d go dead straight— One of the staunchest and the best.

There’ll be no wait at the Golden Gate When Burleigh faces his final test.

He’d drifted through the sands, out west.

And he’d heard the wild dogs howl; He’d tried his luck in the golden quest.

And sweltered in far Rabaul.

He’s finished now in life’s long race; Peace comes to end his fevered day; But we miss his cheery smiling face, Now good old Burleigh’s passed away.

Although grown old and lame and sore He followed still the football game: The youngsters knew his hearty roar And valued much his praise or blame.

And when he’d called his last hurrahs, And quietly ended Life’s short race, ’Twas fitting that the Waratahs Should bear him to his resting place.

Now in that far-off sunny land, Where there is neither frost nor rain.

His many friends around will stand And hear his stories once again.

They’ll cluster thick around his chair — Keen the interest they will show — Burieigh will be at home up there — But we’ll miss him, here below.

Frank Pryke.

Hoping that he finds a cosy comer, an easy chair, a fat cigar, and an appreciative audience.