I saw him first long years ago
   When I came to this green place:
A man with hair as white as snow
   And a fine, untroubled face.
And, every morn, at ten to eight,
   By the old bush road, tree-lined,
To his pile of stones went old George Jones
   With his little grey dog behind.

And oft', in his hut beside the creek,
   When lights lent time to spare,
His kindly company I'd seek;
   And we'd talk in the firelight there.
And I found a man of rare content ....
   Then, as morn lit my blind,
Went old George Jones to his pile of stones,
   With his little grey dog behind.

Dread, changing times this world had known --
   Depression, war's wild stir;
But still he walked his way alone,
   This calm philosopher,
To patient toil beside the road;
   And, were morn cruel or kind,
To his pile of stones went old George Jones,
   With his little grey dog behind.

Oh, since I saw him first, it seems
   Long aeons now to me,
Who give my mind to man's mad dreams
   And man's vague destiny.
But, by my door each morning still,
   With a face no whit more lined,
To his pile of stones tramps old George Jones,
   With his old grey dog behind.

"Den"
Herald, 7 February 1934, p6