There are no friends, we often say,
Like those dear friends we knew of yore.
Thus in our hearts we re-survey
The path we tread no more.
And so, before the journey ends,
We’ll take a backward look and vow
There were no friends like these good friends
That walk beside us now.
Newspaperman Robbins made no literary claims for his poetry, which he assembled in a book called Jersey Jingles, published in Newark in 1907.