  If I ever be worthy or famous— Which I’m sadly beginning to doubt— When the angel whose place ’tis to name us Shall say to my spirit, ‘Pass out!’ I wish for no sniv’lling about me (My work was the work of the land), But I hope that my country will shout me The price of a decent brass band. Thump! thump! of the drum and ‘Ta-ra-rit,’ Thump! thump! and the music—it’s grand, If only in dreams, or in spirit, To ride or march after the band! And myself and my mourners go straying, And strolling and drifting along With a band in the front of us playing The tune of an old battle song! I ask for no ‘turn-out’ to bear me; I ask not for railings or slabs, And spare me! my country—oh, spare me! The hearse and the long string of cabs! I ask not the baton or ‘starts’ of The bore with the musical ear, But the music that’s blown from the hearts of The men who work hard and drink beer. And let ’em strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’ And let them burst out with ‘Lang Syne’— Twin voices of sadness and glory, That have ever been likings of mine. And give the French war-hymn deep-throated The Watch of the Germans between, And let the last mile be devoted To ‘Britannia’ and ‘Wearing the Green.’ And if, in the end—more’s the pity— There is fame more than money to spare— There’s a van-man I know in the city Who’ll convey me, right side up with care. True sons of Australia, and noble, Have gone from the long dusty way, With his pipe on the shaft of the dray. But let them strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’ &c. And my spirit will join the procession— Will pause, if it may, on the brink— Nor feel the least shade of depression When the mourners drop out for a drink; It may be a hot day in December, Or a cold day in June it may be, And the drink will but help them remember The good points the world missed in me. And help ’em to love ‘Annie Laurie,’ And help ’em to raise ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ &c. ‘Unhook the West Port’ for an orphan, An old digger chorus revive— If you don’t hear a whoop from the coffin, I am not being buried alive. But I’ll go with a spirit less bitter Than mine own on the earth may have been, And, perhaps, to save trouble, Saint Peter Will pass me, two comrades between. And let them strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’ And let ’em burst out with ‘Lang Syne,’ Twin voices of sadness and glory That have ever been likings of mine. Let them swell the French war-hymn deep-throated (And I’ll not buck at ‘God Save the Queen’), But let the last mile be devoted To ‘Britannia’ and ‘Wearing the Green.’ Thump! thump! of the drums we inherit— War-drums of my dreams! Oh it’s grand, If only in fancy or spirit, To ride or march after a band! And we, the World-Battlers, go straying And loving and laughing along— With Hope in the lead of us playing The tune of a life-battle song! |
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