An’ when she’s gone, us four we don’t require
  No gossipin’ to keep us in imploy. 
Ole Poole sits starin’ ’ard into the fire. 
  I guessed that ‘e was thinkin’ uv ’is boy,
’Oo’s been right in it from the very start;
An’ Poole was thinkin’ uv a father’s part.

An’ then ’e speaks:  “This war ’as turned us ’ard. 
  Suppose, four year ago, yeh said to me
That I’d sit ‘eedless, starin’ at a card
  While that ole mother told—­Good Lord!” sez ’e
“It takes the women for to put us wise
To playin’ games in war-time,” an’ ’e sighs.

An’ ’ere Doren sets out to put ’im right. 
 “There’s games an’ games,” she sez.  “When women starts
A hand at Bridge like she ’as played to-night
  It’s Nature teachin’ ’em to make it ’earts. 
The other suits are yours,” she sez; “but then,
That’s as it should be, seein’ you are men.”

“Maybe,” sez Poole; an’ both gits up to go. 
  I stands beside the door when they are gone,
Watchin’ their lantern swingin’ to an’ fro,
  An’ ‘ears Begg’s voice as they goes trudgin’ on: 
“If you ’ad led that Queen we might ’ave made. . . .” 
“Rubbidge!” shouts Poole.  “You mucked it with yer Spade!”

III.  DAD

Dad

I’ve knowed ole Flood this last five year or more;
I knoo ’im when ’is Syd went to the war. 
  A proud ole man ’e was.  But I’ve watched ’im,
  An’ seen ’is look when people spoke uv Jim: 
As sour a look as most coves want to see. 
It made me glad that this ’ere Jim weren’t me.

I sized up Flood the first day that we met—­
Stubborn as blazes when ’is mind is set,
  Ole-fashioned in ‘is looks an’ in ’is ways,
  Believin’ it is honesty that pays;
An’ still dead set, in spite uv bumps ’e’s got,
To keep on honest if it pays or not.

Poor ole Dad Flood, ’e is too old to fight
By close on thirty year; but, if I’m right
  About ‘is doin’s an’ about ’is grit,
 ’E’s done a fair bit over ’is fair bit. 
They are too old to fight, but, all the same,
’Is kind’s quite young enough to play the game.

I’ve ‘eard it called, this war—­an’ it’s the truth—­
I’ve ’eard it called the sacrifice uv youth. 
  An’ all this land ’as reckernized it too,
  An’ gives the boys the praises that is doo. 
I’ve ‘eard the cheers for ev’ry fightin’ lad;
But, up to now, I ain’t ’eard none for Dad.

Ole Flood, an’ all ’is kind throughout the land,
They ain’t been ’eralded with no brass band,
  Or been much thought about; but, take my tip,
  The war ’as found ’em with a stiffened lip,
‘Umpin’ a load they thought they’d dropped for good,
Crackin’ reel ‘ardy, an’—­jist sawin’ wood.

Dad Flood, ’is back is bent, ’is strength is gone;
’E’d done ’is bit before this war come on. 
  At sixty-five ’e thought ’is work was done;
 ‘E gave the farmin’ over to ’is son,
An’ jist sat back in peace, with ’is ole wife,
To spend content the ev’nin’ uv ’is life.