WHEN TOMMY CAME MARCHING HOME.

Devine came back the other day. 
   We’d planned a great home-comin’. 
No long trombone we had to play,
   No fine, heroic drummin’. 
With two sticks and a milk-can Borne
   Put up a martial clatter,
While Carter blew a bullock-horn
Says Tom Devine, with healthy scorn;
   “Gorstruth! what is the matter?”

We set three colored petticoats
   From Baker’s chimneys blowin’
(’Tis not the bravest flag that floats,
   Yet ’twas the finest goin’);
We cheered our hero all we knew,
   No song of praise neglectin’,
To show our pride as he limped through
He merely spat and snorted, “Who
   “The deuce are yous expectin’?”

They lured him to my shop somehow,
   And sued for news of battle. 
Says Tom:  “Who rides the mail track now? 
  Who herdin’ Stringer’s cattle?”
A dint the Turk put in his head. 
   He covers with a ringlet. 
He’d won a medal, so we read. 
“I might ’ave ’ad it pinched,” he said-
   “I’ve sewn it in my singlet!”

Says Cole “But, ’struth, you must ’ave seen
   A fearful swag of scrappin’.” 
And Tom agrees “Where men are keen
   That’s pretty sure to ’appen. 
One night a little bloke from Hay
   Who plugged a Pentridge warder
Got such a doin’ that at day,
Amazed, they ticked him for a stray
   Distinguished Service Order.

“Then Sydney Bob was rather vexed
   With Green—­who’d pinched his braces,
That was ‘continued in our next’
   In half a score of places. 
McCubbin threw his grub at Lea
   (You know how sticky stew is);
They fought till neither man could see. 
You talk of fight—­Gorstrike me, we
   Saw stacks of it at Suez!”

HELLO, SOLDIER!

Back again ‘n’ nothin’ missin’ barrin’
   arf a hand,
Where an Abdul bit me, chokin’ in the Holy
   Land. 
’Struth, they got some dirty fighters in the
   Moslem pack,
Bull-nosed slugs their sneakin’ snipers spat
   ters in yer back
Blows a gapin’ sort iv pit in
What a helephant could sit in. 
Bounced their bullets, if yeh please,
Like the ’oppers in a cheese,
Off me rubber pelt in droves,
Moppin’ up the other coves. 
So here’s me once more at large in
Bay-street, Port, a bloomin’ Sargin’. 
“Cri, it jumbo.”  “Have a beer.” 
“Wot-o, Anzac; you’re a dear.”

Back once more on Moley’s corner, loafin’ like
   a dook;
Back on Bourke, me livin’ image, not a
   slinkin’ spook;
Solid ez the day I started, medals on me
   chest,
Switchin’ with me pert melacca, swankin’
   with the best
Where the little wimmen’s flowin’,
With their veils ‘n’ ribbons blowin’-
See their eyes of bloo ‘n’ brown
Butterflyin’ ’bout the town! 
Back at ’ome-oh, ’struth, it’s good! 
Long, cold lagers from the wood,
Ev’ry cobber jumpin’ at you,
Strangers duckin’ in to bat you-
“Good ole Jumbo, how’re you?”
“’Ello, soldier, howja do?”