Back at Grillo’s where the nigger googs his
   whitey eyes,
Plucks his black ole greasy banjo while the
   cod-steak fries;
Fish ‘n’ chips, a pint iv local, and the tidy
   girl
Dancin’ glad attendance on yeh ’zif yeh was
   an earl;
Trailin’ round the blazin’ city,
Feelin’ all content ‘n’ pretty,
Where the smart procession goes,
Prinked ‘n’ polished to the shows,
One among the happy drive-
’Sworth the world to be alive! 
Dames ez smilin’ ez a mother,
Ev’ry man ver fav’rit brother: 
“’Ello, Jumbo, how is it ?”
“Arr there, soldier!  Good ‘n’ fit?”

Takin’ hozone at St. Kilder’s good enough
   for me,
Seein’ Summer and the star-blink simmer in
   the sea;
Cantin’ up me bloomin’ cady, toyin’ with a
   cig.,
Blowin’ out me pout a little, chattin’ wide ‘n’
   big
When there’s skirt around to skite to. 
Say, ’oo has a better right to? 
Done me bit ‘n’ done it well,
Got the tag iv plate to tell;
Square Gallipoli surviver,
With a touch iv Colonel’s guyver. 
“Sargin’ Jumbo, good ole son!”
“Soldier, soldier, you’re the one!”

Back again, a wounded hero, moochin’ up ‘n’
   down,
Feelin’ ’sthough I’d got a fond arf-Nelson on
   the town;
Never was so gay, so ’elp me, never felt so
   kind;
Fresh from ’ell a paradise ain’t very hard to
   find. 
After filth, ‘n’ flies, ‘n’ slaughter
Fat brown babies in the water,
Singin’ people on the sand
Makes a boshter Happy Land! 
War what toughened hone ‘n’ hide
Turned a feller soft inside! 
Great it is, the ’earty greetin’s,
Friendly digs, ‘n’ cheerful meetin’s
“’Ello, Jumbo, howja do?”
“Soldier, soldier, how’re you?”

THE MORALIST.

Three other soldier blokes ‘n’ me packed
   ’ome from foreign lands;
Bit into each the God of Battles’ everlastin’
   brands. 
They limped in time, ‘n’ coughed in tune, ‘n’
   one was short an ear,
‘N’ one was short a tier of ribs ‘n’ all was
   short of beer. 
     I speaks up like a temp’rance gent,
     But ever since the sky was bent
The thirst of man ’as never yet bin squenched
   with argument.

Bill’s skull was welded all across, Jim ’ad an
   eye in soak,
Sam ’obbled on a patent leg, ‘n’ every man
   was broke;
They sang a song of “Mother” with their faces
   titled up. 
Says Bill-o:  “’Ere’s yer ’eroes, sling the
   bloomin’ votive cup! 
     We got no beer, the soup was bad-
     Now oo will stand the soldier lad
The swag of honest liquor that for years he
   hasn’t ’ad?”

Sez I:  “Respeck yer uniform!  Remember
   oo you are!”
They’d pinched a wicker barrer, ’arf a pram
   ‘n’ ’arf a car. 
In this ole Bill-o nestled ’neath a blanket, on
   his face
A someone’s darlin’ sorter look, a touch iv
   boy’ood’s grace. 
     The gentle ladies stopped to ’ear,
     ‘N’ dropped a symperthetic tear,
A dollar or a deener for the pore haff1ict
   dear.