“Before the war,” she sighs, the poor ole girl. 
 ‘Er talk it gets me thinkin’ in between,
While I’m assistin’ at this social whirl. . . . 
  She comes across for comfort to Doreen,
  To talk about the things that might ’ave been
If Syd ’ad not been killed at Suvla Bay,
  Or Jim not done a bunk at seventeen,
An’ not been ’eard uv since ’e went away.

They ’ave a little farm right next to us—­
 ‘Er an’ ’er ’usband—­where they live alone. 
Spite uv ’er cares, she ain’t the sort to fuss
  Or serve up sudden tears an’ sob an’ moan,
  An’ since I’ve known ’er some’ow I ’ave grown
To see in ‘er, an’ all the grief she’s bore,
  A million brave ole mothers ’oo ’ave known
Deep sorrer since them days before the war.

“Before the war,” she sez.  “Yeh mind our Syd? 
  Poor lad. . . .  But then, yeh never met young Jim—­
’Im ’oo was charged with things ’e never did. 
  Ah, both uv you’d ’ave been reel chums with ’im. 
  ’Igh-spirited ’e was, a perfect limb. 
It’s six long years now since ’e went away
  Ay, drove away.”  ’Er poor ole eyes git dim. 
“That was,” she sighs, “that was me blackest day.

“Me blackest day!  Wot am I sayin’ now? 
  There was the day the parson come to tell
The news about our Syd. . . .  An’, yet, some’ow . . . . 
  My little Jim!” She pauses for a spell. . . . 
 “Your ‘olly’ocks is doin’ reely well,”
She sez, an’ battles ’ard to brighten up. 
 “An’ them there pinks uv yours, ’ow sweet they smell. 
An’—­Thanks!  I think I will ’ave one more cup.”

As fur as I can get the strength uv it,
  Them Floods ’ave ’ad a reel tough row to hoe. 
First off, young Jim, ’oo plays it ’igh a bit,
  Narks the ole man a treat, an’ slings the show. 
  Then come the war, an’ Syd ’e ’as to go. 
’E run ’is final up at Suvla Bay—­
  One uv the Aussies I was proud to know. 
An’ Jim’s cracked ’ardy since ’e went away.

’Er Jim!  These mothers!  Lord, they’re all the same. 
  I wonder if Doreen will be that kind.. 
Syd was the son ’oo played the reel man’s game;
  But Jim ‘oo sloped an’ left no word be’ind,
  His is the picter shinin’ in ’er mind. 
’Igh-spirited!  I’ve ’eard that tale before. 
I sometimes think she’d take it rather kind
To ’ear that ’is ’igh spirits run to war.

“Before the war,” she sez.  “Ah, times was good. 
  The little farm out there, an’ jist us four
Workin’ to make a decent liveli’ood. 
  Our Syd an’ Jim! . . .  Poor Jim!  It grieves me sore;
  For Dad won’t ’ave ’im mentioned ’ome no more. 
’E’s ’urt, I know, cos ’e thinks Jim ’urt me. 
  As if ’e could, the bonny boy I bore. . . . 
But I must off ‘ome now, an’ git Dad’s tea.”