While The Billy BoilsSearchA pommy pea named ’Arry ’Urst,But two years out in Aussie-land,Went on a roarin’, ragin’ burst,Took sick, an’ joined the ’Evenly band.’Is wife took on, as most wives do —An’ wet ’er ’ankey throo an’ throo.
This ’Arry ’Urst ’ad been a nut,One of the sort that go it ’ot,When fun was on ’e’d ’ave ’ees cut,An’ allus rumbled wot was wotOne of the boys awake an’ wideWas ’Arry ’Urst wot recent died.
Now, ’Arry’s cobbers liked ’im well —Most pommies stick to ship-board mates —They wept above his wooden shell,An’ in their diaries entered dates.They pictured ’Arry up aboveSingin’ of light an’ lambs an’ love.
Upon ’is grave they dropped a tear,Subscribed a twenty shillin’ wreath;Callin’ a lovin’ ’usban’ dear,The cove decayin’ underneathThe widder ’ere er thorts expressed —She’d known ’im longer than the rest.
They little knoo this ’Arry ’UrstWould bang ’ees brother when in beer;They little knoo on ev’ry burst’E’d plug an eye an’ fill an ear.When ’e was on the pewter pot’E made it wlllin’, strong, an’ ’ot.
“I s’pose,” a beery mourner saidAs someone ordered in a tid,“’E’s got an ’alo round ’ees ’ead,’An’ gives the cherubs swank an’ kid.I see ’im now a-singin’ ’immsAmong the clouds and starry glims.”
“With the angels now,” a cobber said,“I’ll bet ’ee’s bangin’ ’ees ’arp on ’igh.”The weeping widder raised er ’ead,“You doan know ’Arry,” she made reply,“As sure as crayfish isn’t carp,’E’s bangin’ the angels with ’ee’s ’arp!”