If I ever be worthy or famous—Which I’m sadly beginning to doubt—When the angel whose place ’tis to name usShall say to my spirit, ‘Pass out!’I wish for no sniv’lling about me(My work was the work of the land),But I hope that my country will shout meThe price of a decent brass band.
Thump! thump! of the drum and ‘Ta-ra-rit,’Thump! thump! and the music—it’s grand,If only in dreams, or in spirit,To ride or march after the band!And myself and my mourners go straying,And strolling and drifting alongWith a band in the front of us playingThe tune of an old battle song!
I ask for no ‘turn-out’ to bear me;I ask not for railings or slabs,And spare me! my country—oh, spare me!The hearse and the long string of cabs!I ask not the baton or ‘starts’ ofThe bore with the musical ear,But the music that’s blown from the hearts ofThe men who work hard and drink beer.
And let ’em strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’And let them burst out with ‘Lang Syne’—Twin voices of sadness and glory,That have ever been likings of mine.And give the French war-hymn deep-throatedThe Watch of the Germans between,And let the last mile be devotedTo ‘Britannia’ and ‘Wearing the Green.’
And if, in the end—more’s the pity—There is fame more than money to spare—There’s a van-man I know in the cityWho’ll convey me, right side up with care.True sons of Australia, and noble,Have gone from the long dusty way,While the sole mourner fought down his troubleWith his pipe on the shaft of the dray.But let them strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’ &c.
And my spirit will join the procession—Will pause, if it may, on the brink—Nor feel the least shade of depressionWhen the mourners drop out for a drink;It may be a hot day in December,Or a cold day in June it may be,And the drink will but help them rememberThe good points the world missed in me.And help ’em to love ‘Annie Laurie,’And help ’em to raise ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ &c.
‘Unhook the West Port’ for an orphan,An old digger chorus revive—If you don’t hear a whoop from the coffin,I am not being buried alive.But I’ll go with a spirit less bitterThan mine own on the earth may have been,And, perhaps, to save trouble, Saint PeterWill pass me, two comrades between.
And let them strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’And let ’em burst out with ‘Lang Syne,’Twin voices of sadness and gloryThat have ever been likings of mine.Let them swell the French war-hymn deep-throated(And I’ll not buck at ‘God Save the Queen’),But let the last mile be devotedTo ‘Britannia’ and ‘Wearing the Green.’
Thump! thump! of the drums we inherit—War-drums of my dreams! Oh it’s grand,If only in fancy or spirit,To ride or march after a band!And we, the World-Battlers, go strayingAnd loving and laughing along—With Hope in the lead of us playingThe tune of a life-battle song!