When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star,Hide the picture on the signboard over Doughty's Horse Bazaar;When the last rose-tint is fading on the distant mulga scrub,Then the Army prays for Watty at the entrance of his pub.
Now, I often sit at Watty's when the night is very near,With a head that's full of jingles and the fumes of bottled beer,For I always have a fancy that, if I am over thereWhen the Army prays for Watty, I'm included in the prayer.
Watty lounges in his arm-chair, in its old accustomed place,With a fatherly expression on his round and passive face;And his arms are clasped before him in a calm, contented way,And he nods his head and dozes when he hears the Army pray.
And I wonder does he ponder on the distant years and dim,Or his chances over yonder, when the Army prays for him?Has he not a fear connected with the warm place down below,Where, according to good Christians, all the publicans should go?
But his features give no token of a feeling in his breast,Save of peace that is unbroken and a conscience well at rest;And we guzzle as we guzzled long before the Army came,And the loafers wait for 'shouters' and—they get there just the same.
It would take a lot of praying—lots of thumping on the drum—To prepare our sinful, straying, erring souls for Kingdom Come;But I love my fellow-sinners, and I hope, upon the whole,That the Army gets a hearing when it prays for Watty's soul.