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 there When 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.
