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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' of
The bore with the musical ear,
But the music that's blown from the hearts of
The men who work hard and drink beer.
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-throated
The Watch of the Germans between,
And let the last mile be devoted
To ‘Britannia' and ‘Wearing the Green.'
There is fame more than money to spare --
There's a van-man I know in the city
Who'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 trouble
With his pipe on the shaft of the dray.
But let them strike up ‘Annie Laurie,' &c.
Will pause, if it may, on the brink --
Nor feel the least shade of depression
When 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 remember
The good points the world missed in me.
And help 'em to love ‘Annie Laurie,'
And help 'em to raise ‘Auld Lang Syne,' &c.
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 bitter
Than mine own on the earth may have been,
And, perhaps, to save trouble, Saint Peter
Will pass me, two comrades between.
And let 'em burst out with ‘Lang Syne,'
Twin voices of sadness and glory
That 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 devoted
To ‘Britannia' and ‘Wearing the Green.'
