Classic Poem

The day is hot, and Saturday, and sorry;
The time a little after three o'clock.
The pub is fourteen miles from Care-and-Worry,
Where toil-tired men are ploughing Evatt's block.
They brought their ploughs by spring-cart, dray and lorry—
They mostly come of Riverina stock.

Some are too old, and some found “nothin' doin'”
When trying to enlist, for, it appears,
The smart young doctor dropped on something new in
Their well-worn “works” or in their eyes or ears—
Because they'd stared too hard through drought and ruin,
And ridden through the rain too many years.

We're men who fought and failed in many places,
And moved and fought again through many ills;
And though you'd never guess it by our faces—
Which almost seem to grin against our wills—
We're making furniture of packing-cases,
And selling what we had to pay our bills!

Our auctioneer, of sad imagination,
This very afternoon is selling thus.
He pauses sometimes in his peroration
(Or litany—or psalm—or syllabus),
And gazes long upon his congregation,
And thinks of things—for he is one of us.

But Evatt's at the front for all, and this is
The least that we can do, as you'll agree.
We're men who'll never share the flappers' kisses;
And none will know us after victory.
We take our cups of tea from Evatt's missus,
And plates of bread-and-butter, gratefully.

The time has come at last to “cast asunder”;
The narrow gathering days have missed the 'bus.
But now, beneath the stars, I sit and wonder:
Somewhere in France, does Evatt think of us,
Dug in the quaking earth and Hell's clouds under,
But free from worse—domestic fret and fuss.