Big guns' talk from the water, and ... flies, flies, flies, flies, flies!
And all of our trouble wasted! all of it gone for nix!
Still ... we kept our end up—and some of the story sticks.
Fifty years on in Sydney they'll talk of our first big fight,
And even in little old, blind old England possibly some one might.
But, seeing we had to clear, for we couldn't get on no more,
I wish that, instead of last night, it had been the night before.
Yesterday poor Jim stopped one. Three of us buried Jim—
I know a woman in Sydney that thought the world of him.
She was his mother. I'll tell her—broken with grief and pride—