Hearing again their mother's crooning,
Wrapt for aye in a dreadful swooning,
That's how the dead men lie...."
It was now on the verge of closing time and military policemen were already standing at the door, listening to the poems and loth to put a stop to the performance in the café. A young giant, in the making of whom the gods forgot none of their ancient craft, was standing in the centre of the room telling the story of "Clancy of the Overflow."
"In my wild erratic fancy visions came to me of Clancy
Gone a-droning down the Cooper where the Western drovers go.
As the stock are slowly stringing Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know...."
The poem told of an incident of years far back and the young reciter, if he had once wrought as a clerk, was living a life now such as Clancy of the Overflow had never known and never would know unless, as perhaps was the case, he had given up shearing and taken to the life of soldiering.
But away here in a café of the back area, where the patronne sold weak red wine and weaker beer, the Diggers' thoughts were of home, of the land they left and for which they were fighting.