A Letter to the Front
I 'AVE written Mick a letter in reply to one uv 'is,
Where 'e arsts 'ow things is goin' where the gums an' wattles is.
So I tries to buck 'im up a bit; to go fer Abdul's fez;
An' I ain't no nob at litrachure; but this is wot I sez:
I suppose you fellers dream, Mick, in between the scraps out there,
Uv the land yeh left be'ind yeh when yeh sailed to do yer share:
Uv Collins Street, or Rundle Street, or Pitt, or George, or Hay,
Uv the land beyond the Murray or along the Castlereagh.
An' I guess yeh dream of old days an' the things yeh used to do.
An' yeh wonder 'ow 'twill strike yeh when yeh've seen this business thro'.
An' yeh try to count yer chances when yeh've finished wiv the Turk
An' swap the gaudy war game fer a spell o' plain, drab work.
Well, Mick, yeh know Jist 'ow it is these early days o' Spring,
When the gildin' o' the wattle chucks a glow on ev'rything.
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