Poem by Henry Lawson

When the `Army’ Prays for Watty

When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star, 
Hide the picture on the signboard over Doughty’s Horse Bazaar; 
When the last rose-tint is fading on the distant mulga scrub, 
Then the Army prays for Watty at the entrance of his pub. 

Now, I often sit at Watty’s when the night is very near, 
With a head that’s full of jingles and the fumes of bottled beer, 
For I always have a fancy that, if I am over there 
When the Army prays for Watty, I’m included in the prayer. 

Watty lounges in his arm-chair, in its old accustomed place, 
With a fatherly expression on his round and passive face; 
And his arms are clasped before him in a calm, contented way, 
And he nods his head and dozes when he hears the Army pray. 

And I wonder does he ponder on the distant years and dim, 
Or his chances over yonder, when the Army prays for him? 
Has he not a fear connected with the warm place down below, 
Where, according to good Christians, all the publicans should go? 

But his features give no token of a feeling in his breast, 
Save of peace that is unbroken and a conscience well at rest; 
And we guzzle as we guzzled long before the Army came, 
And the loafers wait for `shouters’ and -- they get there just the same. 

It would take a lot of praying -- lots of thumping on the drum -- 
To prepare our sinful, straying, erring souls for Kingdom Come; 
But I love my fellow-sinners, and I hope, upon the whole, 
That the Army gets a hearing when it prays for Watty’s soul.

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