---

C J Dennis - Armistice: To His Dead Cobber From The Sentimental Bloke
Work rating: Medium

I`m sittin` `ere, Mick - sittin` `ere today, 
Feelin` `arf glum, `arf sorter - reverent, 
Thinkin` strange, crooked thorts of `ow they say: 
"The `eads is bowed thro` all a continent"; 
An` wond`rin - wond`rin `in a kind of doubt 
If other coves is feelin` like I do, 
Tryin` to figure wot it`s all about, 
An` - if it`s meanin` anythin` to you. 

Silence... The hour strikes soon thro` all the land 
An `eads bend low. Old mate, give me your `and. 
Silence - for you, Mick, an` for blokes like you 
To mark the Day - the Day you never knoo. 

The Day you never knoo, nor we forget... 
I can`t tell why I`m sittin` `ere this way, 
Scrawlin` a message that you`ll never get - 
Or will you? I dunno. It`s `ard to say. 
P`raps you`ll know all about it, where you are, 
An` think, "Ah, well, they ain`t too bad a lot." 
An` tell them other digs up on your star 
That now, or nevermore, they ain`t fergot. 

Silence... Not ere alone, Mick - everywhere - 
In city an` in country `eads are bare. 
An`, in this room, it seems as if l knoo 
Some friend `oo came -- Ole cobber! Is it you? 

Me `eart is full, 
Mick... `Struth! I ain`t the bloke, 
As you well know, to go all soft an` wet. 
Fair`s fair, lad. Times I`ve known when you `ave spoke 
Like you was tough an` `ard as `ell - an` yet 
Somethin` be`ind your bluff an` swagger bold 
Showed all them narsty sentiments was kid. 

It was that thing inside yeh, lad, wot told. 
It made you go an` do the thing you did. 

Silence... There`s mothers, Mick. You never knoo 
No mother. But they`re prayin` for you too. 
In every heart - The Boys! The Boys are there, 
The Boys... That very name, lad, is a pray`r. 

The Boys! Old cobber, I can see `em still: 
The drums are rollin` an` the sunlight gleams 
On bay`nits. Men are marchin` with a will 
On to the glory of their boy`ood`s dreams. 
Glory? You never found it that, too much. 
But, lad, you stuck it - stuck it with the rest, 
An` if your bearin` `ad no soulful touch, 
`Twas for OUR souls that you went marchin` - West. 

Silence... The children too, Mick - little kids, 
Are standin`. Not becos their teacher bids: 
They`ve knoo no war; but they `ave stopped their play 
Becos they know, they feel it is The Day. 

So may it be thro` all the comin` years. 
But sorrow`s gone, lad. It`s not that we know. 
The sobbin`s passed, `ole cobber, an` the tears, 
An` well we un`erstand you`d `ave it so. 

But somethin` deeper far than that `as come, 
Somethin` a mind can`t get within its bound, 
Somethin` l can`t explain. A man is dumb 
When `e thinks... Listen! `Ear the bugles sound! 

Silence! 

* * * * 

Well, Mick, ole cock, I dunno why I`ve wrote, 
It`s just to ease a thing inside wot says 
"Sit down, you sloppy coot, an` write a note 
To that ole cobber of the olden days. 
`E`ll know - for sure `e`ll know". "So, lad, it`s done, 
Work`s waitin`, an` a man can`t get in wrong: 
Our goal is still ahead. But yours is won: 
That`s the one thing we know, lad, an - So long. 

Silence... It`s over, Mick; so there you are. 
I know you`re `appy up there on yer star. 
Believe us, lad; that star shall never fall 
While one is left to say, "Gawd keep `em all!" 
Source
The script ran 0.008 seconds.