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Edward Dyson - The Moralist
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Three other soldier blokes `n` me packed 
   `ome from foreign lands; 
Bit into each the God of Battles` everlastin` 
   brands. 
They limped in time, `n` coughed in tune, `n` 
   one was short an ear, 
`N` one was short a tier of ribs `n` all was 
   short of beer. 
     I speaks up like a temp`rance gent, 
     But ever since the sky was bent 
The thirst of man `as never yet bin squenched 
   with argument. 

Bill`s skull was welded all across, Jim `ad an 
   eye in soak, 
Sam `obbled on a patent leg, `n` every man 
   was broke; 
They sang a song of “Mother” with their faces 
   titled up. 
Says Bill-o: “`Ere`s yer `eroes, sling the 
   bloomin` votive cup! 
     We got no beer, the soup was bad- 
     Now oo will stand the soldier lad 
The swag of honest liquor that for years he 
   hasn`t `ad?” 

Sez I: “Respeck yer uniform! Remember 
   oo you are!” 
They`d pinched a wicker barrer, `arf a pram 
   `n` `arf a car. 
In this ole Bill-o nestled `neath a blanket, on 
   his face 
A someone`s darlin` sorter look, a touch iv 
   boy`ood`s grace. 
     The gentle ladies stopped to `ear, 
     `N` dropped a symperthetic tear, 
A dollar or a deener for the pore haff1ict 
   dear. 

The others trucked the wounded to a hentrance 
   up a lane. 
I sez: “Sich conduck`s shameful!” Bill-o 
  took to ease his pain 
One long `un and another. The conductor 
   picked his brand; 
The gripman lent his countenance to wot he 
   `ad in `and. 
     And when they moved their stand `twas 
       Sam 
     Lay pale `n` peaceful in the pram, 
`N` twenty flappers stroked his paw, `n` said 
   he was a lamb. 

The gathered in the tokens and they blooed 
   `em as above, 
While Jim-o done the hinvalid `oom Sammy 
   had to shove. 
Sez I: “No noble `eroes what`s bin fightin` 
   for their king 
Should smirch theirselves by doin` this dis- 
   `onerable thing.” 
     But fine old gents `n` donahs prim 
     They stopped `n` slid the beans to Jim. 
You betcher life I let `im hear just what I 
   though of `im. 

Nine, g.m. at St. Kilder, saw the finish of the 
   prowl. 
Each `ad his full-`n`-plentv, and was blowin` 
   in the tow`l. 
As neither bloke cud stand alone, they leaned 
   `n` argufied 
Which was the patient sufferer oo`s turn it was 
  to ride. 
     Each `eld a san`wich and a can. 
     Sez I: “This shouldn`t `ave began- 
`Tain`t conduck wot it worthy of a soldier and 
   a man.” 

I cud `a` cried with injured pride. Afore a 
   push the three 
Got scrappin`, vague `n` foolish, which the 
   cripple boy should be. 
Sam slips his scientific leg, `n` flings it in the 
   drain- 
“I`ll auto `ome,” he sez, “or never see me 
   `ome again.” 
     But I am thinkin` `ard oo he 
     Tucked `elpiess in the pram might be. 
Comes sudden reckerlection. Great Gohan- 
   ners, it is me!
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