This little job, 'e knoo—an' I know well—
A thousand uv 'is cobbers would 'ave done.
Fer they are soljers; an' it's crook to tell
A tale that marks fer praise a single one.
An' that's 'ow Mick would 'ave it, as I know;
An', as 'e'd 'ave it, so we'll let it go.
Trent tells 'ow, when they found 'im, near the end,
'E starts a fag an' grins orl bright an' gay.
An' when they arsts fer messages to send
To friends, 'is look goes dreamin' far away.
"Look after Rose," 'e sez, "when I move on.
Look after... Rose... Mafeesh!" An' e' wus gone.
"We buried 'im," sez Trent, "down by the beach.
We put mimosa on the mound uv sand
Above 'im. 'Twus the nearest thing in reach
To golden wattle uv 'is native land.
But never wus the fairest wattle wreath
More golden than the 'eart uv 'im beneath."
An' so—Mafeesh! as Mick 'ad learned to say.
'E's finished; an' there's few 'as marked 'im go.
Only one soljer, outed in the fray,
'Oo took 'is gamble, an' 'oo 'ad 'is show.
There's few to mourn 'im: an' the less they leave,
The less uv sorrer; fewer 'earts to grieve.
