The Moods of Ginger Mick | Page 6

a 'opeless prospect - yet they're men.
An' Ginger -
'ard-shell Ginger's showin' signs that 'e will pay; But it took a flamin'
world-war fer to blarst 'is crust away.
But they took 'im an' they drilled 'im an' they shipped 'im overseas

Wiv a crowd uv blokes 'e never met before.
'E rowed wiv 'em, an'
scrapped wiv 'em, an' done some tall C.B.'s,
An' 'e lobbed wiv 'em on Egyp's sandy shore.
Then Pride o' Race lay
'olt on 'im, an' Mick shoves out 'is chest To find 'imself Australian an'
blood brothers wiv the rest.
So I gits some reel good readin' in the letter wot 'e sentTho'
the spellin's pretty rotten now an' then.
'I 'ad the joes at first," 'e sez;
"but now I'm glad I went,
Fer it's fine to be among reel, livin' men.
An' it's grand to be
Australian, an' to say it good an' loud When yeh bump a forrin country
wiv sich fellers as our crowd.
"'Struth! I've 'ung around me native land fer close on thirty year,
An' I never knoo wot men me cobbers were:
Never knoo that toffs
wus white men till I met 'em over 'ere -
Blokes an' coves I sort o' snouted over there.
Yes, I loafed aroun' me
country; an' I never knoo 'er then; But the reel, ribuck Australia's 'ere,
among the fightin' men.
"We've slung the swank fer good an' all; it don't fit in our plan;
To skite uv birth an' boodle is a crime.
A man wiv us, why, 'e's a man
becos 'e is a man,
An' a reel red-'ot Australian ev'ry time.
Fer dawg an' side an'
snobbery is down an' out fer keeps.
It's grit an' reel good fellership
that gits yeh friends in 'caps.
"There's a bloke 'oo shipped when I did; 'e wus lately frum 'is ma.
'Oo 'ad filled 'im full uv notions uv 'is birth;
An' 'e overworked 'is

aitches till 'e got the loud 'Ha-ha'
Frum the fellers, but 'e wouldn't come to earth.
I bumped 'is lordship,
name o' Keith, an' 'ad a little row, An' 'e lost some chunks uv beauty;
but 'e's good Australian now.
"There is Privit Snifty Thompson, 'oo wus once a Sydney rat,
An' 'e 'ung around the Rocks when 'e wus young.
There's little Smith
uv Collin'wood, wiv fags stuck in 'is 'at,
An' a string uv dirty insults on 'is tongue.
A corperil took them in 'and
- a lad frum Lameroo.
Now both is nearly gentlemen, an' good
Australians too.
"There's one, 'e doesn't tork a lot, 'e sez 'is name is Trent,
Jist a privit, but 'e knows 'is drill a treat;
A stand-orf bloke, but reel
good pals wiv fellers in 'is tent,
But 'is 'ome an' 'istoree 'as got 'em beat.
They reckon when 'e starts to
bleed 'e'll stain 'is Kharki blue; An' 'is lingo smells uv Oxford - but 'e's
good Australian too.
"Then there's Lofty Craig uv Queensland, 'oo's a special pal uv mine;
Slow an' shy, an' kind o' nervous uv 'is height;
An' Jupp, 'oo owns a
copper show, an' arsts us out to dine
When we're doo fer leave in Cairo uv a night.
An' there's Bills an'
Jims an' Bennos, an' there's Roys an' 'Arolds too, An' they're cobbers,
an' they're brothers, an' Australians thro' an' thro'.
"There is farmers frum the Mallec, there is bushmen down frum
Bourke,
There's college men wiv letters to their name;
There is grafters, an'

there's blokes 'oo never done a 'ard day's work
Till they tumbled, wiv the rest, into the game -
An' they're drillin' 'ere
together, men uv ev'ry creed an' kind It's Australia! Solid! Dinkum! that
'as left the land be'ind.
"An' if yeh want a slushy, or a station overseer,
Or a tinker, or a tailor, or a snob,
Or a 'andy bloke wiv 'orses, or a
minin' ingineer,
Why, we've got the very man to do yer job.
Butcher, baker,
undertaker, or a Caf' de Pary chef,
'E is waitin', keen an' ready, in the
little A.I.F.
"An' they've drilled us. Strike me lucky! but they've drilled us fer a
cert!
We 'ave trod around ole Egyp's burnin' sand
Till I tells meself at
evenin', when I'm wringin' out me shirt,
That we're built uv wire an' green-'ide in our land.
Strike! I thort I
knoo 'ard yakker, w'ish I've tackled many ways, But uv late I've took a
tumble I bin dozin' orl me days.
"It's a game, lad," writes ole Ginger, "it's a game I'm likin' grand,
An' I'm tryin' fer a stripe to fill in time;
I 'ave took a pull on shicker
fer the honour uv me land,
An' I'm umpty round the chest an' feelin' prime.
Yeh kin tell Rose, if
yeh see 'er, I serloots 'er o'er the foam, An' we'll 'ave a cray fer supper
when I comes a'marchin' 'ome."
So ole Ginger sends