Then come the war.  An’ when Syd ’esitates
Between the ole folk an’ ‘is fightin’ mates,
  The ole man goes outside an’ grabs a hoe. 
  Sez ‘e, “Yeh want to, an’ yeh ought to go. 
Wot’s stoppin’ yeh?” ’E straightens ’is ole frame. 
“Ain’t I farmed long enough to know the game?”

There weren’t no more to say.  An’ Syd went—­West: 
Into the sunset with ole Aussie’s best. 
  But no one ever ’eard no groans from Dad. 
  Though all ‘is pride an’ ’ope was in that lad
‘E showed no sign excep’ to grow more grim. 
‘Is son was gone—­an’ it was up to ’im.

One day last month when I was down at Flood’s
I seen ‘im strugglin’ with a bag uv spuds. 
 “Look ’ere,” I sez, “you let me spell yeh, Dad. 
  You ‘umpin’ loads like that’s a bit too bad.” 
’E gives a grunt that’s more than ’arf a groan. 
“Wot’s up?” ’e snaps.  “Got no work uv yer own?”

That’s ‘im.  But I’ve been tippin’ that the pace
Would tell; an’ when ’is wife comes to our place,
  An’ sez that Dad is ill an’ took to bed,
  Flat out with work—­though that ain’t wot she said—­
I ain’t su’prised; an’ tells ‘er when I’m thro’
I’ll come across an’ see wot I can do.

I went across, an’—­I come back again. 
Strike me! it’s no use reas’nin’ with some men. 
  Stubborn ole cows!  I’m sick uv them ole fools. 
  The way ’e yells, “Keep yer ’ands off my tools!”
Yeh’d think I was a thief.  ’Is missus said
I’d better slope, or ’e’d be out uv bed.

’E ‘eard us talkin’ through the open door. 
“’Oo’s that?” ‘e croaks, altho’ ’e tries to roar. 
  An’ when ’is wife ixplains it’s only me
  To ’elp a bit:  “I want no charity!”
’E barks.  “I’ll do me work meself, yeh ’ear?”
An’ then ’e gits so snarky that I clear.

But ’e’ll do me.  I like the ole boy’s nerve. 
We don’t do nothin’ that ’e don’t deserve;
  But me an’ Peter Begg an’ ole man Poole,
  We fairly ’as our work cut out to fool
The sly ole fox, when we sneaks down each day
An’ works a while to keep things under way.

We digs a bit, an’ ploughs a bit, an’ chops
The wood, an’ does the needful to ’is crops. 
  We does it soft, an’ when ’e ’ears a row
 ’Is missus tells ’im it’s the dog or cow. 
’E sez that it’s queer noises for a pup. 
An’—­there’ll be ructions when ole Flood gits up.

It ain’t all overwork that’s laid ’im out. 
Ole Pride in ‘im is fightin’ ’ard with Doubt. 
  To-day ’is wife sez, “Somethin’s strange in ’im,
  For in ’is sleep sometimes ’e calls for Jim. 
It’s six long years,” she sez, an’ stops to shake
’Er ’ead.  “But ’e don’t mention ’im awake.”

Dad Flood.  I thought ’im jist a stiff-necked fool
Before the war; but, as I sez to Poole,
  This war ‘as tested more than fightin’ men. 
  But, say, ’e is an ’oly terror when
Friends try to ’elp ‘im earn a bite an’ sup. 
Oh, there’ll be ’Ell to pay when ’e gits up!