The Jolly Dead March

If I ever be worthy or famous,     Which Im sadly beginning to doubt,     When the angel whose place tis to name us     Shall say to my spirit, Pass out!     I wish for no snivlling about me     (My work was the work of the land),     But I hope that my country will shout me     The price of a decent brass band.     Thump! thump! of the drum and Ta-ra-rit,     Thump! thump! and the music, its grand,     If only in dreams, or in spirit,     To ride or march after the band!     And myself and my mourners go straying,     And strolling and drifting along     With a band in the front of us playing     The tune of an old battle song!     I ask for no turn-out to bear me;     I ask not for railings or slabs,     And spare me! my country, oh, spare me!     The hearse and the long string of cabs!     I ask not the baton or starts of     The bore with the musical ear,     But the music thats blown from the hearts of     The men who work hard and drink beer.     And let em strike up Annie Laurie,     And let them burst out with Lang Syne,     Twin voices of sadness and glory,     That have ever been likings of mine.     And give the French war-hymn deep-throated     The Watch of the Germans between,     And let the last mile be devoted     To Britannia and Wearing the Green.     And if, in the end, mores the pity,     There is fame more than money to spare,     Theres a van-man I know in the city     Wholl convey me, right side up with care.     True sons of Australia, and noble,     Have gone from the long dusty way,     While the sole mourner fought down his trouble     With his pipe on the shaft of the dray.     But let them strike up Annie Laurie, &c.     And my spirit will join the procession,     Will pause, if it may, on the brink,     Nor feel the least shade of depression     When the mourners drop out for a drink;     It may be a hot day in December,     Or a cold day in June it may be,     And the drink will but help them remember     The good points the world missed in me.     And help em to love Annie Laurie,         And help em to raise Auld Lang Syne, &c.     Unhook the West Port for an orphan,     An old digger chorus revive,     If you dont hear a whoop from the coffin,     I am not being buried alive.     But Ill go with a spirit less bitter     Than mine own on the earth may have been,     And, perhaps, to save trouble, Saint Peter     Will pass me, two comrades between.     And let them strike up Annie Laurie,     And let em burst out with Lang Syne,     Twin voices of sadness and glory     That have ever been likings of mine.     Let them swell the French war-hymn deep-throated     (And Ill not buck at God Save the Queen),     But let the last mile be devoted     To Britannia and Wearing the Green.     Thump! thump! of the drums we inherit,     War-drums of my dreams! Oh its grand,     If only in fancy or spirit,     To ride or march after a band!     And we, the World-Battlers, go straying     And loving and laughing along,     With Hope in the lead of us playing     The tune of a life-battle song!