When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star, br Hide the picture on the signboard over Doughty's Horse Bazaar; br When the last rose-tint is fading on the distant mulga scrub, br Then the Army prays for Watty at the entrance of his pub. br br Now, I often sit at Watty's when the night is very near, br With a head that's full of jingles and the fumes of bottled beer, br For I always have a fancy that, if I am over there br When the Army prays for Watty, I'm included in the prayer. br br Watty lounges in his arm-chair, in its old accustomed place, br With a fatherly expression on his round and passive face; br And his arms are clasped before him in a calm, contented way, br And he nods his head and dozes when he hears the Army pray. br br And I wonder does he ponder on the distant years and dim, br Or his chances over yonder, when the Army prays for him? br Has he not a fear connected with the warm place down below, br Where, according to good Christians, all the publicans should go? br br But his features give no token of a feeling in his breast, br Save of peace that is unbroken and a conscience well at rest; br And we guzzle as we guzzled long before the Army came, br And the loafers wait for `shouters' and -- they get there just the same. br br It would take a lot of praying -- lots of thumping on the drum -- br To prepare our sinful, straying, erring souls for Kingdom Come; br But I love my fellow-sinners, and I hope, upon the whole, br That the Army gets a hearing when it prays for Watty's soul.