The raindrops strike my windowpane
And rivulets run down,
Whilst I lay on my sick bed,
In pyjamas and a dressing gown.
I think the lives of my old muckers
Were rather like the rain,
Active, brief and passionate
– Free of all my pain.
They were fashioned on life’s anvil
And smote by the hammer of war.
I knew them for a moment,
But I’ve loved them evermore.
Just put me and my old muckers
In that tavern in the sky
And together we might vanquish
All the ills that make men cry.
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