The Return Of The Prodigal

I rode into Pincher River on an August afternoon - The pinto's hoofs on the prairie drumming a drowsy tune - By the shacks and the Chinks' truck-gardens to the Athabasca Saloon. And a bunch of the boys was standing around by the old Scotch Store, Standing and spitting and swearing by old Macallister's door, And the name on their lips was Britain - the word that they spoke was 'War'! War! . . . Do you think I waited to talk about wrong or right When I knew my own country was up to the neck in a fight? I said 'So long' - and I beat it - 'I'm hitting the trail to-night!' I wasn't long at my packing; I hadn't much time to dress; And the cash I had at disposal was a ten-spot (more or less), So I didn't wait for my ticket - I booked by the hoboes' express. I rode the bumpers at night-time; I beat the ties in the day, Stealing a ride and humming a ride all of the blooming way, And . . . I left the First Contingent drilling at Valcartier! I didn't cross in a liner (I hadn't my passage by me!) I spotted a Liverpool cargo tramp, smelly and greasy and grimy, And she wanted hands for the voyage, and the old man guessed he'd try me. She kicked like a ballet dancer or a range-bred bronco mare; She rolled till her engines rattled - she wallowed, but what did I care? It was, 'Go it, my bucking beauty, if only you'll take me there!' Then . . . came an autumn morning, grey-blue, windy and clear, And the fields - the little white houses - green, and peaceful, and dear - And the heart inside o' me saying: 'Take me, Mother, I'm here!' 'Here, for I thought you'd want me; I've brought you all that I own, A lean long lump of a carcass that's mostly muscle and bone - Six foot two in my stockings - weigh-in at fourteen stone!' 'Here, and I hope you'll have me - take me for what I'm worth, A chap that's a bit of a waster, come from the ends of the earth, To fight with the best that's in him for the dear old land of his birth!'