Joey’s Job

In days before the trouble Jo was rated as

    a slob.

He chose to sit in hourly expectation of a job.

He'd loop hisself upon a post, for seldom

    friends had he,

A gift of patient waitin' his distinctif quality.

He'd linger in a doorway, or he'd loiter on the

    grass,

Edgin' modestly aside to let the fleetin'

    moments pass.

Jo' begged a bob from mother, but more often

    got a clout,

And settled down with cigarettes to smoke the

    devil out.

The one consistent member of the Never

    Trouble Club,

He put a satin finish on the frontage of the

    pub.

His shoulder-blades were pokin' out from

    polishin' the pine;

But if a job ran at him Joey's footwork was

    divine.

Jo strayed in at the cobbler's door, but, scoffed

    at as a fool,

He found the conversation too exhaustin' as

    a rule;

Or, canted on the smithy coke, he'd hoist his

    feet and yawn,

His boots slid up his shinbones, and his pants

    displayin' brawn:

And if the copper chanced along 'twas beauty-

    ful to see

Joe wear away and made hisself a fadest

    memory.

Then came the universal nark. The Kaiser

    let her rip.

They cleared the ring. The scrap was for the

    whole world's championship.

Jo Brown was takin' notice, lurkin' shy be-

    neath his hat,

And every day he crept to see the drillin' on

    the flat.

He waited, watchin' from the furze the blokes

    in butcher's blue,

For the burst of inspiration that would tell him

    what to do.

He couldn't lean, he couldn't lie. He yelled

    out in the night.

Jo understood—he'd all these years been

    spoilin' for a fight!

Right into things he flung himself. He

    took his kit and gun,

Mooched gladly in the dust, or roasted gaily

    in the sun.

“Gorstruth,” he said, with shining eyes, “it

    means a frightful war,

'N' now I know this is the thing that Heaven

    meant me for.”

Jo went away a corporal and fought again the

    Turk,

And like a duck to water Joey cottoned to the

    work.

If anythin' was doin' it would presently come

    out

That Joseph Brown from Booragool was there

    or thereabout.

He got a batch of medals, and a glorious

    renown

Attached all of a sudden to the name of

    Sergeant Brown.

Then people talked of Joey as the dearest

    friend they had;

They were chummy with his uncles, or ac-

    quainted with his dad.

Joe goes to France, and presently he figure as

    the best

Two-handed all-in fighter in the armies of the

    West,

And men of every age at home and high and

    low degree,

We gather now, once went to school with

    Sergeant Brown, V.C.

Then Hayes and Jo, in Flanders met, and very

    proud was Hayes

To shake a townsman by the hand, and sing

    the hero's praise,

“Oh, yes,” says Jo, “I'm doin' well, 'n' yet

    I might do more.

If I was in a hurry, mate, to finish up this war

I'd lay out every Fritz on earth, but, strike me,

    what a yob

A man would be to work himself out of a

    flamnin' job!”

Now Jo's a swell lieutenant, and he's keepin'

    up the pace.

Ha “Record” says Lieutenant Brown's an

    honor to the place.

The town gets special mention every time he

    scores. We bet

If peace don't mess his chances up, he'll be

    Field-Marshal yet.

Dad, mother and the uncles Brown and all our

    people know

That Providence began this war to find a grip

    for Jo!