When The Kindly Hours Of Darkness, Save For Light Of Moon And Star, Hide The Picture On The Signboard Over Doughty'S Horse Bazaar; When The Last Rose-Tint Is Fading On The Distant Mulga Scrub, Then The Army Prays For Watty At The Entrance Of His Pub. Now, I Often Sit At Watty'S When The Night Is Very Near, With A Head That's Full Of Jingles And The Fumes Of Bottled Beer, For I Always Have A Fancy That, If I Am Over There When The Army Prays For Watty, I'm Included In The Prayer. Watty Lounges In His Arm-Chair, In Its Old Accustomed Place, With A Fatherly Expression On His Round And Passive Face; And His Arms Are Clasped Before Him In A Calm, Contented Way, And He Nods His Head And Dozes When He Hears The Army Pray. And I Wonder Does He Ponder On The Distant Years And Dim, Or His Chances Over Yonder, When The Army Prays For Him? Has He Not A Fear Connected With The Warm Place Down Below, Where, According To Good Christians, All The Publicans Should Go? But His Features Give No Token Of A Feeling In His Breast, Save Of Peace That Is Unbroken And A Conscience Well At Rest; And We Guzzle As We Guzzled Long Before The Army Came, And The Loafers Wait For `Shouters' And, They Get There Just The Same. It Would Take A Lot Of Praying, Lots Of Thumping On The Drum, To Prepare Our Sinful, Straying, Erring Souls For Kingdom Come; But I Love My Fellow-Sinners, And I Hope, Upon The Whole, That The Army Gets A Hearing When It Prays For Watty'S Soul.