They are gathering round.... Out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand, Shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound— The jangle and throb of a piano ... tum-ti-tum... Drawn by a lamp, they come Out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand.
O sing us the songs, the songs of our own land, You warbling ladies in white. Dimness conceals the hunger in our faces, This wall of faces risen out of the night, These eyes that keep their memories of the places So long beyond their sight.
Jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown Tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale, He rattles the keys ... some actor-bloke from town... God send you home; and then A long, long trail; I hear you calling me; and Dixieland.... Sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by one We hear them, drink them; till the concert’s done. Silent, I watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand. Silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand.