Smells are surer than sounds or sights
⁠To make your heart-strings crack—
They start those awful voices o' nights
⁠That whisper, "Old man, come back."
That must be why the big things pass
⁠And the little things remain,
Like the smell of the wattle by Lichtenberg,
⁠Riding in, in the rain.

There was some silly fire on the flank
⁠And the small wet drizzling down—
There were the sold-out shops and the bank
⁠And the wet, wide-open town;
And we were doing escort-duty
⁠To somebody's baggage-train,
And I smelt wattle by Lichtenberg—
⁠Riding in, in the rain.