He's five feet eight, I'm little less; He's Roman, I'm a sort of Proddy; But no sectarian bitterness Will disunite this sec'lar body-- We're hitched for good, we're two in one.

Our taste's the same, from togs to tipple.

But, straight, it makes me sad, ole son, To think if he should croak or me, The pore bloke what is left might be A bloomin' cripple.

BATTLE Pa.s.sES

A QUAINT old gabled cottage sleeps be- tween the raving hills.

To right and left are livid strife, but on the deep, wide sills The purple pot-flowers swell and glow, and o'er the walls and eaves Prinked creeper steals caressing hands, the poplar drips its leaves.

Within the garden hot and sweet Fair form and woven color meet, While down the clear, cool stones, 'tween banks with branch and blossom gay, A little, bridged, blind rivulet goes touching out its way.

Peace lingers hidden from the knife, the tear- ing blinding sh.e.l.l, Where falls the spattered sunlight on a lichen- covered well.

No voice is here, no fall of feet, no smoke lifts cool and grey, But on the granite stoop a cat blinks vaguely at the day.

From hill to hill across the vale Storms man's terrific iron gale; The cot roof on a brooding dove recks not the distant gun.

A brown hen scolds her chickens chasing midges in the sun.

Now down the eastward slope they come.

No call of life, no beat of drum, But stealthily, and in the green, Low hid, with rifle and machine, Spit hate and death; and red blood flows To shame the whiteness of the rose.

Crack followes crash; the b.e.s.t.i.a.l roar Of gastly and insensate war Breaks on the cot. A rending stoke, The red roof springs, and in the smoke And spume of sh.e.l.ls the riven walls Pile where the splintered elm-tree spawls.

From westward, streaming down hill, Shot-ravaged, thinned, but urgent still, The brown, fierce, blooded Anzacs sweep, And h.e.l.l leaps a up. The lilies weep Strange crimson tears. Tight-lipped and mute, The grim, gaunt soldiers stab and shoot.

It pa.s.ses. Frantic, fleeing death, Wild-eyed, foam-flecked and every breath A labored agony, like deer That feel the hounds' keen teeth, appear The Prussian men, and, wild to slay The hunters press upon their prey.

Cries fade and fitful shots die down. The Tumbled ruin now Smoke faintly in the summer light, and lifts The trodden bough.

A sigh stirs in the trampled green, and held And tainted red The rill creeps o'er a dead man's face and steals along its bed.

One deep among the lilacs thrown Shock all the stillness with a moan.

Peace like the snowflake lights again where utter silence lies, And softly with white finger-tips she seals a soldier eyes.

THE LETTERS OF THE DEAD.

A LETTER came from d.i.c.k to-day; A greeting glad he sends to me.

He tells of one more b.l.o.o.d.y fray-- Of how with bomb and rifle they Have put their mark for all to see Across rock-ribbed Gallipoli.

"How are you doing? Hope all's well, I in great nick, and like the work.

Though there may be a brimstone smell, And other pungent hints of h.e.l.l, Not Satan's self can make us shirk Our task of hitting up the Turk.

"You bet old Slacks is not half bad He knows his business in a scrim.

He gets cold steel, or we are glad To stop him with a bullet, lad.

Or sling a bomb his hair to trim; But, straight, we throw no mud at him.

"He fights and falls, and comes again, And knocks our charging lines about.

He's game at heart, and tough in grain, And canters through the leaded rain, Chock full of mettle--not a doubt 'T will do us proud to put him out.

"But that's our job; to see it through We've made our minds up, come what may, This noon we had our work to do.

The sh.e.l.ls were dropping two by two; We fairly felt their bullets play Among our hair for half a day.

"One clipped my ear, a red-hot kiss, Another beggar chipped my shin.

They pa.s.s you with a vicious hiss That makes you duck; but, hit or miss, It isn't in the Sultan's skin To shift Australia's cheerful grin.

"My oath, old man, though we were p.r.o.ne We didn't take it lying down.

I got a dozen on my own-- All dread of killing now is flown; It is the game, and, hard and brown, We're wading in for freedom's crown.

"Big guns are booming as I write, A lad is singing 'Dolly Grey,'

The sh.e.l.ls are skipping in the night, And, square and all, I feeling right For, whisper, Ned, the fellows say I did a ripping thing to-day.

"Soon homeward tramping with the band, All notched a bit, and with the prize Of glory for our native land, I'll see my little sweetheart stand And smile, her smile, so sweet and wise-- With proud tears shining in her eyes.

"Geewhiz! What price your humble when Triumphant from the last attack, We face a Melbourne crowd again, Tough, happy, battle-proven men, And while the cheer-stormed heavens crack I bring the tattered colors back!"

A mist is o'er the written line Whence martial ardor seems to flow; A dull ache holds this heart of mine-- Poor boy, he had a vision fine; But grave dust clouds the royal glow; He died in action weeks ago!

He was my friend--I may not weep.

My soul goes out to Him who bled; I pray for Christ's compa.s.sion deep On mothers, lovers--all who keep The woeful vigil, having read The joyous letters of the dead.

BULLETS

AS bullets come to us they're thin, They're angular, or smooth and fat, Some spiral are, and gimlet in, And some are sharp, and others flat.

The slim one pink you clean and neat, The flat ones bat a solid blow Much as a camel throws his feet, And leave you beastly incomplete.

If lucky you don't know it through.

The flitting bullets flow and flock; They twitter as they pa.s.s; They're picking at the solid rock, They're rooting in the gra.s.s.

A tiny ballet swiftly throws Its gossamer of rust, Brown fairies on their little toes A-dancing in the dust.

You cower down when first they come With snaky whispers at your ear; And when like swarming bees they hum You know the tinkling chill of fear.

A whining thing will pluck your heel, A whirring insect sting your shin; You shrink to half your size, and feel The ripples o'er your body seal- 'Tis terror walking in your skin!

The bullets pelt like winter hail, The whistle and they sigh, They shrill like cordage in a gale, Like mewing kittens cry; They hiss and spit, they purring come; Or, silent all a span, They rap, as on a slackened drum, The dab that kills a man.

Rage takes you next. All hot your face The bitter void, and curses leap From pincered teeth. The wide, still s.p.a.ce Whence all these leaden devil's sweep Is Tophet. Fiends by day and night Are groping for your heart to sate In blood their diabolic spite.

You shoot in idiot delight, Each winging slug a hymn of hate.

The futile bullets scratch and go, They chortle and the coo.

I laugh my scorn, for now I know The thing they cannot do.

They flit like midges in the sun, But howso thick they be What matter, since there is not one That G.o.d has marked for me!

An Eastern old philosophy Come home at length and pa.s.sion stills- The thing will be that is to be, And all must come as Heaven wills.

Where in the swelter and the flame The new, hot, shining bullets drip; One in the many has an aim, Inwove a visage and a name- No man may give his fate the slip!

The bullets thrill along the breeze, They drum upon the bags, They tweak your ear, your hair they tease, And peck your sleeve to rags.

Their voices may no more annoy- I chortle at the call: The bullet that is mine, my boy, I shall not hear at all!

The war's a flutter very like The tickets that we took from Tatt.