“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 shells 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 pass 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 prone
   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 shells 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 compassion 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 pass;
They’re picking at the solid rock,
   They’re rooting in the grass. 
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!