re we a part of the Empire
Close welded as hilt and blade?
If so, let us share your dangers,
Let the glory we boast be real,
Let the boys of the South fight with you,
Let our children taste cold steel.

Do you think we are chicken-hearted?
Do you count us devoid of pride?
Just try us in deadly earnest,
And see how our boys can ride.
We are sick of your empty praises!
If the mother is proud of her son,
Let him do some deed on a hard-fought field,
Then boast what he has done.

A nation is never a nation
Worthy of pride or place
Till the mothers have sent their firstborn
To look death on the field in the face.
Australia is calling to England,
Let England answer the call;
There are smiles for those who come back to us,
And tears for those who may fall.

Bridle to bridle our sons will ride
With the best that Britain has bred,
And all we ask is an open field
And a soldier's grave for our dead.

I have decided to enclose these verses in my book because some critics
have pronounced me anti-English in my sentiments. Heaven alone
knows why; yet the above poem was written and published by me in
Australia just before war was declared between England and the
Republics, at a time when all Australia considered it very
probable that we should have to fight one of the big European
Powers as well as the Boers.

A. G. HALES.

AUSTRALIA ON THE MARCH.

BELMONT BATTLEFIELD.

At two o'clock on the morning of Wednesday, the 6th of the month, the
reveille sounded, and the Australians commenced their preparations for the
march to join Methuen's army. By 4 a.m. the mounted rifles led the way out
of camp, and the toilsome march over rough and rocky ground commenced. The
country was terribly rough as we drove the transports up and over the
Orange River, and rougher still in the low kopjes on the other side. The
heat was simply blistering, but the Australians did not seem to mind it to
any great extent; they were simply feverish to get on to the fron