it is true
They bring to life things good and new.
God grant they have awakened you!

My ears are greedy for the toast
Of confidence before our guest,
The loyal song, the manly boast
Your splendid faith to manifest.
In works of art and livelihood
Shirk not the creed, "What's ours is good,"
Dread not to have it understood.

Australia, lift your royal brow,
And have the courage of our pride,
Audacity becomes you now,
Be splendidly self-satisfied,
No land from lowliness and dearth
Has won to eminence on earth
That was not conscious of its worth.

CONTENTS

AUSTRALIA
BILLY KHAKI
AS THE TROOPS WENT THROUGH
MARSHAL NEIGH V.C.
IN HOSPITAL
SISTER ANN
BRICKS
MUD
MICKIE MOLLYNOO
JAM
WEEPING WILLIE
BILLJIM
THE CRUSADERS
PEACE, BLESSED PEACE
THE HAPPY GARDENERS
THE GERM
JOEY'S JOB
THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME
HOW HERMAN WON THE CROSS
WHEN TOMMY CAME MARCHING HOME
HELLO, SOLDIER!
THE MORALIST
REPAIRED
OUT OF KHAKI
THE SINGLE-HANDED TEAM
BATTLE PASSES
THE LETTERS OF THE DEAD
BULLETS
UNREDEEMED
THE LIVING PICTURE
THE IMMORTAL STRAIN
THE UNBORN
THE COMMON MEN
THE CHURCH BELLS
THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT
THE ONE AT HOME
THE HAPLESS ARMY

BILLY KHAKI

MARCHING somewhat out of order
when the band is cock-a-hoop,
There's a lilting kind of magic in the swagger
of the troop,
Swinging all aboard the steamer with her
nose toward the sea.
What is calling, Billy Khaki, that you're foot-
ing it so free?

Though his lines are none too level,
And he lacks a bit of style.
And he's swanking like the devil
Where the women wave and smile,
He will answer with a rifle
Trim and true from stock to bore,
Where the comrades crouch and stifle
In the reeking pit of war.

What is calling, Billy Khaki? There is
thunder down the sky,
And the merry magpie bugle splits the morn-
ing with its cry,
While your feet are beating rhythms up the
dusty hills and down,
And the drums are all a-talking in the hollow
of the town.

Billy Khaki, is't the splendor of the song the
kiddies sing,
Or the whipping of the flags aloft that sets
your heart a-swing?
Is't the cheering like a paean of the toss-
ing, teeming crowds,
Or the boom of distant cannon flatly bumping
on the clouds ?

What's calling, calling, Billy? 'Tis the rattle
far away
Of the cavalry at gallop and artillery in play;
'Tis the great gun's fierce concussion, and the
smell of seven hells