The measured beat of their buoyant feet,
      And the lilt and thrum
      Of a little drum,
The song they sang in a cadence low,
The piping note of a piccolo.

The township woke, and the doors flew wide;
The women trotted their boys beside.
Across the bridge on a single heel
   The soldiers came in a golden glow,
With throb of song and the chink of steel,
   The gallant crow of the piccolo.
      Good and brown they were,
      And their arms swung bare.
Their fine young faces revived in me
A boyhood's vision of chivalry.

The lean, hard regiment tramping down,
Bushies, miners and boys from town.
From 'mid the watchers the road along
   One fell in line with the khaki men.
He took the stride, and he caught their song,
   And Steve went then, and Meneer, and Ben,
      Long Dave McCree,
      And the Weavers three,
All whisked away by the "Come! Come! Come!"
The lusty surge of the vaunting drum.

I swore a prayer for each soldier lad.
He was the son that might have had;
The tall, bold boy who was never mine,
   All brave with dust that the eyes laughed through,
His shoulders square, and his chin in line,
   Was marching too with the gallant few.
      Passed the muffled beat
      Of their swanking feet,
The swell of drum, the exulting crow,
The wild-bird note of the piccolo.

They dipped away in the listless trees;
A mother wept on her beaded knees
For sons gone out to the long war's end;
   But more than mother or man wept I
Who had no son in the world to send.
   The hour lagged by, and drifting high
     Came the fitful hum
      Of the little drum,
And faint, but still with an ardent flow,
The pibroch, call of the piccolo.

MARSHAL NEIGH, V.C.

HE came from tumbled country past the
   humps of Buffalo
Where the snow sits on the mountain 'n' the
   Summer aches below.
He'd a silly name like Archie. Squattin'
   sullen on the ship,
He knew nex' to holy nothin' through the gor-
   forsaken trip.

No thoughts he had of women, no refreshin'
   talk of beer;
If he'd battled, loved, or suffered vital facts
   did not appear;
But the parsons and the poets couldn't teach
   him to discourse
When it come to pokin' guyver at a pore,
   deluded horse.

If nags got sour 'n' kicked agin the rules of
   things at sea,
Artie argued matters with 'em, 'n' he'd kid
   'em up a tree.
"Here's a pony got hystericks. Pipe the word
   for Privit Rowe,"
The Sargint yapped, 'n' all the ship came
   cluckin' to the show.

He'd chat him confidential, 'n' he'd pet 'n'
   paw the moke;
He'd tickle him, 'n' flatter him, 'n' try him
   with a joke;
'N' presently that neddy sobers up, 'n' sez
   "Ive course,
Since you puts it that way, cobber, I will be
   a better horse."

There was one pertickler whaler, known
   aboard ez Marshal Neigh,
Whose monkey tricks with Privit Rowe was
   better than a play.
He'd done stunts in someone's circus, 'n' he
   loved a merry bout,
Whirlin' in to bust his boiler, or to kick
   the bottom out.

Rowe he sez: "Well, there's an idjit! Oh,
   yes, let her whiz, you beauty!
Where's yer 'orse sense, little feller? Where's
   yer bloomin' sense iv duty?
Well, you orter serve yer country!" Then
   there'd come a painful hush,
'N' that nag would drop his head-piece, 'n', so
   'elp me cat, he'd blush.

We was heaped ashore be Suez, rifle, horse,
   'n' man, 'n' tent,
Where the land is sand, the water, 'n' the
   gory firmament.
We had intervals iv longin', we had sweaty
   spells of work
In the ash-pit iv Gehenner, dumbly waitin'
   fer the Turk.

We goes driftin' on the desert, nothin' doin',
   nothin' said,
Till we get to think we're nowhere, 'n' arf
   fancy we are dead,
'N' the only 'uman interest on the red hori-
   zon's brim
Is Marshal Neigh's queer faney fer the lad
   that straddles him.

Plain-livin's nearly, bored us stiff. The Major
   calls on Rowe
To devise an entertainment. What his
   charger doesn't know
Isn't in the regulations. Him 'n' Rowe is
   brothers met,
'N' that horse's sense iv humor is the oddest
   fancy yet.

But the Turk arrives one mornin' on the outer
   edge iv space.
From back iv things his guns is floppin' kegs
   about the place,
'N' Privit Artie Rowe along with others iv
   the force
Goes pig-rootin' inter battle, holdin' converse
   with his horse.

Little Abdul's quite a fighter, 'n' he mixes it
   with skill;
But the Anzacs have him snouted,, 'n', oh,
   ma, he's feelin' ill.
They wake the all-fired desert, 'n' the land for
   ever dead
Is alive 'n' fairly creepin', and the skies are
   droppin' lead.

When they've got the Ot'man goin', little
   gaudy hunts begin.
It fer us to chiv His Trousers. 'n' to round
   the stragglers in.
Cuttin' closest to the raw, 'n' swearin' lovin'
   all the way,
Is Artie from Molinga on his neddy, Marshal
   Neigh.

We're pursuin' sundry camels turkey-trottin'
   anyhow
With the carriage iv an emu 'n' the action iv
   a cow,
When a sand dune busts, 'n' belches arf a
   million iv the foe.
They uncork a blanky batt'ry, 'n' it's, Allah,
   let her go!

We're not stayin' dinner, thank you. Lie
   along yer horse 'n' yell,
While the bullets pip yer britches 'n' you
   sniff the flue of Hell.
Here it is that Artie takes it good 'n' solid in
   the crust,
He dives from out the saddle, 'n' is swallered
   in the dust.

I got through 'n' saw them pointin' where the
   Marshal faced the band.
He was goin' where we came from, sniffin'
   bodies in the sand.
Till he found Rowe snugglin' under, took him
   where his pants was slack,
'N' be all the Asiatic gods, he brought his
   soldier back!

With a bullet in his buttock, 'n' a drill hole
   in his ear,
He dumped Artie down among us. Square
   'n' all, how did we cheer!
There's no medals struck fer neddies, but we
   rule there orter be,
'N' the pride iv all the Light Horse is old
   Marshal Neigh, V.C.

IN HOSPITAL.

IT is thirty moons since I slung me hook
   From the job at the hay and corn,
Took me solemn oath, 'n' I straight forsook
All the ways of life, dinkum ways 'n' crook,
'N' the things on which it was good to look
   Since the day when a bloke was born.

I was give a gun, 'n' a bay'net bright,
   'N' a 'ell of a swag iv work,
N' I dipped my lid to the big pub light,
To the ole push cobbers I give "Good-night!"
Slipped a kiss to