And we swings a tank iv iron scrap across
   the 'Oly Land
 From a dinkie gun we nipped ashore the
    other side of Jopper.

We ain't ever very natty, for the climate here
   is hot;
 When it isn't liquid mud the dust is thicker
    than the vermin.
Ten to one our bold Noureddin is some wad-
   dlin' Turkish pot,
 'N' the Saladin we're on to is a snortin'
    red-eyed German.

But be'old the eighth Crusade, 'n' Dicko
   Smith is in the van,
 Dicko Coor de Lion from Carlton what
    could teach King Dick a trifle,
For he'd bomb his Royal Jills from out his
   baked-pertater can,
 Or he'd pink him full of leakage with a
    quaint repeatin' rif1e.

We have sunk our claws in Mizpah, and
   Siloam is in view.
 By my 'alidom from Agra we will send the
    Faithful reelin'!
Those old-timers botched the contract, but we
   mean to put it through.
 Knights Templars from Balmain, the Port,
    Monaro, Nhill, andl Ealin'.

We 'are wipin' up Jerus'lem; we were ready
   with a hose
 Spoutin' lead, a dandy cleaner that you bet
    you can rely on;
And Moss Isaacs, Cohn, and Cohen, Moses,
   Offelbloom 'n' those
 Can all pack their bettin' bags, and come
   right home again to Zion.

PEACE, BLESSED PEACE.

HERE in the flamin' thick of thick of things,
   With Death across the way, 'n' traps
What little Fritz the German flings
   Explodin' in yer lunch pe'aps,
It ain't all glory for a bloke',
   It ain't all corfee 'ot and stoo,
Nor wavin' banners in the smoke,
Or practisin' the bay'net stroke—
   We has our little troubles, too!

Here's Trigger Ribb bin seein' red
   'N' raisin' Cain because he had,
Back in the caverns iv his 'ead,
   A 'oller tooth run ravin' mad.
Pore Trigger up 'n' down the trench
   Was jiggin' like a blithered loan,
'N' every time she give a wrench
You orter seen the beggar blench,
   You orter 'eard him play a toon.

The sullen shells was pawin' blind,
   A-feelin' for us grim as sin,
While now 'n' then we'd likely find
   A dizzy bomb come limpin' in.
But Trigger simply let 'er sizz.
   He 'ardly begged to be excused.
This was no damn concern of his.
He twined a muffler round his phiz,
   'N' fearful was the words he used.

Lest we be getting' cock-a-whoop
   Ole 'Ans tries out his box of tricks.
His bullets all around the coop
  Is peckin' like a million chicks.
But Trigger when they barks his snout
   Don't sniff at it. He won't confess
They're on the earth—ignores the clout,
'N' makes the same old sung about
   His brimmin' mug of bitterness.

They raided us there in the mud
   One day afore the dead sun rose.
Me oath, the mess of stuff and blood
   Would give a slaughterman the joes!
And when the scrap is past and done,
   Where's Trigger Ribb? The noble youth
Has got his bay'net in a Hun,
While down his cheeks the salt tears run.
   Sez he to me "Gorbli'—this tooth!"

A shell hoist Trigger in a tree.
   We found him motherin' his jor.
"If this ache's goin' on," sez he,
   "So 'elp me, it'll spoil the war!"
Five collared Trigger on his perch,
   They wired his molar to a bough,
Then give the anguished one a lurch,
'N' down he pitches. From that birch
   His riddled tooth is hangin' now.

This afternoon it's merry 'ell;
   Grenades is comin' by the peck;
A big gun times us true 'n well,
   And, oh! we gets it in the neck.
They lick out flames hat reach a mile,
   The drip of lead will never cease.
But Trigger's pottin' all the while;
He sports a fond 'n' foolish smile-
   "Thank Gord," he sez, "a bit of peace!"

THE HAPPY GARDENERS.

WE were storemen, clerks and packers on
   an ammunition dump
Twice the size of Cootamundra, and the goods
   we had to hump
They were bombs as big as water-butts, and
   cartridges in tons,
Shells that looked like blessed gasmains, and
   a line in traction-guns.

We had struck a warehouse dignity in dealing
   with the stocks.
It was, "Sign here, Mr. Eddie!" "Clarkson,
   forward to the socks!"
Our floor-walker was a major, with a nozzle
   like a peach,
And a stutter in his Trilbies; and a limping
   kind of speech.

We were off at eight to business, we were free
   for lunch at one,
And we talked of new Spring fashions, and the
   brisk trade being done.
After five we sought our dugouts lying snug
   beneath the hill,
Each with hollyhocks before it and geraniums
   on the sill.

Singing "Home, Sweet home," we swept,
   and scrubbed, and dusted up the place,
Then smoked out on the doorstep in the twi-
   light's tender grace.
After which with spade and rake we sought
   our special garden plot,
And we 'tended to the cabbage and the shrink-
   ing young shallot.

So long lived we unmolested that this seemed
   indeed "the life."
Set apart from mirk and worry and the inci-
   dence of strife;
And we trimmed our Kitchen Eden, swapping
   vegetable lore,
Whi1e the whole demented world beside was
   muddled up with war.

There was little talk of Boches and of bloody
   battle scenes,
But a deal about Bill's spuds and Billy
   Carkeek's butter-beans;
Porky specialised on onion and he had a sort
   of gift
For a cabbage plump and tender that it took
   two men to lift.

In the pleasant Sabbath morning, when the
   sun lit on our "street,"
And illumed the happy dugout with effulgence
   kind and sweet,
It was fine to see us forking, raking, picking
   off the bugs,
Treading flat the snails and woodlice and
   demolishing the slugs.

Then one day old Fritz got going. He had
   a hint of us,
And the shell the blighter posted was as roomy
   as a 'bus;
He was groping round the dump, and kind of
   pecking after it;
When he plugged the hill the world heeled up,
   the dome of heaven split.

Then, 0 Gott and consternation! Swooped a
   shell a and stuck her nose
In Carkeek's beans. Those beans came up!
   A cry of grief arose!
As we watched them—plunk! another shell
   cut loose, and everywhere
Flew the spuds of Billy Murphy. There were
   turnips in the air.

Bill! she tore a quarter-acre from the land-
   scape. With it burst
Tommy's carrots, and we watched them, and
   in whispers prayed and cursed.
Then a wail of anguish 'scaped us. Boomed
   in Porky's cabbage plot
A detestable concussion. Porky's cabbages
   were not!

There the Breaking strain was reached, for
   Porky fetched an awful cry,
And he rushed away and armed