THE BUSHRANGERS

As I was walking down Oxford Street

Ten fierce soldiers I chanced to meet,

They wore big slouch hats with khaki sashes,

And talked like the angry guns, in flashes.

And my friend said to me, “They come from Australia;

Villainous fellows for War's regalia.

John Briton keeps a tobacconist's shed

And twice they have held a gun at his head.”

Well, I would have given all I had

To have gone with the bunch of them, good or bad,

To have heard the wickedest say, “Old fellow!”

And staunched his wounds where the black guns bellow.

I'd have thought it a merry thing to die

With such stalwart comrades standing by.

One of them had round eyes like coals —

True parson's quarry when he hunts souls.

The brawniest made my heart turn queer;

The devil in hell would have shunned his leer.

And the tallest and thinnest bore visible traces

Of his banished grandsire's vanished graces.

But all the lot of that swaggering ten

Were terrible, fine, strong soldier-men;

And I fairly sobbed at the four cross ways

As my triumphing soul sang England's praise.

O! all the Germans in Berlin town

Could n't put those ten Australians down.