Australians To The Front

From the Scheldt to the Niemen, Hark, the music of the drums! Not unthrilled the souls of freemen When that instant message comes. Rolling east the wild fantasia Stirs the Orient blood to flame; And the drums call Austral-asia And she answers to her name. Far away from hosts in battle, Yet in time with marching feet Here and now the war-drums rattle In the sunbright city street. Horse and foot in martial manner, Swift commands, and glances high, Naked steel and silken banner; Thus the ranks go proudly by. But within the gardens spacious, Not a stone's throw from the crowd One who fronts the landscape gracious Listens to the war-drums loud. Beats the eager drummer harder, And methinks the bronze can hear, In those eyes a flash of ardor! On that cheek a noble tear! Dauntless Captain, did'st thou ever, With thy sailor-eyes of gray Searching out from thy endeavor That sequestered flower-starred bay, Dream that some day those who love thee Here would stake their all of worth, For the flag that waved above thee And the land that gave thee birth? And the dauntless Captain listens: Ah, if only he could speak! But a vagrant raindrop glistens On that scorched and blistered cheek, And the faith that does not falter Still may hear his whisper low: 'Son, this new land doth not alter Britain's breed of long ago.'