Successful Recitations Part 38

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Conscription? Never! The word belongs To the Foes of Freedom, the Friends of wrongs, And unto them alone.

The first and worst of the Tyrant's terms, Barbed to spike at the writhing worms That crawl about his throne.

Only the mob at a despot's heels Would juggle a man at Fortune's wheels, Or conjure one with the die that reels From the lip of the dice-cup thrown!

The soldier forced to the field of fight, With never a reck of the wrong or right, Wherever a flag may wave-- By the toss of a coin, or a number thrown-- Fights with a will that is not his own, A victim and a slave!

Right is Might in ever a fight, And Truth is Bravery, And the Right and True are the Ready too, When the bolt is hurl'd in the peaceful blue By the hand of Knavery.

And the Land that fears for its Volunteers Is a Land of Slavery.

Compulsion? Never! The word is dead In a land of Freedom born and bred, Of old in the years of yore, Where all by the laws of Freedom wrought May do as they will, who will as they ought, And none desire for more.

Who brooks no spur has need of none, (Who needs a spur is a traitor son,) And all are ready and all are one When Freedom calls to the fore!

The soldier forced to the field of war By the iron hand of a tyrant law, Wherever a flag may wave, And the press'd--at best but a coward's 'hest-- Fight with the bitter, sullen zest, And the ardour of a slave!

A hireling? Never! The bought and sold Are ever the prey of the traitor's gold, Wherever the fight may be.

Or ever a man will sell his sword, The highest bidder may buy the gaud With a coward's n.i.g.g.ard fee.

Who buys and sells to the market goes, And sells his friends as he sells his foes, So he gain in the main by his country's woes,-- But the gain is not to the free;-- For the soldier bought with a price has nought But his fee to 'fend when the fight is fought, Wherever the flag may wave.

And he who fights for the loot or pay, Fights for himself, or ever he may-- A huckster and a slave!

Or ever a Free land needs a son To follow the flag with pike or gun Upon the field of war, There's never a need to seek for one In the dice's throw, or the number's run, Or the iron grip of the law;-- All are ready, where all are free, With never a spur and never a fee, To fight and 'fend the liberty That Freemen hold in awe.

The Volunteer is a son sincere, And ready, or ever the cause appear, Whole-hearted, free as brave,-- Ready at call to sally forth From east and west, and south and north, Wherever the flag may wave,-- With never a selfish thought to mar The sacrifice of the holy war, And never a self to save.

And the flag shall float in the blue on high Till the last of the Volunteers shall die, And h.e.l.l shall tear it out of the sky-- From Freedom's trampled grave!

Right is Might in ever a fight, And Truth is Bravery, And the Right and True are the Ready too, When the bolt is hurl'd in the peaceful blue By the hand of Knavery.

And the Land that fears for its Volunteers Is a Land of Slavery.

DOWN IN AUSTRALIA.

BY GERALD Ma.s.sEY.

Quaff a cup and send a cheer up for the Old Land!

We have heard the Reapers shout, For the Harvest going out, With the smoke of battle closing round the bold Land; And our message shall be hurled Ringing right across the world, There are true hearts beating for you in the Gold Land.

We are with you in your battles, brave and bold Land!

For the old ancestral tree Striketh root beneath the sea, And it beareth fruit of Freedom in the Gold Land!

We shall come, too, if you call, We shall fight on if you fall; Shakespere's land shall never be a bought and sold land....

O, a terror to the Tyrant is that bold Land!

He remembers how she stood, With her raiment roll'd in blood, When the tide of battle burst upon the Old Land; And he looks with darkened face, For he knows the hero race Strike the Harp of Freedom--draw her sword with bold hand....

When the smoke of Battle rises from the Old Land You shall see the Tyrant down!

You shall see her lifted crown Wears another peerless jewel won with bold hand; She shall thresh her foes like corn, They shall eat the bread of scorn; We will sing her song of triumph in the Gold Land.

Quaff a cup and send a cheer up for the Old Land!

We have heard the Reapers shout For the Harvest going out, Seen the smoke of battle closing round the bold Land; And our answer shall be hurled Ringing right across the world,-- All true hearts are beating for you in the Gold Land.

AUSTRALIA SPEAKS.

BY GERALD Ma.s.sEY.

What is the News to-day, Boys?

Have they fired the Signal gun?

We answer but one way, Boys; We are ready for the fray, Boys, All ready and all one!

They shall not say we boasted Of deeds that would be done; Or sat at home and toasted: We are marshall'd, drilled, and posted, All ready and all one!

We are not as driven cattle That would the conflict shun.

They have to test our mettle As _Volunteers_ of Battle, All ready and all one!

The life-streams of the Mother Through all her youngsters run, And brother stands by brother, To die with one another, All ready and all one!

AN IMPERIAL REPLY.

BY GERALD Ma.s.sEY.

'Tis glorious, when the thing to do Is at the supreme instant done!

We count your first fore-running few A thousand men for every one!

For this true stroke of statesmans.h.i.+p-- The best Australian poem yet-- Old England gives your hand the grip, And binds you with a coronet, In which the gold o' the Wattle glows With Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose.

They talked of England growing old, They said she spoke with feeble voice; But hear the virile answer rolled Across the world! Behold her Boys Come back to her full-statured Men, To make four-square her fighting ranks.

She feels her youth renewed again, With heart too full for aught but "Thanks!"

And now the gold o' the Wattle glows With Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose.

"My Boys have come of age to-day,"

The proud old mother smiling said.

"They write a brand-new page to-day, By far-off futures to be read!"

Throughout all lands of British blood, This stroke hath kindled such a glow; The Federal links of Brotherhood Are clasped and welded at a blow.

And aye the gold o' the Wattle glows With Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose.

THE BOYS' RETURN.

BY GERALD Ma.s.sEY.