"Well—yes," said Bill, rising and clearing his throat.
"Order, order! ye sheep-eatin' blackguards," shouted Paddy, hitting a table with his riding-whip. The gathering ceased their chatter, and Bill rhymed out:
"We're the Kangaroo Marines,
We're not Lager-fed machines,
But Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains.
We can ride, and we can cook,
Ay, in shooting know our book,
We're out to wipe off Kaiser Billy's stains.
"We're not trim—and not polite,
And, perchance, get on the skite—
We're Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains.
Yet though we can't salute,
We can bayonet and can boot
The wily, wily Turk from our domains.
"So when we ride away,
Off hats and shout 'Hooray'
For Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains.
And, parsons, say your prayers
That we may pass "Upstairs"
Should a nasty little bullet hit our veins.
"Now, boys, stand up and sing
God save our good old King,
And Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains."
"Good, Bill, good!" shouted Claud, gripping the rough rhymster by the hand.
"Hear, hear!" shouted the crowd.
"Rot! D—— rotten jingo slush! What the hades has the King done for you and me?" roared a red-faced passenger at the other end of the car. This was none other than Bill Neverwork, secretary of the Weary Willies' Union and Socialist M.P. for the town of Wearyville.
"Go an' boil yer old fat 'ead!" said Bill, calmly lighting his pipe.