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Page 2
Are we only an English market,
Held dear for the sake of trade?
Or are we a part of the Empire
Close welded as hilt and blade?
If so, let us share your dangers,
Let the glory we boast be real,
Let the boys of the South fight with you,
Let our children taste cold steel.
Do you think we are chicken-hearted?
Do you count us devoid of pride?
Just try us in deadly earnest,
And see how our boys can ride.
We are sick of your empty praises!
If the mother is proud of her son,
Let him do some deed on a hard-fought field,
Then boast what he has done.
A nation is never a nation
Worthy of pride or place
Till the mothers have sent their firstborn
To look death on the field in the face.
Australia is calling to England,
Let England answer the call;
There are smiles for those who come back to us,
And tears for those who may fall.
Bridle to bridle our sons will ride
With the best that Britain has bred,
And all we ask is an open field
And a soldier's grave for our dead.
I have decided to enclose these verses in my book because some critics
have pronounced me anti-English in my sentiments. Heaven alone
knows why; yet the above poem was written and published by me in
Australia just before war was declared between England and the
Republics, at a time when all Australia considered it very
probable that we should have to fight one of the big European
Powers as well as the Boers.
A. G. HALES.
AUSTRALIA ON THE MARCH.
BELMONT BATTLEFIELD.
At two o'clock on the morning of Wednesday, the 6th of the month, the
reveille sounded, and the Australians commenced their preparations for the
march to join Methuen's army. By 4 a.m. the mounted rifles led the way out
of camp, and the toilsome march over rough and rocky ground commenced. The
country was terribly rough as we drove the transports up and over the
Orange River, and rougher still in the low kopjes on the other side. The
heat was simply blistering, but the Australians did not seem to mind it to
any great extent; they were simply feverish to get on to the front, but
they had to hang back and guard the transports.
At last the hilly country faded behind us. We counted upon pushing on
rapidly, but the African mules were a sorry lot, and could make but little
headway in the sandy tracks. Still, there was no rest for the men, because
at intervals one of Remington's scouts would turn up at a flying gallop,
springing apparently from nowhere, out of the womb of the wilderness, to
inform us that flying squads of Boers were hanging round us. But so
carefully watchful were the Remingtons that the Boers had no chance of
surprising us. No sooner did the scouts inform us of their approach in any
direction than our rifles swung forward ready to give them a hearty
Australian reception. This made the march long and toilsome, though we
never had a chance to fire a shot. At 5.30 we marched with all our
transports into Witteput, the wretched little mules being the only
distressed portion of the contingent.
At Witteput the news reached us that a large party of the enemy had managed
to pass between General Methuen's men and ourselves, and had invested
Belmont, out of which place the British troops had driven them a few weeks
previously. We had no authentic news concerning this movement. Our
contingent spread out on the hot sand at Witteput, panting for a drop of
rain from the lowering clouds that hung heavily overhead. Yet hot, tired,
and thirsty as we were, we yet found time to look with wonder at the sky
above us. The men from the land of the Southern Cross are used to gorgeous
sunsets, but never had we looked upon anything like this. Great masses of
coal-black clouds frowned down upon us, flanked by fiery crimson cloud
banks, that looked as if they would rain blood, whilst the atmosphere was
dense enough to half-stifle one. Now and again the thunder rolled out
majestically, and the lightning flashed from the black clouds into the red,
like bayonets through smoke banks.
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