The Everlasting Argument

Said Pat Malone to a big, brown Sick,

“They say at fighting you’re mighty slick.”

Said Jock McNab, “Have you noticed the Seeks?

They wear their shirts outside their breeks.”

Said Cornstalk Joe, “Say what you like,

I’ll swear S-i-k-h spells Sike.”

Ses I to ’em all, “What need to bicker?

Pronounce it so’s to rhyme with shikker.”

C. D. Mc.,

R.S.D., 11th Aust. A.S.C.

Now snowflakes thickly falling in the winter breeze

Have cloaked alike the hard, unbending ilex

And the grey, drooping branches of the olive trees,

Transmuting into silver all their lead;

And, in between the winding lines, in No-Man’s Land,

Have softly covered with a glittering shroud

The unburied dead.

And in the silences of night, when winds are fair,

When shot and shard have ceased their wild surprising,

I hear a sound of music in the upper air,

Rising and falling till it slowly dies—

It is the beating of the wings of migrant birds

Wafting the souls of these unburied heroes

Into the skies.

M. R.,

N.Z. Headquarters.