The Coo-ee Reciter.

by Various.

_I KILLED A MAN AT GRASPAN._

(_The Tale of a Returned Australian Contingenter done into verse._)

I killed a man at Graspan, I killed him fair in fight; And the Empire's poets and the Empire's priests Swear blind I acted right.

The Empire's poets and Empire's priests Make out my deed was fine, But they can't stop the eyes of the man I killed From starin' into mine.

I killed a man at Graspan, Maybe I killed a score; But this one wasn't a chance-shot home, From a thousand yards or more.

I fired at him when he'd got no show; We were only a pace apart, With the cordite scorchin' his old worn coat As the bullet drilled his heart.

I killed a man at Graspan, I killed him fightin' fair; We came on each other face to face, An' we went at it then and there.

Mine was the trigger that shifted first, His was the life that sped.

An' a man I'd never a quarrel with Was spread on the boulders dead.

I killed a man at Graspan; I watched him squirmin' till He raised his eyes, an' they met with mine; An' there they're starin' still.

Cut of my brother Tom, he looked, Hardly more'n a kid; An', Christ! he was stiffenin' at my feet Because of the thing I did.

I killed a man at Graspan; I told the camp that night; An' of all the lies that ever I told That was the poorest skite.

I swore I was proud of my hand-to-hand, An' the Boer I'd chanced to pot, An' all the time I'd ha' gave my eyes To never ha' fired that shot.

I killed a man at Graspan; An hour ago about, For there he lies with his starin' eyes, An' his blood still tricklin' out.

I know it was either him or me, I know that I killed him fair, But, all the same, wherever I look, The man that I killed is there.

I killed a man at Graspan; My first and, G.o.d! my last; Harder to dodge than my bullet is The look that his dead eyes cast.

If the Empire asks for me later on It'll ask for me in vain, Before I reach to my bandolier To fire on a man again.

M. GROVER.

_KITTY O'TOOLE._

Och! a charmin' young cratur' was Kitty O'Toole, The lily ov shwate Tipperary; Wid a voice like a thrish, and wid cheeks like a rose, An' a figger as nate as a fairy!

Oi saw her wan noight--och! she look'd loike a quane In the glory ov shwate wan an' twinty-- As she sat wid McGinty's big arm round her waisht, Och! how I invied McGinty!

Six months afther that, in the shwate summer days, The boys an' the girls wor' invoited By Micky O'Toole, ov the cabin beyant, To see Kate an' McGinty unoited; An' whin in the church they wor' made into wan, An' the priesht gave thim blissin's in plinty, An' Kitty look'd shwater than iver before-- Och! how I invied McGinty!

But the years have gone by, an' McGinty is dead!

Och! me heart was all broke up wid pity To see her so lonely, an' mournful, an' sad, An' I wint an' got married to Kitty!

But now, whin I look where McGinty is laid, Wid a shtone o'er his head cowld an' flinty-- As he lies there so peaceful, an' quoiet, an' shtill-- Och! how I invy McGinty.

W. L. LUMLEY.

_THE BALLAD OF THE DROVER._

BY HENRY LAWSON.

(_By kind permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._)

Across the stony ridges, Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover, Comes riding home again.

And well his stock-horse bears him, And light of heart is he, And stoutly his old pack-horse Is trotting by his knee.

Up Queensland way with cattle He travelled regions vast; And many months have vanished Since home-folk saw him last.

He hums a song of someone He hopes to marry soon; And hobble-chains and camp-ware Keep jingling to the tune.

Beyond the hazy dado Against the lower skies, And yon blue line of ranges, The homestead station lies.

And thitherward the drover Jogs through the lazy noon, While hobble-chains and camp-ware Are jingling to a tune.

An hour has filled the heavens With storm-cloud inky black; At times the lightning trickles Around the drover's track, But Harry pushes onward; His horses' strength he tries In hope to reach the river Before the flood shall rise.

The thunder from above him Goes rolling o'er the plain; And down on thirsty pastures In torrents fall the rain.

And every creek and gully Sends forth its little flood, Till the river runs a banker, All stained with yellow mud.

Now Harry speaks to Rover, The best dog on the plains; And to his hardy horses, And strokes their s.h.a.ggy manes; "We've breasted bigger rivers When floods were at their height, Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home to-night!"

The thunder growls a warning, The ghastly lightnings gleam, As the drover turns his horses, To swim the fatal stream.

But, oh! the flood runs stronger Than e'er it ran before; The saddle horse is failing, And only half-way o'er!

When flashes next the lightning, The flood's grey breast is blank, And a cattle-dog and pack-horse Are struggling up the bank.

But on the bank to northward, Or on the southern sh.o.r.e, The stock-horse and his rider Will struggle out no more.

The faithful dog a moment Sits panting on the bank, And then swims through the current To where his master sank.

And round and round in circles, He fights with failing strength, Till borne down by the waters, The old dog sinks at length.

Across the flooded lowlands And slopes of sodden loam, The pack-horse struggles onward, To take dumb tidings home.

And mud-stained, wet, and weary, Through ranges dark goes he; The hobble-chains and tinware Are sounding eerily.

The floods are in the ocean, The stream is clear again, And now a verdant carpet Is stretched across the plain.

But someone's eyes are saddened, And someone's heart still bleeds, In sorrow for the drover Who sleeps among the reeds.

_THE RESCUE._