A letter came from Dick to-day;
A greeting glad he sends to me.
He tells of one more bloody fray-
Of how with bomb and rifle they
Have put their mark for all to see
Across rock-ribbed Gallipoli.

-How are you doing? Hope all's well,
I in great nick, and like the work.
Though there may be a brimstone smell,
And other pungent hints of Hell,
Not Satan's self can make us shirk
Our task of hitting up the Turk.

-You bet old Slacks is not half bad
He knows his business in a scrim.
He gets cold steel, or we are glad
To stop him with a bullet, lad.
Or sling a bomb his hair to trim;
But, straight, we throw no mud at him.

-He fights and falls, and comes again,
And knocks our charging lines about.
He's game at heart, and tough in grain,
And canters through the leaded rain,
Chock full of mettle-not a doubt
'T will do us proud to put him out.

-But that's our job; to see it through
We've made our minds up, come what may,
This noon we had our work to do.
The shells were dropping two by two;
We fairly felt their bullets play
Among our hair for half a day.

-One clipped my ear, a red-hot kiss,
Another beggar chipped my shin.
They pass you with a vicious hiss
That makes you duck; but, hit or miss,
It isn't in the Sultan's skin
To shift Australia's cheerful grin.

-My oath, old man, though we were prone
We didn't take it lying down.
I got a dozen on my own-
All dread of killing now is flown;
It is the game, and, hard and brown,
We're wading in for freedom's crown.

-Big guns are booming as I write,
A lad is singing 'Dolly Grey,'
The shells are skipping in the night,
And, square and all, I feeling right
For, whisper, Ned, the fellows say
I did a ripping thing to-day.

-Soon homeward tramping with the band,
All notched a bit, and with the prize
Of glory for our native land,
I'll see my little sweetheart stand
And smile, her smile, so sweet and wise-
With proud tears shining in her eyes.

-Geewhiz! What price your humble when
Triumphant from the last attack,
We face a Melbourne crowd again,
Tough, happy, battle-proven men,
And while the cheer-stormed heavens crack
I bring the tattered colors back!�

A mist is o'er the written line
Whence martial ardor seems to flow;
A dull ache holds this heart of mine-
Poor boy, he had a vision fine;
But grave dust clouds the royal glow;
He died in action weeks ago!

He was my friend-I may not weep.
My soul goes out to Him who bled;
I pray for Christ's compassion deep
On mothers, lovers-all who keep
The woeful vigil, having read
The joyous letters of the dead.