Primed with sudden resolution, he arose one summer morning,
Casually mentioned fighting, as he deftly rolled his swag;
Then, in accents almost hearty, bade his mate, "So long, old Party!
I am on some Square-head huntin'. See you later. Got a fag?"
Ten long, sunburned days in saddle, down through spinifex and saltbush,
Then a two-days' railroad journey landed him at last in town
Charged with an aggressive feeling, heightened by the forthright dealing
With a shrewd but chastened spieler who had sought to take him down.
"Smart and stern" describes the war-lord who presided at recruiting.
To him slouched an apparition, drawling, "Boss, I've got a nag;
Risin' four—good prad he's counted. Better shove me in the mounted;
Done a little bit o' shootin'—gun an' rifle. Got a fag?"
Two months later, drilled and kneaded to a shape approaching martial,
Yet with hints of that lithe looseness discipline can never kill,
With that keen eye grown yet shrewder, an example to the cruder,
Private Smith (and, later, Sergeant) stinted speech and studied drill.
