Part 1 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+fted 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.