ready." 

 With a wild whoop fifty of them dashed for tickets, some "tucker," and a bottle or two of Scotch. Into the train they jumped, and in a jiffy were rolling over the line to Sydney. Song and story helped to cheer the long and somewhat tiring journey. During a sort of lull in the proceedings Claud looked up and said: "Here, Bill, can't you recite us some of that impromptu sort of doggerel that you get into the Sydney weeklies now and then." 

 "Well—yes," said Bill, rising and clearing his throat. 

 "Order, order! ye sheep-eatin' blackguards," shouted Paddy, hitting a table with his riding-whip. The gathering ceased their chatter, and Bill rhymed out: 

 "We're the Kangaroo Marines, We're not Lager-fed machines, But Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains. We can ride, and we can cook, Ay, in shooting know our book, We're out to wipe off Kaiser Billy's stains. 

But Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains.

We're out to wipe off Kaiser Billy's stains.

 "We're not trim—and not polite, And, perchance, get on the skite— We're Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains. Yet though we can't salute, We can bayonet and can boot The wily, wily Turk from our domains. 

We're Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains.

The wily, wily Turk from our domains.

 "So when we ride away, Off hats and shout 'Hooray' For Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains. And, parsons, say your prayers That we may pass "Upstairs" Should a nasty little bullet hit our veins. 

For Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains.

Should a nasty little bullet hit our veins.

 "Now, boys, stand up and sing God save our good old King, And Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains." 

And Bushmen, Bushmen, Bushmen from the plains."

 

 "Good, Bill, good!" shouted Claud, gripping the rough rhymster by the hand. 

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