Miss Mackellar is the daughter of Sir Charles Mackellar, Chairman of the Bank of New South Wales. Acknowledgment is due Dr. George Cooke-Adams, formerly an officer in the Australian naval forces, through whose courtesy her verses are presented here. There are some that go for love of a fight And some for love of a land, And some for a dream of the world set free Which they barely understand. A dream of the world set free from Hate-- But splendidly, one and all, Danger they drink as ’twere wine of Life And jest as they reel and fall. Clean aims, rare faculties, strength and youth, They have poured them freely forth For the sake of the sun-steeped land they left And the far green isle in the north. What can we do to be worthy of them, Now hearts are breaking for pride? Give comfort at least to the wounded men And the kin of the man that died. TANKS O. C. A. CHILD Yes, back at home I used to drive a tram; And Sammy, there, he was a driver, too-- He used to ride his racer--did Sir Sam; While pokey London streets was all I knew. But now, His Nibs and I, of equal rank, Are chummy as the paper and the wall, Each tooling of a caterpillar tank, Each waiting on the blest old bugle call. Say! Tanks are sport--when you get used to them, They’re like a blooming railroad, self-contained; They lay their tracks, as you might say--pro tem, And pick ’em up, and there’s good distance gained. They roar across rough country like a gale, They lean against a house and push it down, They’re like a baby fortress under sail, And antic as a three-ring circus clown. Sam says they’re slow. They may seem so to him-- They can’t show fancy mile-a-minute stuff, But when they charge, in armored fighting trim, You bet the Germans find ’em fast enough! Now Sam and I are waiting, side by side, To steam across yon farm-land in the night; We’ll take their blamed barbed wire in our strides And stamp a German trench line out of sight. A HYMN OF FREEDOM MARY PERRY KING IN COLLIER’S WEEKLY Permission to reproduce in this book “Unfurl the flag of Freedom, Fling far the bugle blast! There comes a sound of marching From out the mighty past. Let every peak and valley Take up the valiant cry: Where, beautiful as morning, Our banner cuts the sky. Free born to peace and justice, We stand to guard and save The liberty of manhood, The faith our fathers gave. Then soar aloft, Old Glory, And tell the waiting breeze No law but Right and Mercy Shall rule the Seven Seas.