A lion of a man;
His rifle madly swinging,
His soul athirst to slay,
His slogan ringing, ringing,
“The Layjun lades the way!”
Till in a pit death-baited
Where Huns with Maxims waited,
He plunged… and there, blood-sated,
To death he stabbed his way.
Now Kelly was a fellow
Who simply loathed a fight:
He loved a tavern mellow,
Grog hot and pipe alight;
I’m sure the Show appalled him,
And yet without dismay,
When Death and Duty called him,
He up and led the way.
So in Valhalla drinking
(If heroes meek and shrinking
Are suffered there), I’m thinking
’Tis Kelly leads the way.
We have just had one of our men killed, a young sculptor of immense promise.
When one thinks of all the fine work he might have accomplished, It seems a shame. But, after all, to-morrow it may be the turn of any of us. If it should be mine, my chief regret will be for work undone.
Ah! I often think of how I will go back to the Quarter
