Down in your soldiers' graves you rest from toil,
Without the knowledge of the Hun's fierce hate.
The shell-struck, blood-stained clods of Belgian soil
Will open to your souls the Pearly Gate.

There is no place on this earth's troubled face
So sacred as the ground which shields your heads,
Fit resting-place for those so true and brave,
Who for THE CAUSE the fullest price have paid.

Australia's sons the sacrifice supreme
For honour, truth, and freedom gladly made;
And though the price as high again had been,
We'd have paid it, bravely, for the Nation's sake.

Comrades, sleep on, till God's great Spirit comes
To clothe you with the life which never ends;
And o'er this shell-swept, bruised, and bleeding land
Victorious and enduring peace descends.




THE SILVER LINING


War in itself is not a blessing--neither is the surgeon's knife. If it
were a choice between a slow, painful death from a malignant cancer,
or an operation, which would give pain for the time being, but which
ultimately would bring relief and complete recovery--invariably the