Teach 'Em To Shoot
Edwin Greenslade (Dryblower) Murphy

When you've done with your frivol and fooling,

Your parlor diversions and games;

When your stripling has come from his schooling,

Swell-headed with figures and names.

Before he's enrolled 'neath the banner

Of calling, profession or trade,

Before he's been given his spanner,

His typing machine or his spade;

Before he grips trowel or level

Or handles a throttle-valve hot;

Before he plays dice with the devil

Or coaxes the red from the spot,

Take him out where no city fumes stifle,

Take him out as his country's recruit;

In his hand put a citizen's rifle

                     And  -  teach him to shoot!


Take him out in the paddock and low land,

With never a mark for a guide;

Teach his heart that to die for his own land

Is a patriot's herited pride.

Set him up such a mark as a foeman,

And teach him to centre hot lead,

Guide his hand that this warrior yeoman

Shall help his brave heart with his head.

For the gun is the gospel to cling to

When facing fanatical Shem,

The trench is the alter to spring to,

The bullet, your savior pro. tem.

Till they've shot or evicted the vermin,

Invaders, half-human, half-brute,

Our sons can dispense with a sermon,

                      But  -  teach them to shoot!


Wean them from gambles and guzzles

To a post where each patriot should be,

In the fort where the turreted muzzles

Frown out on the shuddering sea.

Teach them to snipe and to slaughter

The ravishers swarming ashore

To the mother, the sister, the daughter,

And the wife who your sweet babies bore.

Teach them to fight while retreating,

As the bush brumby springs to the spur,

And the ambush gun belches a greeting

Where the range is a smoke-blotted blur.

And so no invader shall revel

By you batteries useless and mute;

When your youngster a rifle can level,

               Teach him to shoot!


Too long have we worshipped the jockey,

Ans swarmed the arena of Horse,

And watched the women play hockey,

Lost stamina, lustre and force.

Too long have we golfed at the bunker,

While the enemy vengeful and vain,

Stares out from the land of the junker,

With a hatred persistent and plain.

We cheer the imported sky-rocket,

We holiday under the gums

While the foe with our plan in his pocket

Beats war on invisible drums.

And the heart of that armed hurly-burly

Is longing Australia to loot

So catch ye the Kangaroo early -

             And teach him to shoot!


Teach him to stand in the trenches,

And bullet the rabble that comes

With savage and slaughtering stenches,

Concealed in its chemical drums;

Show them the sons of the Old Land,

From Canada cold to The Cape,

While the men from the wool and the gold land

Have a destiny splendid to shape;

Where our scrub-men their axes are swinging

Where the bullock-team tinkles its bells,

The brothers of braves they are bringing

Who died at the far Dardanelles.

But whether they're marching or mounted,

Whether they're saddle or boot,

When the brawny out-backers are counted.

                     Teach them to shoot!


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