tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47228220840201443722024-02-20T03:35:26.778-08:00Anzac And After<b>The Poems of Gunner Frank E. WestBrook</b><br>
Written on or around the Gallipoli Beachhead (ANZAC) in 1915 or shortly after.<br>
Originally published in 1916 in a booklet titled "Anzac And After"Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-90652395977690347672007-12-01T19:40:00.000-08:002007-12-01T13:43:14.465-08:00Introduction(reproduced from the original 2nd Ed 1916)<br /><br />In byways of duty that led me through danger,<br />By valleys and slopes that were tinted with blood<br />In crackle of Maxims and roar of shrapnel<br />When death in its coming rolled up to the flood<br />In heat, dust, and vermin and stench of the fallen<br />In sweat and in sorrow, in struggle and toil,<br />In waiting and watching, in nerve-racking vigil,<br />In sap and in traverse entrenched in the soil,<br />In dreams of Australia and hours of remembrance,<br />In longing and sighing, in hope and regret,<br />In vision of bushlands and homes of my fathers,<br />In myriad scenes that a man can't forget,<br />In pride in our army the men of Australia,<br />The living, the broken, the maimed and the dead,<br />In sympathy keen for the loved ones who sorrow,<br />In pride for the cause that we've fought for and bled.<br />In brilliant transcendence of sunrise and splendor,<br />In colours of grandeur the sunsets have worn,<br />In shade, shine and shower, and days of forebodings,<br />In mirth and grey sorrow these verses were born.<br /><br />ANZAC, April 25 to Oct 8, 1915Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-12118352124497972352007-12-01T15:02:00.000-08:002007-12-02T04:27:43.717-08:00Dedication(reproduced from the original 2nd Ed 1916)<br><br /><center><b>To<br />MY FATHER<br />My Counsellor, Comrade, and Dearest Companion<br><br />This Little Book<br />Is Affectionately Dedicated</center><br />F.E.W.<br /></b><br /><i>First published August 1916<br />Second impression October 1916.<br><br /></i>Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-38802455698780914722007-12-01T14:49:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:50:54.284-08:00Why?<a ref="why"></a>Why did I go to the wars ? “Dunno.”<br />No doubt is was Destiny forced me to go,<br />I hasd dashed little knowledge of national things<br />Pertaining to treaties and statutes and kings;<br />A hazy idea that a ‘ell of a scrap<br />Was twisting and changing the tints on a map;<br />Grim tellings of slaughter and terrible shame,<br />And capping them all was Germany’s name;<br />Of fates worse than death for a mother and maid,<br />Perhaps throughtit all I was somewhat afraid<br />When remembering those who are\ dearer to me<br />Than my life. And yes, there may be<br />In the thoughts of their honour an impelling spur<br />To make things quite sure for my mother and Her.<br />Perhaps ‘twas some writer or speaker I’d heard,<br />Yhe blood of my ancestors wakened and stirred,<br />And flung to my brain an appeal to my breed.<br />Mayhap I followed some other chaps lead.<br />Or was the natural love of a scrap<br />Some sort of dare devil wakes in a chap,<br />That challenges death for a jest or a taunt,<br />The sheer joy of living that nothing will daunt,<br />I dunno but I’ve fought and I’ve been through the mill.<br />What made me a soldier’s a mystery still;<br />But home’s not a home if it’s not wortha fight –<br />All things puttogether I know I’ve done right.<br />Through danger and dark days and death I am here,<br />I’m not learned or clever, but one thing is clear,<br />I’ve a lot to be lost and dern little to gain,<br />Bit if things were reversed I’d just do it again;<br />For I know (for I’ve seen) that war is just hell,<br />Where death lurks with vermnin and noise and foul smell,<br />But all things considered I’d go out once more,<br />Though I’ll nevber know rightly what takes me to war.<br /><br />London 26.3.16Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-87990230937273327342007-12-01T14:45:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:48:58.568-08:00Percy<a href="percy"></a><b>A Soldier Swell</b><br /><br />Lord, wouldn’t he swank it in Leicester Square,<br />Or strolling along the Strand,<br />His glass a goggle in one glad eye<br />And his gold-tipped cane in hand.<br /><br />“Bai Jove, what! what!” I can hear him say,<br />This swaddy remittance man;<br />In Cairo we heckled him right and left<br />As only our soldiers can.<br /><br />I heard his “damn” as the bullets sang<br />And the hillsides flashed with flame,<br />In April days where history framed<br />With laurels Australia’s name.<br /><br />His bayonet flashed in the misty dawn<br />And his blue blood blazed to flame,<br />He was up in the van where the best men go<br />In our first red dash to fame.<br /><br />There was never a sortie or risky stunt<br />(There were always enough to spare),<br />When death lurked grinning in every bush,<br />That “Percival” was not there..<br /><br />Theres a wooden cross on the Anzac slopes,<br />On his grave in the red-drown clay,<br />Where a brave man sleeps his long last sleep<br />Or I wouldn’t be here to-day.<br /><br />What wouldn’t I forfeit to have him here<br />With his monocle swank and cane,<br />To hear the words that we loved to mock<br />Fall pat from his lips again.<br /><br />He was a fellow we loved to bait,<br />The knut with a capital “K,”<br />But I’d give the best that I own and more<br />To have him with me to-day.<br /><br />For he proved his breed when the bolts were loosed<br />Out there frm the gates of hell,<br />And he died as game as a soldier may,<br />This Percy, the soldier swell.<br /><br />16.3.16Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-4743522407038818942007-12-01T14:41:00.001-08:002007-12-01T14:43:31.836-08:00Cold<a href="cold"></a><i>“There was a heavy fall of snow during the day, and later in the night the fall was heavier and impeded the traffic”—London newspaper item February 6, 1916.</i><br /><br />I’m standing lonely up Whitehall way<br />With a measure of ice at my feet,<br />I’ve an English wheeze and an English sneeze,<br />I’m soaked with the driving sleet.<br /><br />The best that Blighty can give to us<br />Is ours and w can’t forget,<br />But all the same (and who will blame)<br />My heart’s in Australia yet.<br /><br />I’m standing watching the traffic pass,<br />I’m dreaming of southern heat,<br />The noise of the brakes as the car wheel takes<br />The crossings at Flinders Street.<br /><br />Or Sydney side where the south winds swoon<br />To die in the harbour’s bays,<br />The lilting splash as the breakers dash<br />On Coogee on surfing days.<br /><br />The soft-ringed blue of the circling hills,<br />The keepers of Adelaide,<br />My memory gleans from a thousand scenes,<br />Out there where my feet ave strayed.<br /><br />Of wattle trees in a flame of bloom,<br />The ‘roos in the Mitchell grass,<br />The fields of grain and the salt bush plain,<br />The creeks that the drovers pass.<br /><br />I break the spell, but I pause to smile;<br />I’m glad at my heart I’m here;<br />I’ve done my share for my own out there,<br />The land that we hold so dear.<br /><br />So I stand and watch as the drifting snow<br />The city in white wraps fold,<br />I’ve a snuffling wheeze, a shattering sneeze,<br />And a shivering English cold.<br /><br />8.3.16.Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-17761168630949862022007-12-01T14:34:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:39:32.254-08:00Good-Bye<a href="goodbye"></a><b><br>Evacuation of Gallipoli, 1915</b><br /><br>It has come to the last and its good-bye, Bill,<br />I’m sick at heart and sad<br />To leave you sleeping, old cobber, the best<br />That ever a swaddy had.<br /><br />Somebody’s bungled the job, it is said,<br />Who, it isn’t for me to know,<br />But leaving the place where you fought and died,<br />Is stabbing my heart to go.<br /><br />The lanes of mounds on the beach and hills,<br />In the spots that we fought to win,<br />The pledges of victories tardily won,<br />The graves of an Empires kin.<br /><br />We’re going, but over Australia way<br />They will speak with a welling pride<br />Of sons who answered the call to arms<br />From the ciry and countryside.<br /><br />And whether we leaving or whether we stay<br />It is much in the way the same,<br />For deep in the side of the green tree –Fame –<br />Is bitten Australia’s name.<br /><br />I’m going, but hoping to meet again <br />On the level the wily Turk,<br />For fighting and crouching intraverse and tench<br />Is a sordid kind of work.<br /><br />But war is war, and it’s little to say<br />That our enemy played the game;<br />He fought us as clean as a soldier may,<br />But I hate him just the same.<br /><br />For I cn’t forget whenyou took the count<br />In a stunt to the left of Quinn’s,<br />A night as black as the ace of spades<br />Or a fallen Satyr’s sins.<br /><br />Soft sentiment isn’t for soldier men,<br />But I swear when it’s steel to steel<br />The point of my bayonet dripping red<br />Will prove of the things I feel.<br /><br />So good-bye, Bill, if the fates are kind<br />When the wattle trees burst to flame,<br />I will twine a wreath at my saddle bow<br />To honour my comrade’s name.<br /><br />Or dozing on the old stock horse,<br />In the wake of the straying sheep,<br />Little doubt that I’ll dream of this shell-torn spot<br />Where I left you here to sleep.<br /><br />Asleep with honour I leave you now,<br />You died as you wished to die.<br />The days will be longer without you,Bill;<br />Good-bye, old fellow, good-bye<br /><br />February 1916.Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-72204270132347245082007-12-01T14:32:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:34:07.345-08:00Dews on the Roses<a href="dewsonroses"></a><br /><b>Songs</b><br />Sunbeams on the roses playing,<br />Making jewels of the dew;<br />Morning zephyrs softly saying,<br />Roses everywhere for you.<br /><br />Tears are on the lovely roses,<br />These are mine for thoughts of you,<br />And the sunshine but discloses<br />Beauty dearer for the dew.<br /><br /><br />Bend over me, O dearest heart of mine,<br />Little love of the rosebud lips;<br />Let your eyes with love divine<br />Light my way as my life’s sun dips.<br /><br />If I awake I want but this, that I<br />Can feel you near when I unclose my eyes,<br />To keep your kiss upon my lips for aye—<br />Tis is for me a perfect paradise.<br /><br />January 11,1916Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-4817648713990390242007-12-01T14:30:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:31:43.513-08:00The Boys Out There<a href="theboysoutthere"></a><br />I meet with the boys and the gay toasts pass,<br />The sparkling wine and the cheerfull glass,<br />The long grey nights and the blazing log;<br />The clinging folds of the misty fog,<br />The comforts of homeland everywhere—<br />I think of the boys who are still out there.<br /><br />Out there knee-deep in the slush and mud,<br />Splashed and mingled with comrades’ blood,<br />Bearing the burden of those who lag<br />And fear to follow the dear old flag.<br />Sunset’s grey with the tint of care,<br />For millions are thinking of those out there.<br /><br />On earth goodwill and peace to men.<br />It sounds like a hollow mockery when<br />I mark the horrors my eyes have seen<br />(They can never know who have never been)<br />War striped of its glittering glamour bare—<br />They see it naked, the boys out there.<br /><br />They are fighting a sordid war, where trench<br />And traverse is full of noisome stench;<br />Theres ittle of berserk warrior lust,<br />It’s wait and suffer while bayonets rust.<br />It’s easy to dream in an easy chair;<br />But I dream and I pray for the boys out there.<br /><br />Out there wherever “out there” may be,<br />From Belgiums’s ruins to farthest sea,<br />Wherever the Union Jack still flies,<br />Flaunting its pride to the shot-torn skies.<br />For them our tenderest loving care—<br />God prosper the boys who are still out there.<br /><br />Epsom, Xmas 1915Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-14048440493207324212007-12-01T14:24:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:26:16.922-08:00En Passant<a href="enpassant"></a><br />The hand of grey December flaunting every-where,<br />The tragedies of yellow leaves and brown,<br />Sad leafless trees so stark and grim and bare,<br />The soft snow drifting gently,slowly down.<br /><br />You come! A burst of sunshine floods the dewy grass;<br />I watch the merry sunbeams playing pass,<br />Glad harbingers of brighter days of spring<br />My ears are full of sweet hopes whispering.<br /><br />The clouds will come. Leaves fall, again the snow<br />(when you are gone) will cover all the flowers,<br />It will but play its part and serve to show<br />The brightness of our friendship’s sunny hours.<br /><br />Epsom, December 19, 1915Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-31270767899523616912007-12-01T14:21:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:22:41.825-08:00Night And Morning<a href="nightandmorning"></a><br /><b>Song</b><br />A tender thought for the days that have been,<br /> A recreant sigh,<br />Tipped with the gold dust of romance, I wean,<br /> Howewards willfly.<br />Now evening wakes to bless<br />With starry night’s caress,<br />My memories softly press<br /> Tears to my eye.<br />A brighter thought for the dsyd yet to be<br /> As yet unborn,<br />A lilting song for my meeting with thee,<br /> Dear love forlorn.<br />Peace all my longing fills,<br />I dry my tears. Now thrills<br />Soft O’er the distant hills<br /> First rays of morn.<br /><br />December 6, 1915Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-21102075611956380982007-12-01T14:16:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:17:39.282-08:00In Exile<a href="inexile"></a><br />Australia, my Australia, should e’er it be my lot<br />To live in distant exile in lands that love thee not,<br />Through all the days that follow the dreary yearning years<br />The music of thy medodies will echo in my ears,<br />The voice of bushlands whispering, the glipse of moss-strewn dell,<br />The flowers on thy mountain side, more dear than asphodel,<br />The bowers of fern and heather by which the springtime waits<br />And sets her myriad gems ashine within thy wave-washed gates,<br />The flashing fire of wattle trees in league-long rows will rise,<br />The glory of thy hill and plain will spring tp cheer my eyes,<br />Their rosaries of blossom, the insense of its fire,<br />The perfume of its yellow beads, the breath of my desire.<br /><br />September o’er your kindly face will strew the gifts of spring<br />With sweet boronia scent and flower and wild clematis fling<br />With lavish hand. On sunlit slopes the trembling dew-kissed leves<br />Will steal the tints from sunset clouds and red gold from the sheaves;<br />Will fill your ears with melodies and twittering songs of birds,<br />Soft rippling of the water pools where drink the milking herds.<br /><br />Ah, I will see thee forever, September at its best,<br />Thy songs and melodies of spring in flowery verdure drest,<br />O keep thy kiss, my country, thy smiling mother face,<br />For those who love and leave thee and find no better place,<br />For those in distant exile who dare the hand of Fate,<br />To keep thy well-loved honour and homes inviolate.<br />I ask no more, Australia, my dear loved native isle,<br />Than this my longing hallows, the welcoming of thy smile.<br /><br />Lemnos, October 1915Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-63165046381298838042007-12-01T14:14:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:16:03.859-08:00Brown Eyes<a href="browneyes"></a><b>Song</b><br /><br />Oh, two brown eyes where love-lit shadows swim,<br />Like pool asleep and lulled by evening’s hymn.<br />How can such two brown lustrous eyes<br />Disurb my dreams withdreams of warmer skies,<br />Of singing birds and scented flowers of spring,<br />And sound of Austral’s bushlands whispering?<br />Ah, iforget the miles of heaving sea<br />That distance flings ‘twixt love and me<br /> And two brown eyes.Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-1766124479641355592007-12-01T14:12:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:14:08.555-08:00Two Flowers<a href="Two Flowers"></a><br /><b>Song</b><br />Two roses bloomed, o wondrous fair,<br />And cast their fragrance everywhere;<br />Love culled one rose and twined it in your hair,<br />A perfect rose beyond a flower’s compare.<br />The other rose that blossoms in the are<br />Of duty, I its fragrance share<br />To-day. For sundered far, there<br />Are the blooms that love and duty wear—<br /> Your flower and mine.Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-20465608495592563382007-12-01T14:10:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:11:52.493-08:00In Absence<a href="inabsence"></a>I hear your voice in wavelets of the sea,<br />In soft winds Southern Lullaby,<br />The night is full of radiant dreams of thee,<br />Though sundered far, sweetheart and I,<br />In absence drear.<br /><br />I see your eyes in night’s gay lamps ashine,<br />My sad heart sings of brighter days to be,<br />I hear you whispering “ I am Thine,”<br />I know you long for me <br /> In absence, dear.Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-72477024237986873382007-12-01T14:07:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:09:25.524-08:00Fame<a href="fame"></a><br />What is fame ?<br />A flash from the darkness of oblivion<br />Of forgetfulness and prejudices.<br /><br />The sounds of recognition after silence,<br />The apex of ambition and attainment<br />What is fame ?<br />The remembrance of deeds and misdeeds<br />The names of heroes and knaves of great<br />Cunning<br />On the lips of the populace and orators<br />With intent for good purposes or evil<br /><br />I hold no brief for wrong-doers<br />But for the fame of our fair island,<br />Her gallant sons and nobler mothers,<br />In whose ears are sounds of sacrifice<br />And in whose nostrils is the incense of burnt<br />Offering<br />In their hair, cypress and rue.<br /><br />What is fame ?<br />A sound mingled with beating of wings,<br />The dark-moving wing of the Angel Death,<br />Deathless, immortal,yet born of death and<br />Sacrifice<br />Singing above our fallen brave and living heroes.<br /><br />Fame was born on the height of Gaba Tepe,<br />On the wave-bitten stretch of its beaches,<br />On the battle-scarred sides or its slopes,<br />In the breast of the gallant living,<br />In the bier of the honoured dead.<br /><br />In the great heart of the nobler mothers<br />Fame revealed to the wondering world<br />The wondrous fighting gallantry of our men.<br /><br />Until the last stars are crashing into oblivion<br />And darkness is thrust about us,<br />The lasttrump echoes o’er chaotic void<br />Shall fame die not from the heart of mankindBill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-7516848607413804502007-12-01T14:05:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:06:37.263-08:00Sympathy<a href="sympathy"></a><b>Sonnet</b><br /><br />WHEN earthward came God’s ministering angels three,<br />Love, Mercy, Hope, out of the abyss cast<br />Of human passion, from their chaos vast<br />They bore a blossom tenderly.<br />Its petals all the blazoned emblems bore<br />Of blessed spirit trinity who drew<br />The flower from the deep, its being bore<br />The kiss of love and mercy’s blessed dew<br />And hope in all her singing symphony<br />Its blooms are twined in duty’s flowing hair<br />And in the cypress wreath and rue they bear.<br />They flourish’neath the ministering angels’ care.<br />Men know the bloom and call it – Sympathy.Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-11154320418182409332007-12-01T14:01:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:44:52.065-08:00Attack<a href="attack"></a><i>(Inspired by the furious bombardment the the Lone<br />Pine position prior to the never-to-be-forgotten<br />Charge of the gallant Anzacs)</i><br /><br />CRASH, Oh grey guns in your fury,<br />Roar while earth’s bosom lies mute,<br />For yea are the judge and the jury,<br />The voice of the nation’s dispute.<br /><br />Crash and your missiles go screeming<br />Forth on their mission of death,<br />The blaze of your fire-flashes streaming<br />Foeward in red fashioned breath.<br /><br />Speak of our steadfast reliance,<br />Shout in your breathing of fire<br />The paens of hate and defiance<br />And weight of our militant ire.<br /><br />Crackle, O rifles, and sputter<br />In fire-flashing lines in the night,<br />Your voices in incessant mutter<br />The deep undertone of the fight.<br /><br />Shout as your bayonets reden<br />And gleam in the play of the thrust,<br />Sing of a glory that shed in<br />The light of a murder-mad lust.<br /><br />Crash, Oh grey guns, in your chorus,<br />Sputter, ye rifles, in flame,<br />Fling to the foe out before us<br />The might of the mothland’s name.<br /><br />Vistory with deft subtle fingers<br />Weaves bay for earth’s struggling sons,<br />With laurel she hovers and lingers<br />For those of the mightiest guns.<br /><br />So crash, O grey guns, in your fury,<br />Roar while earth’s bosom lies mute,<br />For ye are the judge and the jury,<br />The voice of the nation’ dispute<br /><br />ANZAC, August 6, 1915.Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-41158661826843731772007-12-01T13:59:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:01:14.646-08:00The Undertone<a href="undertone"></a><br />The brazen bugles’ blaring notes,<br />The rhythmic tread of marching feet,<br />And rousing drums impassioned beat,<br />The cheering from a thousand throats,<br />The lordly pomp of martial pride,The roaring flames of murder, lust,<br />And flashing play of sabre thrust,<br />The crash of cannon far and wide,<br />The echoes of the victors cries,<br />And anguished call of fallen men,<br />The silence of the slain, and then<br />I hear the song that underlies<br />The chorus born of death and hate<br />That croons and plays and softly sings<br />Of vanished peace and sweeter things<br />That chant above a tyrant Fate:<br />The cll of love in subtle part,<br />The yearning of a sister’s breast,<br />The sad sweet rune of fame’s bequest,<br />The sorrow of the mother-heart.<br /><br />ANZAC August.Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-58749687428570977132007-12-01T13:54:00.000-08:002007-12-01T14:52:12.404-08:00Lines for a Lady’s Autograph<a href="linesforaladiesautograph"></a><br />SAD seething sea, the sea-gulls’ eerie cry,<br />Last gleams of day from rocky ledges wane,<br />The winds sob out the dying day’s good-bye,<br />Grey clouds hang low with mists of driving Rain.<br /><br />Gay songs of birds and fragant blooming Flowers,<br />Sweet sunlight on the shimmering, glimmering Sea,<br />Bright drops of rain from lately fallen showers<br />Bejewelled by the sunlight o’er the dewy lea.<br /><br />In sunshine, rain, grey clouds, and drifting shade,<br />Tears, smiles, and joys out little lives are run.<br />Hopes, meetings, partings, and our part is played,<br />Shine, shower, and shade, and then the setting sun.<br /><br />O, friend of mine, y dearest wich is this,<br />That shadow, cloud and tear, and fleeting Smile<br />But serve to prove to you the dearer bliss<br />Of things that make our living worth the WhileBill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-49350140725618564682007-12-01T13:50:00.000-08:002007-12-01T13:51:58.230-08:00Memory<a href="memory"></a><b>Sonnet</b><br /><br />When nightfall flings her shadows everywhere<br />Her hallowed forms in soft reliefs appear,<br />The flowers in her hair the more endear<br />The ypress wreath the chaplet that I wear,<br />Lo, I her hands the light of other days,<br />Of star-lit skies and singingbirds and flowers,<br />Where beauty lent her romance to the hours<br />As roses lend their fragrance to the air.<br /><br />And in ther eyes the tender wistful gleams,<br />Of love and home, the jewels that I keep<br />Stored in my heart set all their rays astream,<br />When memory drooping turns aside t weep,<br />Flees just away as broken morning dreams,<br />I gaze and lo, grey duty’s form is there.Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-20645759319195192992007-12-01T13:34:00.000-08:002007-12-02T03:36:25.345-08:00Do Yer Bit<br><i>From Bill-Jim in the trenches to plain Bill at home</i><br><br />When you’ve shouted “Tipperary” till yer<br />Thoats’s as dry as chips<br />And you’ve chorused “save the King” to<br />Beat the band<br />When yer’ve raised yer brimming’ bumper in yer<br />Toastin’ to yer lips<br />And downed yer glass with no uncertain<br />‘and,<br />‘As if ever dawned upon yer that it’s deeds not<br />words we want,<br />And its nearly time yer took yer fighting<br />Ki,<br />For we’re out for keeps for freedom, and it ain’t<br />No pleasure jaunt,<br />And its nearly time yer did yer little bit.<br /><br />When yer fling yer adulation to the players “on<br />The ball”<br />Who are battlin’ for the small elusive sphere,<br />When yer laud yer fancy player in a wild<br />Ecstatic call<br />And the roar come from the grand-stand tier<br />On tier,<br />Do you know the game we’re playing is the<br />Sternest ever played,<br />And our side in sweat and blood and tears are knit,<br />And our ranks are thinned out daily by the<br />Repaers sharpened blade—<br />Cbber Bill, its time yer did yer little bit.<br /><br />You who play in comfort round a petti-<br />Coated hem<br />And sparkling eyes that hold yer from the front,<br />Work it out as what might ‘appen to the old <br />Folk and to them<br />If the boys had ever borne the battle’s<br />Brunt<br />Yes it’s worse than death or murder is the<br />Methods of the Hun,<br />On his Kultur all the world has paused t<br />Spit<br />If yer love yer girl and old folks, stir yer stumps<br />And get a gun<br />And come out here and do yer little bit<br /><br />Can yer revel in the freedom that our blood is<br />Flowin’ for ?<br />It’s like a patch of ‘ell when there’s a scrap<br />Can yer stick it out forgettin’ all yer cobbers at<br />The war<br />And never think you ought to fill a gap ?<br />Say, its nearly time yer chucked it, roused yer<br />Sleepin’ manhood’s flame,<br />Got yer military pack and shouldered it ;<br />Got en route for france (or elsewhee), thus in doing play the game,<br />And once out here we know you’ll do your bit.<br /><br />We’r not growlin’ or complainin’, though it’s<br />Dreary, weary work,<br />And death lurks in the sea and sky and air ;<br />We ‘ave a good ‘alf Nelson on the stubborn<br />Fightin’ Turk<br />And we’re needin’ you to help us keep it there,<br />For it takes us all to hold him in strangulation<br />Grip—<br />The moral is we want more men to wit—<br />He’s a mighty slippy josser, and before our<br />Fingers slip<br />Come out here, old son, and do your little bit<br /><br />ANZAC, August 1915Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-30432092571351729752007-12-01T13:23:00.000-08:002007-12-01T13:46:46.694-08:00In Sympathy<a href="insympathy"></a><b>BDR. A. McGibbon, Killed June 10, 1915</b><br /><br />What can we say? The kindest phrases mar<br />The heartfelt sympathy we feel<br />For those who in thir sorrow kneel<br />To mourn their loss. Our word but jar<br />In trite expressions. To his dear afar<br />In clinging strands of bonds of human grief<br />We twine for him and them the ru and laurel leaf<br />Call him not dead. For without stain<br />His name all-glorious purged of earthly stain<br />We cherish lovingly; not all in vain<br />The sacrifice. Sleep on, brave heart, our loss<br />Is softened by our pride; though freedoms gain<br />For thee and thine is shadowed by a cross.<br /><br />ANZAC, July 20, 1915Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-16240223562451984802007-12-01T13:15:00.000-08:002007-12-01T13:45:54.314-08:00The Fallen<a href="TheFallen"></a>O Sleep sleep on the wings of night<br />Shroud all the gold of dying day<br />The last spear-shafts of ruddy light<br />In purpling shadows melt away<br />Come regally, O night, and crown<br />With blazing stars their common grave<br />The new-turned earth mounld sere and brown<br />Where sleep the brave.<br /><br />Shed soft oblivion o’er their rest,<br />Thy maiden’s rey their pillows smooth,<br />Lay sweet nepenthe on each breast,<br />Their dreaming roothe<br />O south wind, lavishly oh fling,<br />Soft incense as you passing high<br />Of wattle fire, and crooning sing<br />Of tall trees soughing lullaby.<br /><br />Of silver notes of gurgling streams<br />That prattle o’er their pebbly bed,<br />Such scenes as these and sunset’s gleams<br />With rest are wed.<br />O lapping waves, break soft and croon<br />A benison from the deep<br />In your soft singing, soothing rune<br />For these our dead<br /><br />Awake, the slender hands of fame<br />Are clasping banners of the day,<br />The silver flash of glory’s flame<br />Shines on the laurel wreath and bay;<br />Triumphant still, freedom and truth,<br />Our lode-star and their oriflamme,<br />The jewel of Australia’s youth<br />Is still aflame.<br /><br />These brave, who died tat silver bands<br />Of Austral’s honour might not break,<br />We leave within their Maker’s hands<br />For Austral’s sake.<br /><br />GALLIPOLI, July 1915Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-86243238312366904212007-12-01T13:05:00.000-08:002007-12-02T04:22:39.395-08:00Lindenow<A NAME="Lindenow"></a><b>Gippsland, Victoria</b><br />Here where the goddess of peace and quiet<br />And muses all from the place have fled<br />Men distraught in their hate run riot,<br />And gibbering death is crowned head,<br />Nightfall gathers her armies sable<br />Her screed has little but hate to show<br />There comes to my mind like an oft told fable<br />My castle a dwelling by Lindenow<br /><br />When night is full of the red deaths screaming<br />Maddend by slaughter a fiend accurst<br />His altar fires in the shell-burst’s gleaming<br />Paeans of lust in the shrapnel-burst<br />Above the roar and the smoke of battle<br />I can see the Mitcell, and sweet and low<br />I can hear the call of the roaming cattle<br />In the homestead paddocks by Lindenow<br /><br />Where the sun’s las rays in their dying quiver<br />Gild the fronds of the drifting sedge<br />Spear-shafts hurled to the silver river<br />Through willow trees at the water’s edge,<br />Shadows deep on the waters swinging<br />To and fro in the Mitchells flow<br />Soft the breeze through the gaunt trees singing<br />Over the clearing to Lindenow<br /><br />Water link from the Baw Baw’s falling<br />Winding down to the ocean’s breast<br />By fer-decked bowers where bell-birds calling<br />Sing good-nght to the tinted west<br />Clear through the blffs and rocky ledges<br />Or flats as rich as the Mitchell know<br />Of springing maize in its soft green wedges<br />Riverward pointing by Lindenow<br /><br />Here where the virgin-clad spring weather<br />Kindled the wattle tree’ lambent fire,<br />Songs of birds and the flashing feather,<br />Life the end of the path desire.<br />And now to-night I can sit and listen<br />And hear the song of the Mitchell’s flow,<br />Catch the glint as the moonbeams glisten<br />On her smooth broad bosom by Lindenow<br /><br />See the smoke from the homestead lifting,<br />The blinking eyesof its lamps ashine,<br />Hear the rune of the horse-bells drifting,<br />The low soft call of the browsing kine,<br />The clingiing scent of the La france roses<br />Drifting down on the night wind sough-<br />I hearken and gaze and my heart reposes<br />While memory lingers by Lindenow.<br /><br />If the clinging folds of the ancient Reaper<br />Cover me close to the Earh’s warm breast,<br />Then shall nonour be my souls keeper,<br />Duty contented will bless my rest.<br />If freedom of flight to my soul be given,<br />I know of a surety I must go<br />To the nearest approach that I know to Heaven,<br />Home Australia, and Lindenow<br /><br />ANZAC, June 1915Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4722822084020144372.post-48336048871637701082007-12-01T13:02:00.000-08:002007-12-01T15:02:20.498-08:00Do It Now<a href="doitnow"></a><b>Wounded Gunners Appeal</b><br />Theres a cry coming up from the traverse and trench<br />From shell-shattered craters where bravest hearts blench<br />They are fighting and dying out there in the stench<br />Of the dead<br /><br />From shot-riddled pits they are calling you, <br />Son;<br />There’s work for you there with your bayonet and gun<br />To finish the work they’ve so grimly begun<br />And battled and bled<br /><br />Can you, while they bleed, still cling to your creed,<br />Your self-loving creed, in the hour of their need?<br />An appeal to your manhood-Remember your breed!<br />Enlist. Do it now !<br /><br />Theres a call from the ranks of a ghostly parade,<br />A beckoning hand with a blood spattered blade—<br />They whose last part in the struggle is played<br />Over there.<br /><br />The gaps must be filled of the valiant slain.<br />Listen ! you’ll hear them. Aye listen again !<br />They say, “Have we died for a shibboleth vain ?<br />Do you care ?”<br /><br />All you have and hold dear, your truest and<br />Near,<br />Are hung in the balance. Your duty is clear !<br />Weigh these against dallying, halting, and fear<br />Enlist. Do it now !Bill (Transcriber)http://www.blogger.com/profile/15619489315159751657noreply@blogger.com0