Madoline (Nina) Murdoch

By Suzanne Edgar

Madoline (Nina) Murdoch was born at North Carlton, Melbourne. The family moved to Woodburn, New South Wales, where Nina grew up. She began writing while at Sydney Girls' High School. She taught at Sydney Boys' Preparatory School. In 1913 she won the Bulletin prize for a sonnet about Canberra and in 1915 she published a book of verse Songs of the Open Air. She became one of the first women general reporters on the Sydney Sun.

In 1917 Nina married James Brown. They worked together on the Sun News-Pictorial, Nina often using the pen-name 'Manin'. She was the first woman allowed to cover Senate debates. An independent woman, in 1927 she travelled alone in England and Europe, developing a lifelong obsession that she expressed in travel books, beginning with Seventh Heaven, a Joyous Discovery of Europe (1930). She followed it with a novel, Miss Emily in Black Lace (1930), the first in a trilogy.

In Melbourne in 1930 Nina and other married women were retrenched from the Herald because of the depression. She gave travel talks on the wireless and, from the inception of the Australian Broadcasting Commission in 1932, managed Children's Corner at 3LO. She formulated the idea for, and as 'Pat' began running, the Argonauts' Club. Its pledge epitomized her style: 'I vow to stand faithfully by all that is brave and beautiful; to seek adventure, and having discovered aught of wonder or delight, of merriment or loveliness, to share it freely with my comrades'. Members were known by the name of a Greek ship and their number in its crew; their original creative contributions were read over the air. It was novel children's programming which introduced cultural content to an area previously dominated by bunnies, kookaburras and birthday calls. She believed in treating children 'as intelligent young people'.

Brown moved to Adelaide to work for News Ltd in 1933 and Nina followed next year, so having to leave the ABC. The club ceased but was revived along similar lines in 1941 and ran very successfully till 1972.

Nina was in Europe in 1934-35 and wrote She Travelled alone in Spain (1935). On her way home she journeyed down the Amazon. She was abroad again in 1937. She loved the Austrian Tyrol but wrote for the Australian press warning against Nazism. Murdoch published two more travel books and undertook war work and some broadcasting in Adelaide before returning to Victoria about 1942. She was a member of the Lyceum Club, the Incorporated Society of Authors (London) and the Fellowship of Australian Writers.

In 1948 her last book appeared, Portrait in Youth, a biography of John Longstaff.

Source: Suzanne Edgar http://www.200australianwomen.com/who.html

Poem - Archibald Nigel Guy Irving

Poppy Day

By Archibald Nigel Guy Irving

Armistice Day, 11 November 1920.

Oh poppies glowing scarlet ‘gainst the bosom of a maiden,

Of a maiden selling poppies to the mourners for the dead,

Were you gathered in a garden where the air was heavy laden

With the perfume of the jasmine and the roses white and red?

Did you turn your fairy faces to the sun in pleasant places?

Did you whisper scented secrets to the lily and the rose?

Did you greet the tender primrose in the garden which it graces?
Did you droop your head in slumber when the day drew to a close?

I too have had a garden, and the tender plants I cherished

Were heavy with the promise of their tribute to the sun;

But an icy blast has swept it, and the fairest flowers have perished

And have broken from the branches ere their blooming was begun.

And the buds I saw unfolding, and the flowers that I tended,

Have fallen in their glory, and have crumbled to decay.

They have vanished from the garden, and their glad, brief day is ended,

And the bursting buds are withered and their beauty passed away.

Poppies! Scarlet poppies! I will take you as a token.

I will lay you on the altar as the sacrifice of one

Who would pay a lowly tribute from a spirit bruised and broken

To a flaming flower that perished as it opened to the sun.

Poem - Archibald Nigel Guy Irving

The Dead

By Archibald Nigel Guy Irving

Passchendaele, 1919

Tread softly lest your feet disturb the dead

From their long sleep, and make them think once more

Of the green earth and blue sky overhead,

Or the wild waters breaking on the shore

Of some lone cove which once in life they knew

And loved, and left to pass into the fire.

Speak lightly, lest your voices, breaking through

Their age-long rest, shall wake them to desire.

Walk reverently. You tread on holy ground;

The ground from which the tender flowers start,

And raise their heads to heaven from the mound.

They draw their life from some dead hero’s heart.

The strain of war is fading from the land.

Where once was tumbled earth is growing grass.

The crimson poppies bloom on every hand.

Ah! Step between the flowers as you pass.

Poem - Archibald Nigel Guy Irving

The Unborn

By Archibald Nigel Guy Irving

We stand upon the threshold of the earth.

We may not enter in.

We know our mothers, who have not known birth.

We cannot hope to win

A foothold in the world of blessed light.

We stand enshrouded in eternal night.

We know no sunrise. Our night has no morn.

We are the children of the dead, unborn.

The children of the dead whose youth was hurled

As sacred sacrifice

To that mad god of war who rules the world.

Our fathers paid the price

Of liberty in suffering and blood.

They passed unknown like litter on the flood

Swept to oblivion in boundless seas.

We are the fruit that never formed of these.

We are the sons who should have been. Forlorn

Dream children, dream inspired;

Conceived in thought, imagination born,

Dim wraiths of the desired

Doomed to eternal nullity by Death;

The mind-created, never to draw breath;

The pale, frustrated dreams of men who died.

We wait unborn, our heritage denied.

We may not feel the spring beneath our feet

Of green and kindly grass,

Or hear the high bird singing, far and sweet,

Beneath white clouds that pass

Across the depths of blue. We may not hear

The tinkling water running cool and clear

O’er cool brown glistening stones. We may not know

The glory of the sunset’s lingering glow.

Light fingers of soft winds shall not caress

Our cheeks, or stir our hair.

We may not pluck bright flowers in happiness,

Or wander, free from care,

Down long, dim, silent aisles of mysteries

Blessed by the benedictions of great trees.

We may not know the glory of the sun,

Or night’s still splendour when the day is done.

We may not know the pleasant things of earth,

Or its ennobling care;

Music and song, beauty and joy and mirth,

And sorrow that is there.

Each makes a part and all parts make a whole.

Each works toward the building of a soul.

But we move soulless, desolate, forlorn,

Pale fantasies of minds now dead, unborn.

We wait unborn beyond the outer stars,

Shut ever from the light.

We beat with broken hands against the bars

Which hold us from our right.

Oh men of earth! If you have tears to shed

Weep not for those who passed, the happy dead.

They lived and wrought, and now at rest they lie;

But we, the unbegotten, may not die.

Poem - Frank ‘Viv’ Searle

To the Memory of a Dead Comrade

By Frank ‘Viv’ Searle

Somewhere out in old Tasmania,

Where the gums and apples grow,

There’s a mother sadly waiting day by day.

She is waiting for her darling boy,

Who was her chief support.

How it wrung her heart the day he went away.

Well may his mother mourn for him,

Well may his sister weep,

For their boy who proudly marched away to war.

For now he’s lying stiff and cold,

Beneath Egyptian soil.

He’ll return to dear old Tassie never more.

He was one of the finest men,

Who left Australia’s shores.

A crack shot, and he stood full six feet high,

But the grim pneumonia struck him down,

And now he lies asleep.

One of the best, and yet the first to die.

He was not killed by bullet,

Or by the bayonet slain,

And on the field of battle made no name.

Though he fought not in the firing line

And never won a cross,

Yet he gave his life for England just the same.

He is gone but not forgotten

By his comrades who remain.

We will think of him wherever we may go.

We will wish that he were with us,

When we’re fighting on the plain,

For his rifle would be handy then I know.

His end may have been easier

Than ours will be – who knows?

But God who orders all things for the best,

Though his body lies in Cairo,

May his soul triumphant rise,

Where the weary soldier shall find perfect rest.

Poem - Ray Searle

A Little Grey-Haired Mother

By Ray Searle

When other chaps are talking by the light

Of the campfire, of the girls they’ve left behind,

Some with golden, some with hair as black as night,

Each the prettiest and the sweetest of her kind,

I am thinking of a cottage in a little country town,

And a little grey-haired mother who is waiting for her own.

At night time when I cough upon the ground,

With no other roof above me but the sky,

Or with shells and shrapnel bursting all around,

In the trenches full of water I must lie.

Even then my thoughts like homing birds will fly across the sea,

Where a little grey-haired mother prays both day and night for me.

Poem - Vance Palmer

The Farmer remembers the Somme

By Vance Palmer

Will they never fade or pass!
The mud, and the misty figures endlessly coming
In file through the foul morass,
And the grey flood-water ripping the reeds and grass,
And the steel wings drumming.

The hills are bright in the sun:
There's nothing changed or marred in the well-known places;
When work for the day is done
There's talk, and quiet laughter, and gleams of fun
On the old folks' faces.

I have returned to these:
The farm, and the kindly Bush, and the young calves lowing;
But all that my mind sees
Is a quaking bog in a mist - stark, snapped trees,
And the dark Somme flowing.

Poem - Tom Skeyhill

Me Brother What Stayed at ’ome

By Tom Skeyhill – (Cape Helles, Gallipoli, 7/5/15)

I’m pullin’ orf me colours

And slingin’ me Webb away.

I’m goin’ back to Cairo,

To draw me bloomin’ pay.

I’m fed up with bein’ a soldier,

So ’elp me bob, I am—

Of chewin’ mouldy biscuits

And eatin’ bread an’ jam.

I’m sick of fightin’ Turkeys

Out on me bloomin’ own,

When I thinks of ’im in ’Stralia—

Me Brother Wot Stayed at ’Ome.

I’ll bet he’s walkin’ up the street,

’Is chest puffed out with pride,

A-skitin’ to ’is cobbers

Of ’ow ’e saves ’is ’ide.

And ’eres me in this bloomin’ trench,

Where I’ve got to ’ide me ’ead

For fear a bally sniper

Will plug it up with lead.

But ’e ’olds ’is ’ead up 'igh enough

When up the street ’e’11 roam;

There ain’t no bullets over there

For Me Brother Wot Stayed at 'Ome,

’E reads in the mornin’ papers,

That the Turks are on the run;

Then ’e brags about Australia,

And wot ’er boys ’ave done.

’E shines before the barmaids,

’E’s good at beery skitin’,

But round the corner of the street

Is where ’e does ’is fightin’.

’Is dug-out’s in the tap-room,

The bar’s ’is firin’ zone,

And the billiard-cue’s ’is rifle,

Me Brother Wot Stayed at ’Ome.

’E’s not a bad shot either

When ’e gets on a rabbit’s track,

And there ain’t no bloomin’ danger,

’Cause a rabbit can’t shoot back.

But it’s different 'ere at Anzac;

Mr. Turk! ’e ain’t ’arf slick;

If ’e gets ’is peepers on yer,

My oath, he’ll make yer sick.

But the slacker’s riskin’ nothin’,

Why, ’is 'eart's a frigid zone,

An’ ’is feet are bloomin’ icebergs—

Me Brother Wot Stayed at ’Ome.

So I’m pullin’ orf me colours

An’ slingin’ me Webb away;

I’m layin’ down me rifle—

I don’t care wot they say.

If ’e can shirk ’is duty,

And won’t come out and drill,

Well, two can play the same game;

Then in comes Kaiser Bill.

I’m not afraid of bullets,

I’d ’ave died without a groan,

But ’e’s put the kybosh on it,

Me Brother Wot Stayed at ’Ome.

Now, when I said to Mother,

“I’ve volunteered to fight,”

She said, “God bless you, sonny,

And bring you back all right.”

But ’e called me a chocolate soldier,

A six bob a day tourist, too.

’E says, “You’ll not reach the trenches;

Nor even get a view.

You’ll ’ave a bloomin’ picnic

Across the ocean foam."

Still ’e wasn’t game to try it,

Me Brother Wot Stayed at 'Ome.

’E’s playin’ golf and football,

A n’ many another game,

An’ ’ere’s me scrappin’ for the flag

To keep Australia’s name,

While ’e waltzes round the ballrooms.

’E thinks ’e’s used ’is wit,

An’ he tries to pinch me tabby—

Gee whizz! it’s time to quit.

But when the war is over

’E’11 reap jest what ’e’s sown,

And we’ll know ’im for a coward,

Me Brother Wot Stayed at ’Ome.

I’d like to ’ave’ im over ’ere,

Just to show ’im ’ow things are;

For it ain’t all beer and skittles,

And there ain’t no bloomin’ bar.

We’re stuck in these bally trenches,

For eight days out of ten,

And never a spell comes to us

’Cause we ’aven’t got the men.

An’ Mr. Turk is wily,

'E aint’ no lazy drone,

An’ ’e’s twenty times as plucky

As Me Brother Wot Stayed at ’Ome.

Well, I’ve picked up me old Lee-Enfield,

And buckled me Webb about;

I’m only a bloomin’ private,

An’ I’ve got to see it out;

And though ’e shames ’is man’ood,

An’ stains ’is pedigree,

Thank God, we are still in the trenches,

An’ we’ll fight until we’re free.

But if I do get shrapnelled,

Though I die without a groan,

Well, the one who’s really killed me

Is Me Brother Wot Stayed at ’Ome.

Poem - Tom Skeyhill

The Naked Army

By Tom Skeyhill 

We ain't no picture postcards,

Nor studies in black and white;

We don't doll up in evening clothes

When we go out to fight.

We've forgotten all our manners,

And our talk is full of slang,

For you ain't got time for grammar

When you 'ear the rifles bang.

The 'eat 'ere an' the vermin'

Ad drove us nearly balmy,

So we peeled off all our clobber,

And we're called "The Naked Army."

We never wear our tunics,

Unless it's cold at night;

An' socks and shirts and putties,

We've chucked 'em out of sight.

We only wear a pair of shorts

That don't near reach our knees,

And we're burnt as brown as berries;

Still, we'd sooner sun than fleas.

The Tommies fighting round us

Think we've got a bally rat;

They're all togged up to a button,

An' us, in shorts and 'at.

The air and sun don't 'urt us

In this land of fleas and strife,

So we've chucked away our clobber

An' prefer the Simple Life.

The Rookie, when first landed,

'Angs on to all 'is clothes,

But when the grey-backs bite 'im,

It's to the beach 'e goes.

Then off comes shirt and tunic,

Boots, socks, and putties, too;

'E dives deep in the briny,

An' wears what the others do.

If our girls could only see us,

Just as we're fightin' 'ere,

I wonder if they'd 'ug us,

Smile, kiss, an' call us Dear!

Sure thing, they still would love us,

Although we're burnt and lean;

They'd think of our 'ome-comin',

An' buy a sewin' machine.

Still, clothes don't make the fighter,

Nor speech don't show the man,

But conduct in the trenches

Proves out the fightin' man.

This aint' no bloomin' picnic,

The earth 'ides 'eaps of slain;

And we'll fight on to avenge 'em,

Or we won't come 'ome again.

We were the first at landin',

And we're 'angin' on until

The Turks get all that's comin',

Then we'll be in at the kill.

When we march through old

"Connie,"Some one will yell,

"Lor' blahmy!There lies the Young Turk's Harem.

Double up! The Naked Army!"

Poem - Tom Skeyhill

My Little Wet Home in the Trench

By Tom Skeyhill

I've a little wet home in the trench,
Which the rain-storms continually drench;
        Blue sky overhead,
        Mud and clay for a bed,
And a stone that we use for a bench.
Bully beef and hard biscuits we chew;
        Shells crackle and scare,
        But no place can compare
With my little wet home in the trench.

Our friends in the trench o'er the way
Seem to know that we've come here to stay;
        They rush and they shout,
        But they can't get us out,
Though there's no dirty work they don't play.
They rushed us a few nights ago,
But we don't like intruders, and so
        Some departed quite sore,
        Others sleep evermore,
Near my little wet home in the trench.

So hurrah for the mud and the clay,
It's the road to "Der Tag"—that's "The Day."
        When we enter Berlin,
        That big city of sin,
Where we'll make the fat Berliner pay,
We'll remember the cold, and the frost,
When we scour the fat land of the Bhost;
        There'll be shed then, I fear
        Redder stuff than a tear
For my little wet home in the trench. 

Poem - Sydney Bolitho

Gallipoli

By Sydney Bolitho

The new dawn lights the eastern sky;
Night shades are lifted from the sea,
The Third Brigade with courage storm
Thy wooded heights, Gallipoli
Gallipoli! Gallipoli!
Australians tread Gallipoli.

Thunderous bursts from iron mouths -
Myriad messengers of death,
Warships ply their deadly fire
Watching comrades hold their breath
Gallipoli! Gallipoli!
There's hell upon Gallipoli.

Serried ranks upon the beach,
Courage beams in every eye
These Australian lads can face
Giant Death, though e'er so nigh,
Gallipoli! Gallipoli!
There's death upon Gallipoli.

On they press in endless stream,
Up the heights they shouting go;
Comrades fall; but still press on
They press the now retreating foe
Gallipoli! Gallipoli!
The Turks flee on Gallipoli.

One by one the brave lie low,
Machine Guns, shrapnel do their work;
Brave Australians know no fear,
Never have been known to shirk,
Gallipoli! Gallipoli!
Their names carved on Gallipoli.

Reduced, cut up, there numbers show
The murderous fire that swept thy field;
But still victorious they stand,
Who never have been known to yield
Gallipoli! Gallipoli!
Thick dead lie on Gallipoli.

For days they hold with grim set grip,
Their feet firm planted on the shore,
Repelling every fierce attack
And cheerfully they seek for more
Gallipoli! Gallipoli!
Their trenches line Gallipoli.

For thirty weary days they fight,
For Britain's sake they give their best;
With uncomplaining voice they stand
And neither look nor ask for rest
Gallipoli! Gallipoli!
They've conquered thee, Gallipoli.

The waves break on thy wave swept shores,
The breeze still blows across thy hills;
But crosses near and far abound,
A sight that deepest grief instils
Gallipoli! Gallipoli!
Their graves lie on Gallipoli.

For those brave hearts that died to show
Australia's worth in this dread war,
The far off tears and sighs for those
Who sleep beneath the cannons roar
Gallipoli! Gallipoli!
Thou still, shalt pay, Gallipoli.

The few that valiant still remain,
War worn but grim and anger yet
To hurl full vengeance on the foe.
Because they never can forget
Gallipoli! Gallipoli!
They ask the price, Gallipoli.

Gallipoli I warn you now,
Australia's sons and Turks shall meet
Once more, and then our onslaught yet
Shall sweep the ground beneath your feet
Gallipoli! Gallipoli!
Thy end's in sight, Gallipoli.

Upon the Graves of those that sleep,
Upon thy wooded slope and vale,
We shall avenge. Remember then,
Australians cannot, will not fail,
Gallipoli! Gallipoli!
Thy doom is sealed, Gallipoli.

Poem - Sergeant Charles Townsend O’Niell

Soldiers’ Day

By Sergeant Charles Townsend O’Niell

A reveille in the morning, we rise out of our doss,

Grab our blooming towels, an’ go an’ ‘ave a wash,

Get some dirty coffee--without sugar it’s made -

An’ after we have swallowed arf go out on parade;

They call the roll before yer go -it s no use working lurks;

We go an’ do about an hour at what we call Physical Jerks.

Then we goes for breakfast, same as all soldiers do,

An like a lot of cannibals we bog into the stew,

Growling, ever growling, till we’ve got our bellies full;

Next comes washing up, when at cigarettes we pull,

Clean yer boots an’ have a shave, then it’s 9 o clock.

Fall in again for parade like a blooming fighting cook.

The OC. Yells out the syllabus, Platoon Commanders carry on;

We march off like martyrs, who have been trod upon,

Slope arms, stand at ease, not a move, you lazy lout,

Attention, form fours, quick march, you hear the sergeant shout;

Eleven o clock is come at last, we’re walked nearly off our feet,

The language for a quarter-hour would sink the German Fleet.

Turn to again, more drill - that’s if it isn’t raining-

Then to the stand we go and do some visual training;

You gaze upon the targets till you re silly in the head,

You wonder what they’re coming at, and wish that you were dead;

Company, attention, dismiss, is a sound we like to hear,

For our bellies empty, and dinner-time is near.

The details of the dinner, with you I will not bore,

Except when we are  finished we sprawl upon the floor,

A tellin’ each other’s troubles, and hardships by the mile,

Till the blanky whistle goes, fall in in double file;

Then the officers come round to see how ye are fareing,

An’ all that I can notice is an improvement in the swearing.

The bread and jam it comes at last,

That’s the time we do a fast;

A tin of jam between eight men,

Bread enough to feed a hen;

Oh, yes, we have a glorious feast,

On nasty rotten jam an’ yeast.

Then we’re off till 9-30 - that’s if yer not on guard,

Quarter-Master books fatigue, or cleaning up the yard,

At last post we make our doss, an’ think we’ve earned our pay,

Lights out 10pm. ends a soldier’s day.

Poem - J. Ryan

A Soldier’s Dream of Home

By J. Ryan

On a shattered field of battle,

By a camp- re gleaming bright;

There a soldier boy lies dreaming

Of his home sweet home to-night.

He can see the blue-ridged mountains,

Of Australia’s sunny shore;

He can see the golden wattle

Blooming by the old home door.

He can hear the bush-bird singing,

Oh, how happy there he seems;

Tho’ on a field of battle,

At home in a land of dreams.

All the world’s in bloom before him,

Not a vision of cruel War;

All are scenes of peace and gladness

As they were to him before.

As he dreams of his dear mother,

Tho’ so far across the main;

In his dream he softly murmurs,

I am with you once again.

That sweet dream of home is over,

He has bid them all good-bye;

As again he slowly wakens,

From his heart there comes a sigh.

For the scenes he loved have left him-

They are fading o’er the foam;

Just a dream of tender memories,

That’s a soldier s dream of home.

Poem - J. Ryan

Mother, we meet again

By J. Ryan

Why are you sad, dear mother?

Ah, why should you worried be?

The same blessed Providence, mother,

Is ever watching over me.

Think of these words, dear mother,

Hope is my guiding star;

Claim it as yours, dear mother,

Whilst I am from you far.

My thoughts are ever turning,

To you they seem to roam;

And my heart is ever yearning

For the quiet scenes of home.

Tho' on a field of battle,

Do you think I once forget

The sun bird and the wattle,

Memories that cheer me yet.

I fancy thou art near me;

And I often breathe a sigh;

When a comrade scarce can hear me,

And the winds alone reply.

Oft do my home thoughts wander

Over the restless main;

And in your ear I whisper,

Mother, meet me again.