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.