Poem - Helen M. Nightingale

Gallipoli

By Helen M. Nightingale

Not of the sorrows which thy burning skies

Have look’d on – more than we can think or tell –

Not of thy blasting hail of shot and shell,

Thy parching thirst, thy heat and stench and flies.

Not of foiled hope or disappointed aim –

Of blood on thy red soil like water shed –

Not of thy fearful toll of gallant dead,

Will we think first when we repeat thy name.

Thy name is linked for ever with the call

The Mother Country uttered: East and West

Her children overseas – her bravest, best –

Sprang up in answer, came, forsaking all.

Oh England, highly favour’d, thank thou God,

Who gave thee great possessions, King above –

For all their splendid loyalty and love,

Who for thy sake this way of sorrows trod.

Perchance in that lone place, by wan moonlight,

Some future traveller may behold in fear

The ghosts of men contending, or may hear,

“Advance, Australia!” ring thro’ the night.

Ah! Mother Country, this one memory

Is thine alone, and ours thy name who bear;

Nor friend nor allied power can ever share

All that word means to us – “Gallipoli”.