An Anzac Cap
By Jessie Pope
It hangs on the wall, a
trifle battered,
The wire is warped and
the lining tattered.
And the leather inside
shows speakingly how
It’s been wet with the
sweat of a soldier’s brow.
Month after month,
through that fierce campaign—
The bitterest fight that
was fought in vain—
It was jammed on an
Anzac’s lean, brown poll,
As he pierced his way to
a glimpse of goal.
Furlong by furlong, aye,
inch by inch,
From the sniping shot to
the cold-steel, clinch-
Fists, “rough-housing,”
any old tools—
He got there each time by
“Rafferty rules.”
Till a shell, with his
name on, gave him a call—
And that is the tale of
the cap on the wall,
But the sequel, though
strange, is an equally true one—
Its owner, thank God, is
now wearing a new one.
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