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!"