'Hello, soldier!'

The Project Gutenberg eBook of 'Hello, soldier!' The Project Gutenberg eBook of 'Hello, soldier!' This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org . If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title : 'Hello, soldier!' Khaki verse Author : Edward Dyson Release date : October 19, 2005 [eBook #16904] Most recently updated: December 12, 2020 Language : English Other information and formats : www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16904 Credits : Produced by Peter O'Connell *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 'HELLO, SOLDIER!' *** Produced by Peter O'Connell "Hello, Soldier!" Khaki Verse by Edward Dyson Many of these verse were originally printed in the "Bulletin," others in "Punch," "The Leader" and Melbourne "Herald." Some few are now published for the first time. The paper famine leaving me no option but to print on peculiar paper, not wholly prohibitive or to defer the publication of my verses for an unknown period, the natural longing of a parent to parade his "well be- gotten" prevails. If my book is unusual and bizarre from a craftman's point of view, I plead the unusual times and extraordinary conditions. Of these times and conditions. I hope "Hello Soldier" is in some measure characteriastic.—Edward Dyson. AUSTRALIA. AUSTRALIA, my native land, A stirring whisper in your ear— 'Tis time for you to understand Your rating now is A1, dear. You've done some rousing things of late. That lift you from the simple state In which you chose to vegetate. The persons so superior, Whose patronage no more endures, Now have to fire a salvo for The glory that is fairly yours. At length you need no sort of crutch, You stand alone, you're voted "much"— Get busy and behave as such. No man from Oskosh, or from Hull, Or any other chosen place Can rise with a distended skull, And cast aspersions in your face. You're given all the world to know Your proper standing as a foe, And hats are off, and rightly so. You furnished heroes for the fray, Your sterling merit's widely blown To all men's satisfaction say, Now have you proved it to your own? Now have you strength to stand and shine In your own light and say, "Divine The thing is that I do. It's mine!" The cannon's stroke throws customs down The black and bottomless abyss, And quaking are the gilded crown And palsied feet of prejudice. The guns have killed, but it is true They bring to life things good and new. God grant they have awakened you! My ears are greedy for the toast Of confidence before our guest, The loyal song, the manly boast Your splendid faith to manifest. In works of art and livelihood Shirk not the creed, "What's ours is good," Dread not to have it understood. Australia, lift your royal brow, And have the courage of our pride, Audacity becomes you now, Be splendidly self-satisfied, No land from lowliness and dearth Has won to eminence on earth That was not conscious of its worth. CONTENTS AUSTRALIA BILLY KHAKI AS THE TROOPS WENT THROUGH MARSHAL NEIGH V.C. IN HOSPITAL SISTER ANN BRICKS MUD MICKIE MOLLYNOO JAM WEEPING WILLIE BILLJIM THE CRUSADERS PEACE, BLESSED PEACE THE HAPPY GARDENERS THE GERM JOEY'S JOB THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME HOW HERMAN WON THE CROSS WHEN TOMMY CAME MARCHING HOME HELLO, SOLDIER! THE MORALIST REPAIRED OUT OF KHAKI THE SINGLE-HANDED TEAM BATTLE PASSES THE LETTERS OF THE DEAD BULLETS UNREDEEMED THE LIVING PICTURE THE IMMORTAL STRAIN THE UNBORN THE COMMON MEN THE CHURCH BELLS THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT THE ONE AT HOME THE HAPLESS ARMY BILLY KHAKI MARCHING somewhat out of order when the band is cock-a-hoop, There's a lilting kind of magic in the swagger of the troop, Swinging all aboard the steamer with her nose toward the sea. What is calling, Billy Khaki, that you're foot- ing it so free? Though his lines are none too level, And he lacks a bit of style. And he's swanking like the devil Where the women wave and smile, He will answer with a rifle Trim and true from stock to bore, Where the comrades crouch and stifle In the reeking pit of war. What is calling, Billy Khaki? There is thunder down the sky, And the merry magpie bugle splits the morn- ing with its cry, While your feet are beating rhythms up the dusty hills and down, And the drums are all a-talking in the hollow of the town. Billy Khaki, is't the splendor of the song the kiddies sing, Or the whipping of the flags aloft that sets your heart a-swing? Is't the cheering like a paean of the toss- ing, teeming crowds, Or the boom of distant cannon flatly bumping on the clouds ? What's calling, calling, Billy? 'Tis the rattle far away Of the cavalry at gallop and artillery in play; 'Tis the great gun's fierce concussion, and the smell of seven hells When the long ranks go to pieces in the sneezing of the shells. But your eyes are laughing, Billy, and a ribald song you sing, While the old men sit and tell us war it is a ghastly thing, When the swift machines are busy and the grim, squat fortress nocks At your bolts as vain as eggs of gulls that spatter on the rocks. When the horses sweep upon you to complete a sudden rout, Or in fire and smoke and fury some brave regiment goes out, War is cruel, Bill, and ugly. But full well you know the rest, Yet your heart is for the battle, and your face is to the west. For if war is beastly, Billy, you can picture something worse— There's the wrecking of an empire, and its broken people's curse; There are nations reft of freedom, and of hope and kindly mirth, And the shadow of an evil black upon the bitter earth. So we know what's calling, Billy. 'Tis the spirit of our race, And its stir is in your pulses, and its light is on your face As you march with clipping boot-heels through the piping, howling town To uphold the land we live in, and to pull a tyrant down. Thou his lines are none too level, And he's not a whale for style, And he's swanking like the devil When the women wave and smile He will answer with a rifle, Trim and true from stuck to bore, When the comrades sit and stifle In the smoking pit of war. AS THE TROOP WENT THROUGH I HEARD this day, as I may no more, The world's heart throb at my workshop door. The sun was keen, and the day was still; The township drowsed in, a haze of heat. A stir far off on the sleepy hill, The measured beat of their buoyant feet, And the lilt and thrum Of a little drum, The song they sang in a cadence low, The piping note of a piccolo. The township woke, and the doors flew wide; The women trotted their boys beside. Across the bridge on a single heel The soldiers came in a golden glow, With throb of song and the chink of steel, The gallant crow of the piccolo. Good and brown they were, And their arms swung bare. Their fine young faces revived in me A boyhood's vision of chivalry. The lean, hard regiment tramping down, Bushies, miners and boys from town. From 'mid the watchers the road along One fell in line with the khaki men. He took the stride, and he caught their song, And Steve went then, and Meneer, and Ben, Long Dave McCree, And the Weavers three, All whisked away by the "Come! Come! Come!" The lusty surge of the vaunting drum. I swore a prayer for each soldier lad. He was the son that might have had; The tall, bold boy who was never mine, All brave with dust that the eyes laughed through, His shoulders square, and his chin in line, Was marching too with the gallant few. Passed the muffled beat Of their swanking feet, The swell of drum, the exulting crow, The wild-bird note of the piccolo. They dipped away in the listless trees; A mother wept on her beaded knees For sons gone out to the long war's end; But more than mother or man wept I Who had no son in the world to send. The hour lagged by, and drifting high Came the fitful hum Of the little drum, And faint, but still with an ardent flow, The pibroch, call of the piccolo. MARSHAL NEIGH, V.C. HE came from tumbled country past the humps of Buffalo Where the snow sits on the mountain 'n' the Summer aches below. He'd a silly name like Archie. Squattin' sullen on the ship, He knew nex' to holy nothin' through the gor- forsaken trip. No thoughts he had of women, no refreshin' talk of beer; If he'd battled, loved, or suffered vital facts did not appear; But the parsons and the poets couldn't teach him to discourse When it come to pokin' guyver at a pore, deluded horse. If nags got sour 'n' kicked agin the rules of things at sea, Artie argued matters with 'em, 'n' he'd kid 'em up a tree. "Here's a pony got hystericks. Pipe the word for Privit Rowe," The Sargint yapped, 'n' all the ship came cluckin' to the show. He'd chat him confidential, 'n' he'd pet 'n' paw the moke; He'd tickle him, 'n' flatter him, 'n' try him with a joke; 'N' presently that neddy sobers up, 'n' sez "Ive course, Since you puts it that way, cobber, I will be a better horse." There was one pertickler whaler, known aboard ez Marshal Neigh, Whose monkey tricks with Privit Rowe was better than a play. He'd done stunts in someone's circus, 'n' he loved a merry bout, Whirlin' in to bust his boiler, or to kick the bottom out. Rowe he sez: "Well, there's an idjit! Oh, yes, let her whiz, you beauty! Where's yer 'orse sense, little feller? Where's yer bloomin' sense iv duty? Well, you orter serve yer country!" Then there'd come a painful hush, 'N' that nag would drop his head-piece, 'n', so 'elp me cat, he'd blush. We was heaped ashore be Suez, rifle, horse, 'n' man, 'n' tent, Where the land is sand, the water, 'n' the gory firmament. We had intervals iv longin', we had sweaty spells of work In the ash-pit iv Gehenner, dumbly waitin' fer the Turk. We goes driftin' on the desert, nothin' doin', nothin' said, Till we get to think we're nowhere, 'n' arf fancy we are dead, 'N' the only 'uman interest on the red hori- zon's brim Is Marshal Neigh's queer faney fer the lad that straddles him. Plain-livin's nearly, bored us stiff. The Major calls on Rowe To devise an entertainment. What his charger doesn't know Isn't in the regulations. Him 'n' Rowe is brothers met, 'N' that horse's sense iv humor is the oddest fancy yet. But the Turk arrives one mornin' on the outer edge iv space. From back iv things his guns is floppin' kegs about the place, 'N' Privit Artie Rowe along with others iv the force Goes pig-rootin' inter battle, holdin' converse with his horse. Little Abdul's quite a fighter, 'n' he mixes it with skill; But the Anzacs have him snouted,, 'n', oh, ma, he's feelin' ill. They wake the all-fired desert, 'n' the land for ever dead Is alive 'n' fairly creepin', and the skies are droppin' lead. When they've got the Ot'man goin', little gaudy hunts begin. It fer us to chiv His Trousers. 'n' to round the stragglers in. Cuttin' closest to the raw, 'n' swearin' lovin' all the way, Is Artie from Molinga on his neddy, Marshal Neigh. We're pursuin' sundry camels turkey-trottin' anyhow With the carriage iv an emu 'n' the action iv a cow, When a sand dune busts, 'n' belches arf a million iv the foe. They uncork a blanky batt'ry, 'n' it's, Allah, let her go! We're not stayin' dinner, thank you. Lie along yer horse 'n' yell, While the bullets pip yer britches 'n' you sniff the flue of Hell. Here it is that Artie takes it good 'n' solid in the crust, He dives from out the saddle, 'n' is swallered in the dust. I got through 'n' saw them pointin' where the Marshal faced the band. He was goin' where we came from, sniffin' bodies in the sand. Till he found Rowe snugglin' under, took him where his pants was slack, 'N' be all the Asiatic gods, he brought his soldier back! With a bullet in his buttock, 'n' a drill hole in his ear, He dumped Artie down among us. Square 'n' all, how did we cheer! There's no medals struck fer neddies, but we rule there orter be, 'N' the pride iv all the Light Horse is old Marshal Neigh, V.C. IN HOSPITAL. IT is thirty moons since I slung me hook From the job at the hay and corn, Took me solemn oath, 'n' I straight forsook All the ways of life, dinkum ways 'n' crook, 'N' the things on which it was good to look Since the day when a bloke was born. I was give a gun, 'n' a bay'net bright, 'N' a 'ell of a swag iv work, N' I dipped my lid to the big pub light, To the ole push cobbers I give "Good-night!" Slipped a kiss to 'er, 'n' I wings me flight For a date with the demon Turk. Ez we pricked our heel to the skitin' drum. Square 'n' all, I was gone a mile. With a perky air, 'n' a 'eart ez glum Ez a long-dead cod, I was blind 'n' dumb, Holdin' do the tear that was bound to come At a word or a friendly smile. Now I've seen it all, I may come out dead, But I 'ope never more a fool. I have scorched, 'n' thirsted, 'n' froze, 'n' bled, 'N' bin taught the use of the human head, For when all is done 'n' when all is said, War's a wonderful sort of school. I've bin taught to get 'em 'n' never fret, 'N' to sleep without dreamin' when We have swarmed a slope with the red rain wet; I 'ave learned a pile, 'n' I'm learnin' yet; But the thing I've learned that I won't forget Is a way of not judgin' men. We was shot down there in a dirty place— From the mansions 'n' huts we'd come— 'N' of all the welter the 'ardest case Was a little swine with a dimpled face, Who a year ago was dispensin' lace In a Carlton em-por-ee-um. In the moochin' days of me giddy youth, When I kidded meself a treat, I'd have pass him one ez a gooey. 'Strewth On the track iv Huns, he's a eight-day sleuth, 'N' at tearin' into 'em nail 'n' tooth He's got Julius Caesar beat! I ain't proud with him ; 'n' I'm modest, too, When dividin' a can of swill With a Algy boy from the wilds iv Kew. Cos I do not know what the cow will do When a Fritzy offers to sock me through; 'N' it's good to be livin' still. There you are, you see! Oh! it makes you sore, When a bloke you despised at 'ome In them pifflin' days of the years before Takes a odds-on chance with the God of War, 'N' he tows you out with his left lung tore, 'N' a crack in his bleedin' dome! 'Twas a lad called Hugh done ez much for me. (He has curls 'n' he's fair 'n' slim). Well, I mind the days in the Port when we Puts it over Hugh coz we don't agree With his tone 'n' style, 'n' my foot was free When the push made a hack of him. Now he's paid me back. I had struck a snag, And must creep through the battle spume All a flamin' age, with a grinnin' jag In me thigh, for water, or jest a fag. Like a crippled snake I was forced to drag Shattered flesh till the crack of doom. When they saw me he was the one who came. 'N' he give me a raffish grin 'N' a swig. I wasn't so bad that shame Didn't get me then, for the lad was lame. They had passed him his, but his 'art was game. 'N' he coughed ez he brought me in. I have tackled God on me bended knees, So He'll save him alive 'n' whole, For the sake of one who he thinks he sees When the Nurse's hands bring a kind of ease; And I thank God, too, for the things like these That have give me a sort of soul. There are Percies, Algies, 'n' Claudes I've met Who could take it 'n' come agen, While the bullets flew in a screamin' jet. What in pain, 'n' death, and in mire 'n' sweat I 'ave learned from them that I won't forget Is a way of not judgin' men. SISTER ANN. I'M lyin' in a narrow bed, 'N' starin' at a wall. Where all is white my plastered head Is whitest of it all. My life is jist a whitewashed blank, With flamin' spurts of pain. I dunno who I've got to thank, I've p'raps been trod on by a tank, Or caught out in the rain When skies were peltin' fish-plates, bricks 'n' lengths of bullock-chain. I'm lyin' here, a sulky swine, 'N' hatin' of the bloke Who's in the doss right next to mine With 'arf his girders broke. He never done no 'arm t me, 'N' he's pertickler ill; But I have got him snouted, see, 'N' all old earth beside but she Come with the chemist's swill, 'N' puts a kind, soft 'and on mine, 'n' all my nark is still. She ain't a beaut, she's thirty two, She scales eleven stone; But, 'struth, I didn't think it true There was such women grown! She's nurse 'n' sister, mum 'n' dad, 'N' all that straight 'n' fine In every girl I ever had. When Gabr'el comes, 'n' all the glad Young saints are tipped the sign, You'll see this donah take her place, first angel in the line! She's sweet 'n' cool, her touch is dew— Wet lilies on yer brow. (Jist 'ark et me what never knew Of lilies up to now). She fits your case in 'arf a wink, 'N' knows how, why, 'n' where. If you are five days gone in drink, N' hoverin' on perdition's brink, It is her brother there. God how pain will take a man, and He has spoke with her! I dunno if she ever sleeps Ten minutes at a stretch. A dozen times a night she creeps To soothe a screamin' wretch Who has a tiger-headed Hun A-gnawin' at his chest. 'N' when the long, 'ard flght is won, 'N' he is still 'n' nearly done, She smiles down on his rest, 'N' minds me of a mother with a baby at her breast. The curly kid we cuddled when There was no splendid row (It seemed a little matter then, But feels so wondrous now). It's part of her. She's Joan iv Ark, Flo Nightingale, all fair 'N' dinkum dames who've made their mark If she comes tip-toe in the dark, We blighters feel her there. The whole pack perks up like a bird, 'n' sorter takes the air. She chats you in a 'Ighland botch; But if our Sis saw fit To pitch Hindoo instead of Scotch I'd get the hang of it, Because her heart it is that talks What now is plain to me. At war where bloody murder stalks, 'N' Nick his hottest samples hawks. I have been given to see What simple human kindness is, what brotherhood may be. BRICKS. DEAR Ned, I now take up my pen to write you these few lines, And hopin' how they find you fit. Gorbli', it seems an age Since Jumbo ducked the Port, 'n' drilled 'n' polished to the nines, He walked his pork on Collins like a hero off the stage, Then hiked a rifle 'cross the sea this bleedin' war to wage. The things what's 'appened lately calls to Jumbo's mind that day Our push took on the Peewee pack, 'n' belted out their lard, With twenty cops to top it off. But now I'm stowed away, A bullet in me gizzard where I took it good and hard, A-dealin'-stoush 'n' mullock to the Prussian flamin' Guard. At Bullcoor mortal charnce had dumped a mutton-truck of us From good ole Port ker-flummox where we didn't orter be, All in a 'elpless hole-the Pug, Bill Carkeek, Son, 'n' Gus, Don, Steve, 'n' Jack, 'n' seven more, 'n', as it 'appens, me, With nothin' in since breakfast, 'n' a week to go for tea. Worked loose from Caddy's bunch, we went it gay until we found We'd took to 'arf the ragin' German Hempire on our own. Then down we went so 'umble, with our noses in the ground, Takin' cover in the rubble. If a German head was shown It was fare-the-well to Herman with a bullet through the bone. We slogged the cows remorseless, 'n' they laid for us a treat. We held that stinkin' cellar, though, 'n' when the day was done Son pussied on his bingie where a Maxie trim 'n' neat Had spit out loaded lightnin', and he slugged a tubby Hun, Then choked a Fritzie with his dukes, 'n' pinched the sooner's gun! We rigged her on her knuckle-bones. Cri', how she lapped 'em up! We hosed 'em out with livin' lead. That was the second day. Me left eye I'd 'ave give for jest a bubble in a cup, Three fingers I'd 'ave parted for a bone I've flung away; But the butcher wasn't callin', 'n' the fountain didn't play. T'was rotten mozzle, Neddo. We had blown out ever clip, 'N' 'blooed the hammunition for the little box of tricks. Each took a batten in his fist. Sez Billy "Let 'er rip!" But Son he claws his stubble. Sez—he: "Hold a brace of ticks." Then "Yow!" he pipes 'n' "Strewth!" he sez, "it's bricks, you blighters, bricks!" There's more than 'arf a million spilt where somethin' hit a pub; We creeps among 'n' sorts 'em, stack afore, 'n' stack behind; The Hun is comin' at us with his napper like a tub— You couldn't 'ope to miss it, pickled, par- alysed, 'n' blind. Sez Sonny: "Lay 'em open! Give 'em blotches on the rind!" Then bricks was flyin' in the wind. Mine dinted Otto's chin; Ole Nosey got his brother, which he never more will roam. When Ulrich stopped a Port bookay he rolled his alley in. Their fire was somethin' fierce. Poor Son was blowin' blood 'n' foam, "Fill up," he coughs, "'n' plug 'em! S'elp me Gord, we're goin' 'ome!" With bricks we drove right at 'em 'n' we wanged 'em best we could. 'Twas either bed 'n' breakfast or a scribble and a wreath. Haynes bust a Prussian's almond, took the bay'net where he stood, Then heaved his last 'arf-Brunswick, split the demon's grinnin' teeth, And Son went down in glory, with a German underneath! We'd started out with gibbers in our clobber and our 'ats. They gave us floatin' lead enough to stop an army cor. We yelled like fiends, 'n' countered with a lovely flight of bats, Then rushed in close formation, heavin' cot- tages, n' tore Through blinded, bleedin' Bosches, 'n' lor love yeh, it was war! We came peltin', headfirst, 'elpless, in a drain among a lot Of dirty, damned old Tommies (Gord! The best that ever blew!) Eight left of us, all punctured, each man holdin' what he'd got. Me wild, a rat hole in me lung, but in me mauley, too, A bull-nosed brick with whiskers where no whiskers ever grew. There's nothin' doin' now. I wear me blan- kets like a toff. The way this fat nurse pets me, strewth, it's well to be so sick, A-dreamin' of our contract 'n' the way we pulled it off. I reckon Haig is phonin' Hughes: "Hullo, there, Billy. Quick— A dozen of the pushes and a thousan' tons of brick!" MUD. THIS war's a waste of slurry, and its at- mosphere is mud, All is bog from here to sunset. Wadin' through We're the victims of a thicker sort of universal flood, With discomforts that old Noah never knew. We have dubbed our trench The Cecil. There's a brass-plate and a dome, And a quagmire where the doormat used to be, If you're calling, second Tuesday is our reg'- lar day at home, So delighted if you'll toddle in to tea! There is mud along the corridors enough to bog a cow; In the air there hangs a musty kind of woof; There's a frog-pond in the parlour, and the kitchen is a slough. She has neither doors nor windows, nor a roof. When they post our bald somnambulist as missing from his flat We take soundings for the digger with a prop. By the day the board is gratis, by the week it's half of that; For the season there's a corresponding drop. Opening off the spacious hallway is my natty little suite, A commodious and accessible abode. By judicious disposition, with exclusion of my feet, There is sleeping room for Oliver the toad. Though the ventilation's gusty, and in gobs the ceiling falls— Which with oral respiration disagrees— Though there comes a certain quantity of seepage from the walls, There are some I knew in diggings worse than these. On my right is Cobber Carkeek. There's a spring above his head, And his mattress is a special kind of clay. He's a most punctilious bloke about the fashion of his bed, And he makes it with a shovel every day. Man is dust. If so, the Cobber has been puddled up a treat. On domestic sanitation he's a toff, For he lights a fire on Sunday, bakes his sur- face in the heat, Then he takes a little maul, and cracks it off. After hanging out a winter in this Cimmerian hole We're forgetting sheets, and baths, and tidy skins. In the dark and deadly calm last night they took us on patrol. Seven, little fellows, thinking of their sins. It was ours like blinded snails to prowl the soggy, slimy night, With a feeler pricking out at every pore For the death that stalks in darkness, or the blinking stab of light, And the other trifling matters that are war. That's the stuff to get your liver, that's the acid on a man, For it tries his hones, and seeks his marrow throngh. You have got the thought to comfort you that life is but a span, If Fritz squirts his loathly limelight over you. We got back again at daybreak. Cobber ducked to doss and said, From the soft, embracing mud: "No more I'll roam. "Oh, thank Heaven, blokes," he murmured, "for the comforts of a bed! Gorstruth, but ain't it good to have a home!" MICKIE MOLLYNOO. A MILE-LONG panto dragon ploddin' 'opeless all the day, Stuffed out with kits, 'n' spiked with rifles, steamin' in its sweat, A-heavin' down the misty road, club-footed through the clay, By waggons bogged 'n' buckin' guns, the wildest welter yet, Like 'arf creation's tenants shiftin' early in the wet. We're marchin' out, we dunno where, to meet we dunno who; But here we lights eventual, 'n' sighs 'n' slips the kit, 'N', 'struth, the first to take us on is Mickie Mollynoo! A copper of the Port he was, when 'istory was writ. Sez I : "We're sent to face the foe, 'n', selp me, this is It." A shine John. Hop is Mollynoo. A mix-up with the push Is all his joy. One evenin' when his baton's flyin' free I takes a baby brick, 'n' drives it hard agin the cush, 'N' Privit Mick is scattered out fer all the world to see, But not afore indelible he's put his mark on me. I got the signs Masonic all inlaid along me lug Where Molly, P.C., swiped me in them 'appy, careless days. He's sargin' now, a vet'ran; I'm a newchum and a mug, 'N' when he sorter fixes me there's some- thin' in his gaze That's pensive like. "Move on!" sez he. "Keep movin' there!" he says. If after this I dreams of scraps promiscuous and crool, The mills in Butcher's Alley when the watch is on the wine, Those nights he raided Wylie's shed to break the two-up school, I takes a screw at Molly. With a grin that ain't divine He's toyin' with a scar of old I reckernise as mine. 'N' so I'm layin' for it, 'n' I'm wonderin' how 'n' what. We're signed on with the Germans, 'n' there ain't a vacant date; But sure it's comin' to me, 'n' it's comin' 'ard 'n' 'ot. Me lurk is patient waitin', but I'm trim- min' while I wait A brick to jab or swing with, in a willin' tatertate. Oh, judge me wonder! There's a scrim that follers on a raid. I'm roughin' it all-in with Hans. He sock me such a bat I slides on somethin' narsty, 'n' me little grave is made; But Molly butts my Hun, 'n' leaves no face beneath his hat, 'N', "'Scuse me, Mister Herr," sez he, "I have a lien on that!" He helps me under cover, 'n' he 'ands me somethin' wet (I've got a lick or two that leaves me feelin' pretty sick). "Lor love yeh, ole John Hop," sez I, "yiv buried me in debt." "Don't minton ut at all," he sez, 'n' eyes me arf-a-tick. 'N' back there in the trench I sits, 'n' trims another brick. 'Tis all this how a month or more; then Mollynoo sez he: "Come aisy, Jumm, yeh loafer, little hell 'n' all to view. A job most illegant is on, cut out fer you 'n' me. The damnedest, dirtiest fighter on the Continent is you, Bar one, yeh gougin' thafe, 'n' that is Sargin' Mollynoo!" I take, with knife 'n' pistol, arf a brick to line me shirt. We creeps a thousan' yards or so to jigger up a gun Which seven Huns is workin' on the Irish like a squirt. We gets across them, me 'n' him. I pots the extra one; Mick chokes his third in comfort, 'n', be'old, the thing is done! He stands above me, rakin' sweat from off his gleamin' nut. "Me dipper's leakin', Mick," sez I; "me leg is bit in two." Sez he: "Bleed there in comfort, I'm for bringin' help, ye scut." He's back in twenty minutes, with a dillied German crew. "Three'll carry in the gun," sez he, "the rest will carry you." I dunno how he got 'em, but he made them barrer me. They lugged the gun before him, 'n' he yarded them like geese. Then Mickie s'lutes the Major. "They're in custody," sez he, "Fer conduc' calculated to provoke a breach iv peace, A-tearin' iv me uniform, 'n' 'saultin' the po-lice." Then down he dumped. His wounds would make a 'arf a column list. When hack to front I chucks me bricks 'n' smiles the best I can. He grins at me: "Yer right," sez he, "Hold out yer bla'-guard fist, I couldn't fight yeh, blarst yeh, if yeh dinted in me pan. This messin' round wid Germans makes a chicken iv a man." JAM. (A Hymn of Hate). WHAT is meant by active service 'Ere where sin is leakin' loose, 'N' the oldest 'and's as nervis As a dog-bedevilled goose, Has bin writ be every poet What can rhyme it worth a dam, But the 'orror as we know it Is jist jam, jam, JAM! Oh, the 'ymn of 'ate we owe it— Stodgy, splodgy, seepy, soaky, sanguinary jam! There's the "fearful roar iv battle," What gets underneath yer 'at, Mooin' like a million cattle Each as big as Ararat; There's the red field green 'n' slippy (And I'm cleaner where I am), But the thing that's got me nippy It is jam, jam, JAM! Druv us sour it has, 'n' dippy, Sticky, sicky, slimy, sloppy, stummick-strafin' jam! Of the mud that's in the trenches Writers make a solemn fuss; For the vermin 'n' the stenches Little ladies pity us; But the yearn that's honest dinkum, 'N' the prayer what ain't a sham Is that Fritz may bust 'n' sink 'em Ships of jam, jam, JAM! For we bolt 'em, chew 'em, drink 'em, Million billion bar'ls of beastly, cloyin' clammy jam! We are sorry-sick of peaches, 'N' we're full right up of plum, 'N' innards fairly screeches When the tins of apple come. Back of Blighty piled in cases, Jist as close as they can cram, Fillin' all the open spaces, Is the 'jam, jam, JAM! Oh, the woe the soldiers face is, Monday, Sunday, ruddy, muddy, boundless bogs of jam. WEEPIN' WILLIE. WHEY our trooper hit wide water every heart was yearin' back To the little 'ouse at Coogee or a hut at Bar- renjack. She was 'ookin' up to spike the stars, or rootin' in the wave, An' me liver turned a hand spring with each buck the beggar gave. Then we pulls a sick 'n' silly smile 'n' tips a saucy lid, Crackin' hardy. Willie didn't. Willie snivelled like a kid. At Gallip' the steamer dumped us, 'n' we got right down to work, Whoopin' up the hill splendacious, playin' tiggie with the Turk. When the stinkin' Abdul hit us we curled down upon a stone, 'N' we yelled for greater glory, crackin' 'ardy on our own. Not so Willie. He was cursin', cold ez death 'n' grey ez steel, 'N' the smallest thing that busted made the little blighter squeal. In the bitter day's that follered, spillin' life be- side the sea, We would fake a spry expression for the things that had to be, Always dressin' up the winder, crackin' 'ardy though we felt Fearful creepy in the whiskers, very cold be- neath the belt. But his jills would sniff 'n' shiver in the mother of a fright, 'N' go blubberin' 'n' quakin' out to waller in the fight. In the West we liked the weather, 'n' we fat- tened in the mud, Crackin' 'ardy, stewed together, rats an' slurry men 'n' blood. Weepin' Willie wouldn't have it these was pleasin' things abed, 'N' he shuddered in his shimmy if they passed him with the dead. When he cried about his mother, in a gentle voice he'd tell Them as dumb-well didn't like it they could go to sudden 'ell. There was nothin' sweet for Willie in a rough- up in the wet; But if all things scared him purple, not a thing had stopped him yet. If some chaps was wanted urgent special dirty work to do Willie went in with a shudder, but he alwiz saw it through. Oh, a busy little body was our Willie in a crush! Then he'd cry out in the night about the faces in the slush. Well they pinked him one fine mornin' with a thumpin' 'unk iv shell; Put it in 'n' all across him. What he was you couldn't tell. I saw him stitched 'n' mended where he whimpered in his bed, 'N' he'd on'y lived because he was afraid to die, he said. Sez he "Struth, they're out there fightin', trimmin' Boshes good 'n' smart, While I'm bedded here 'n' 'elpless. It fair breaks a feller's 'eart." But he came again last Tuesday '-n' we go it in a breath— "London's big 'n' black 'n' noisy. It would scare a bloke to death." He's away now in the trenches, white 'n' nervous, but, you bet, Playin' lovely 'ands of poker with his busy bay-o-net, 'Fraid of givin' 'n' of takin', 'fraid of gases, 'fraid of guns— But a champion lightweight terror to the gor- forsaken 'Uns! BILLJIM DOWN to it is Plugger Bill, Lyin' crumpled, white 'n' still. Me 'n' him Chips in when the scrap begins, Carin' nothin' for our skins, Chi-iked as the 'Eavenly Twins- Bill 'n' Jim. They 'ave outed Bill at last, Slugged me cobber hard 'n' fast. It's a kill. See the purple of his lip 'N' the red 'n' oozy drip! Ends our great ole partnership- Jim 'n' Bill Mates we was when we was kids; Camp, 'n' ship, 'n' Pyramids, Him 'n' me Hung together, 'n' we tore Up the heights from Helles shore, Bill a long 'arf head afore, Fine to see! Then it was we took a touch- Simple puncture, nothin' much; But we lay 'N' we stays the count, it seems, In a sorter realm of dreams Where the sun infernal gleams Night 'n' day; Boilin', fryin' achin', dumb, Waitin' till the stretchers come, Patiently. I hangs on to 'arf a cup. Which I wants ole Bill to sup. Damn if he ain't savin' up His for me! When they come to lift my head I am softly kiddin' dead, For a game, So's they'll first take on his gills. Over, though, me scheme he spills- Bli'me, this ole take-down Bill's Done the same! But he isn't kiddin' now, And it knocks me anyhow Seein' him. We was both agreed before, Though it got 'em by the score, Two was goin' to beat this war- But 'n' Jim. Mate o' mine, yiv stayed it through. Hard luck, Bill-for me 'n' you Hard 'n' grim. They have got me Cobber true, But I'm stickin' tight ez glue…. Bill, there's one who'll plug for two- It is Jim! THE CRUSADERS. WHAT price yer humble, Dicko Smith, in gaudy putties girt, With sand-blight in his optics, and much leaner than he started, Round the 'Oly Land cavorting in three- quarters of a shirt, And imposin' on the natives ez one Dick the Lion 'Earted? We are drivin' out the infidel, we're hittin' up the Turk, Same ez Richard slung his right across the Saracen invader In old days of which I'm readin'. Now we're gettin' in our work, 'N' what price me nibs, I ask yeh, ez a qualified Crusader! 'Ere I am, a thirsty Templar in the fields of Palestine, Where that hefty little fighter, Bobby Sable, smit the heathen, And where Richard Coor de Lion trimmed the Moslem good 'n' fine, 'N' he took the belt from Saladin, the slickest Dago breathin'. There's no plume upon me helmet, 'n' no red cross on me chest, 'N' so fur they haven't dressed me in a swanking load of metal; We've no 'Oly Grail I know of, but we do our little best With a jamtin, 'n' a billy, 'n' a battered ole mess kettle. Quite a lot of guyver missin' from our brand of chivalry; We don't make a pert procession when we're movin' up the forces; We've no pretty, pawin' stallion, 'n' no pennants flowin' free, 'N' no giddy, gaudy bedquilts make a circus of the 'orses. We 'most always slip the cattle 'n' we cut out all the dog When it fairly comes to buttin' into battle's hectic fever, Goin' forward on our wishbones, with our noses in the bog, 'N' we 'eave a pot iv blazes at the cursed unbeliever. Fancy-dress them old Crusaders wore, and alwiz kep' a band. What we wear's so near to nothin' that it's often 'ardly proper, And we swings a tank iv iron scrap across the 'Oly Land From a dinkie gun we nipped ashore the other side of Jopper. We ain't ever very natty, for the climate here is hot; When it isn't liquid mud the dust is thicker than the vermin. Ten to one our bold Noureddin is some wad- dlin' Turkish pot, 'N' the Saladin we're on to is a snortin' red-eyed German. But be'old the eighth Crusade, 'n' Dicko Smith is in the van, Dicko Coor de Lion from Carlton what could teach King Dick a trifle, For he'd bomb his Royal Jills from out his baked-pertater can, Or he'd pink him full of leakage with a quaint repeatin' rif1e. We have sunk our claws in Mizpah, and Siloam is in view. By my 'alidom from Agra we will send the Faithful reelin'! Those old-timers botched the contract, but we mean to put it through. Knights Templars from Balmain, the Port, Monaro, Nhill, andl Ealin'. We 'are wipin' up Jerus'lem; we were ready with a hose Spoutin' lead, a dandy cleaner that you bet you can rely on; And Moss Isaacs, Cohn, and Cohen, Moses, Offelbloom 'n' those Can all pack their bettin' bags, and come right home again to Zion. PEACE, BLESSED PEACE. HERE in the flamin' thick of thick of things, With Death across the way, 'n' traps What little Fritz the German flings Explodin' in yer lunch pe'aps, It ain't all glory for a bloke', It ain't all corfee 'ot and stoo, Nor wavin' banners in the smoke, Or practisin' the bay'net stroke— We has our little troubles, too! Here's Trigger Ribb bin seein' red 'N' raisin' Cain because he had, Back in the caverns iv his 'ead, A 'oller tooth run ravin' mad. Pore Trigger up 'n' down the trench Was jiggin' like a blithered loan, 'N' every time she give a wrench You orter seen the beggar blench, You orter 'eard him play a toon. The sullen shells was pawin' blind, A-feelin' for us grim as sin, While now 'n' then we'd likely find A dizzy bomb come limpin' in. But Trigger simply let 'er sizz. He 'ardly begged to be excused. This was no damn concern of his. He twined a muffler round his phiz, 'N' fearful was the words he used. Lest we be getting' cock-a-whoop Ole 'Ans tries out his box of tricks. His bullets all around the coop Is peckin' like a million chicks. But Trigger when they barks his snout Don't sniff at it. He won't confess They're on the earth—ignores the clout, 'N' makes the same old sung about His brimmin' mug of bitterness. They raided us there in the mud One day afore the dead sun rose. Me oath, the mess of stuff and blood Would give a slaughterman the joes! And when the scrap is past and done, Where's Trigger Ribb? The noble youth Has got his bay'net in a Hun, While down his cheeks the salt tears run. Sez he to me "Gorbli'—this tooth!" A shell hoist Trigger in a tree. We found him motherin' his jor. "If this ache's goin' on," sez he, "So 'elp me, it'll spoil the war!" Five collared Trigger on his perch, They wired his molar to a bough, Then give the anguished one a lurch, 'N' down he pitches. From that birch His riddled tooth is hangin' now. This afternoon it's merry 'ell; Grenades is comin' by the peck; A big gun times us true 'n well, And, oh! we gets it in the neck. They lick out flames hat reach a mile, The drip of lead will never cease. But Trigger's pottin' all the while; He sports a fond 'n' foolish smile- "Thank Gord," he sez, "a bit of peace!" THE HAPPY GARDENERS. WE were storemen, clerks and packers on an ammunition dump Twice the size of Cootamundra, and the goods we had to hump They were bombs as big as water-butts, and cartridges in tons, Shells that looked like blessed gasmains, and a line in traction-guns. We had struck a warehouse dignity in dealing with the stocks. It was, "Sign here, Mr. Eddie!" "Clarkson, forward to the socks!" Our floor-walker was a major, with a nozzle like a peach, And a stutter in his Trilbies; and a limping kind of speech. We were off at eight to business, we were free for lunch at one, And we talked of new Spring fashions, and the brisk trade being done. After five we sought our dugouts lying snug beneath the hill, Each with hollyhocks before it and geraniums on the sill. Singing "Home, Sweet home," we swept, and scrubbed, and dusted up the place, Then smoked out on the doorstep in the twi- light's tender grace. After which with spade and rake we sought our special garden plot, And we 'tended to the cabbage and the shrink- ing young shallot. So long lived we unmolested that this seemed indeed "the life." Set apart from mirk and worry and the inci- dence of strife; And we trimmed our Kitchen Eden, swapping vegetable lore, Whi1e the whole demented world beside was muddled up with war. There was little talk of Boches and of bloody battle scenes, But a deal about Bill's spuds and Billy Carkeek's butter-beans; Porky specialised on onion and he had a sort of gift For a cabbage plump and tender that it took two men to lift. In the pleasant Sabbath morning, when the sun lit on our "street," And illumed the happy dugout with effulgence kind and sweet, It was fine to see us forking, raking, picking off the bugs, Treading flat the snails and woodlice and demolishing the slugs. Then one day old Fritz got going. He had a hint of us, And the shell the blighter posted was as roomy as a 'bus; He was groping round the dump, and kind of pecking after it; When he plugged the hill the world heeled up, the dome of heaven split. Then, 0 Gott and consternation! Swooped a shell a and stuck her nose In Carkeek's beans. Those beans came up! A cry of grief arose! As we watched them—plunk! another shell cut loose, and everywhere Flew the spuds of Billy Murphy. There were turnips in the air. Bill! she tore a quarter-acre from the land- scape. With it burst Tommy's carrots, and we watched them, and in whispers prayed and cursed. Then a wail of anguish 'scaped us. Boomed in Porky's cabbage plot A detestable concussion. Porky's cabbages were not! There the Breaking strain was reached, for Porky fetched an awful cry, And he rushed away and armed himself. With loathing in his eye, Up and over went the hero. He was savage Through and through, And he tore across the distance like a mad- dened kangaroo. They had left a woeful sight indeed—frail cab- bages all rent, Turnips mangled, little carrots all in one red burial blent, Parsnips ruined, lettuce shattered, torn and wilted beet and bean, And a black and grinning gap where once our garden flourished green. . . . . . . Five and fifty hours had passed when came a German in his shirt. On his back he carried Porky black with blood, and smoke and dirt. "I sniped six of 'em," said Porky, "an' me pris'ner here," he sez- "I done in the crooel swine what strafed me helpless cabba-ges." THE GERM I TOOK to khaki at a word, And fashioned dreams of wonder. I rode the great sea like a bird, Chock full of blood and thunder. I saw myself upon the field Of battle, framed in glory, Compelling stubborn foes to yield As captives to my sword and shield— This is another story. We sat about in sun and sand, We broke old Cairo's images, Met here and there a swarthy band In little, friendly scrimmages, And here it is I start to kid No Moslem born can hit me. The Germ then that had long laid hid Came out of Pharaoh's pyramid, And covertly he bit me. For some few days I wore an air Of pensive introspection, And then I curled down anywhere. They whispered of infection, And hoist me on two sticks as though I bore the leper's label, And took me where, all in a row Of tiny beds, two score or so Were raising second Babel; But no man talked to any one. And no bloke knew another. This soldier raved about his gun, And that one of his mother. They were the victims of the Germ, The imp that Satan pricks in, First cousin to the Coffin Worm, Whose uncomputed legions squirm Some foul, atomic Styx in. The Germ rides with the plunging shell, Or on the belts that fret you, Or in a speck of dust may well One thousand years to get you; Well ambushed in a tunic fold He waits his special mission, And never lad so big and bold But turns to water in his hold And dribbles to perdition. Where is war's pomp and circumstance, The gauds in which we prank it? Germ ends for us our fine romance, Wrapped in a dingy blanket. We set out braggartly in mirth, World's bravest men and tallest, To do the mightiest thing on earth, And here we're lying, nothing worth, Succumbent to the smallest! JOEY'S JOB. IN days before the trouble Jo was rated as a slob. He chose to sit in hourly expectation of a job. He'd loop hisself upon a post, for seldom friends had he, A gift of patient waitin' his distinctif quality. He'd linger in a doorway, or he'd loiter on the grass, Edgin' modestly aside to let the fleetin' moments pass. Jo' begged a bob from mother, but more often got a clout, And settled down with cigarettes to smoke the devil out. The one consistent member of the Never Trouble Club, He put a satin finish on the frontage of the pub. His shoulder-blades were pokin' out from polishin' the pine; But if a job ran at him Joey's footwork was divine. Jo strayed in at the cobbler's door, but, scoffed at as a fool, He found the conversation too exhaustin' as a rule; Or, canted on the smithy coke, he'd hoist his feet and yawn, His boots slid up his shinbones, and his pants displayin' brawn: And if the copper chanced along 'twas beauty- ful to see Joe wear away and made hisself a fadest memory. Then came the universal nark. The Kaiser let her rip. They cleared the ring. The scrap was for the whole world's championship. Jo Brown was takin' notice, lurkin' shy be- neath his hat, And every day he crept to see the drillin' on the flat. He waited, watchin' from the furze the blokes in butcher's blue, For the burst of inspiration that would tell him what to do. He couldn't lean, he couldn't lie. He yelled out in the night. Jo understood—he'd all these years been spoilin' for a fight! Right into things he flung himself. He took his kit and gun, Mooched gladly in the dust, or roasted gaily in the sun. "Gorstruth," he said, with shining eyes, "it means a frightful war, 'N' now I know this is the thing that Heaven meant me for." Jo went away a corporal and fought again the Turk, And like a duck to water Joey cottoned to the work. If anythin' was doin' it would presently come out That Joseph Brown from Booragool was there or thereabout. He got a batch of medals, and a glorious renown Attached all of a sudden to the name of Sergeant Brown. Then people talked of Joey as the dearest friend they had; They were chummy with his uncles, or ac- quainted with his dad. Joe goes to France, and presently he figure as the best Two-handed all-in fighter in the armies of the West, And men of every age at home and high and low degree, We gather now, once went to school with Sergeant Brown, V.C. Then Hayes and Jo, in Flanders met, and very proud was Hayes To shake a townsman by the hand, and sing the hero's praise, "Oh, yes," says Jo, "I'm doin' well, 'n' yet I might do more. If I was in a hurry, mate, to finish up this war I'd lay out every Fritz on earth, but, strike me, what a yob A man would be to work himself out of a flamnin' job!" Now Jo's a swell lieutenant, and he's keepin' up the pace. Ha "Record" says Lieutenant Brown's an honor to the place. The town gets special mention every time he scores. We bet If peace don't mess his chances up, he'll be Field-Marshal yet. Dad, mother and the uncles Brown and all our people know That Providence began this war to find a grip for Jo! THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME. I SAID: "I leave my bit of land- In khaki they've entwined me, I go abroad to lend a hand." Said she: "My love, I understand. I will be true, and though we part A thousand years you hold my heart"- The girl I left behind me. I went away to fight the Huns- No coward thought could bind me, I sizzled n the tropic suns, I faced the bayonets and the guns. And when in daring deeds I shone One little woman spurred me on- The girl I left behind me. Out there, in grim Gallipoli. Hard going they assigned me, I pricked the Turk up from the sea; I riddled him, he punctured me; And, bleeding in my rags, I said: "She'll meet me somewhere if I'm dead- The girl I left behind me. In France we broke the German's face- They tried with gas to blind me. In mud we bogged from front to base, And dirt was ours, but not disgrace. They carved me till I couldn't stand. Said I "Now for the Lodden, and The girl I left behind me. I came ashore, and struck the track; For dust you scarce could find me. The dear girl gave no welcome back- Shed changed her names and state, alack! "You've been a time, I must say, Ned, In finishing your old war." Said The girl I left behind me. I flung a song up to the skies. For battles gods designed me. I think of Fifi's laughing eyes, And Nami, dusk, but sweet and wise, And chortle in my heart to find How very far I've left behind- The girl I left behind me HOW HERMAN WON THE CROSS ONCE in a blue eternity they gave us dabs of rum To close the seams 'n' keep the flume in liquor-tight condition; But, soft 'n' sentimental, when the long, cold evenin's come, I'd dream me nibs was dronking' to the height of his ambition, With rights of suction over all the breweries there are, Where barrels squat, like Brahma gods, in Mother Hardy's bar. I had me fit of longin' on the night the Ger- mans came, All breathin' lioke a gas attack. The air was halcholic. We smelt 'em in the darkness, 'n' our rage went up in flame. It was envy, squealin' envy, put the ginger in the frolic. We shot 'em full of spelter, then went over it to spite The swines what drunk the liquor that was ours by common right. "If this ain't stopped, 'n' quick," sez we, "there won't be left a drop To celebrate the vict'ry when we capture their position." I'm prowlin' blind, when sharp there comes a fond, familiar plop- Swung round a post, a German in a pitiful condition Looms over me. He's sprung a cork, and shales a flask on high, 'N' sings of beer that touchin' it would make a butcher cry. Sez he: "Berloffed kamarid, you haf some drinks mit you." I meant to spike him where he waved, but altered me intention. 'N' "If you put it thus," sez I, "I don't care if I do." We had a drink together. There's a tem- por'y suspension Of hostilities to sample contraband 'n' other stuff In the enemy's possession. Which I think he's had enough. That Hun had thirty pockets, 'n' he'd stowed a flask in each, 'N' presently I'm thinkin' I could love him like a brother. He's talkin' fond 'n' friendly in outlandish parts of speech. "You're prisoner of war," I sez; 'n' then we had another. Ten flasks he pours into his hat, 'n' fills it to the brim, 'N' weeps 'n' sez his frau she will be waitin' up for him. We drink each other's health, 'n' know no henmity nor fear. I see I've got to pinch him, but he's out to do his div. in, 'N' don't care if he don't go home till day- light doth appear. Sez he: "I pud you home to bed upside dot 'ouse you live in." He shakes his finger in me eye: "Mein friendt, you're preddy trunk!" Then arm in arm through No Man's land we does a social bunk. There's Fear afoot. Comes more than once the glug of sudden death. We're rockin' fine 'n' careless where the rifle fire is breakin', 'N' singin' most uproar'ous, in the bomb's disgustin' breath, Of girls, 'n' drink, 'n' cheerful sprees, 'n' 'Herman thinks he's takin' A cobber home to somewhere in an subbub damp 'n' dim, Whereas I know fer certain it is me is takin' him. Somehow, sometime, I lands him where he's safely put to bed. I wake nex' day, 'n' holy smoke! I'm pri- soner with the German. Me mouth is like an ashpan, there's hot fish- bolts in me head, 'N' through the barb-wire peerin' is me foreigh cobber 'Erman. "Ve capdure each lasd nighd," sez he "you home haf bring me, boss." For bravery in takin' me, he got the Iron Cross!