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 atwww.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 verseAuthor: Edward DysonRelease date: October 19, 2005 [eBook #16904]Most recently updated: December 12, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Peter O'Connell*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK '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 atwww.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 verseAuthor: Edward DysonRelease date: October 19, 2005 [eBook #16904]Most recently updated: December 12, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Peter O'Connell
Title: 'Hello, soldier!'
Khaki verse
Author: Edward Dyson
Author: Edward Dyson
Release date: October 19, 2005 [eBook #16904]Most recently updated: December 12, 2020
Language: English
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 originallyprinted 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, my native land,A stirring whisper in your ear—'Tis time for you to understandYour rating now is A1, dear.You've done some rousing things of late.That lift you from the simple stateIn which you chose to vegetate.
The persons so superior,Whose patronage no more endures,Now have to fire a salvo forThe 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 placeCan rise with a distended skull,And cast aspersions in your face.You're given all the world to knowYour proper standing as a foe,And hats are off, and rightly so.
You furnished heroes for the fray,Your sterling merit's widely blownTo all men's satisfaction say,Now have you proved it to your own?Now have you strength to stand and shineIn your own light and say, "DivineThe thing is that I do. It's mine!"
The cannon's stroke throws customs downThe black and bottomless abyss,And quaking are the gilded crownAnd palsied feet of prejudice.The guns have killed, but it is trueThey bring to life things good and new.God grant they have awakened you!
My ears are greedy for the toastOf confidence before our guest,The loyal song, the manly boastYour splendid faith to manifest.In works of art and livelihoodShirk 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 dearthHas won to eminence on earthThat was not conscious of its worth.
MARCHING somewhat out of orderwhen the band is cock-a-hoop,There's a lilting kind of magic in the swaggerof the troop,Swinging all aboard the steamer with hernose 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 devilWhere the women wave and smile,He will answer with a rifleTrim and true from stock to bore,Where the comrades crouch and stifleIn the reeking pit of war.
What is calling, Billy Khaki? There isthunder down the sky,And the merry magpie bugle splits the morn-ing with its cry,While your feet are beating rhythms up thedusty hills and down,And the drums are all a-talking in the hollowof the town.
Billy Khaki, is't the splendor of the song thekiddies sing,Or the whipping of the flags aloft that setsyour heart a-swing?Is't the cheering like a paean of the toss-ing, teeming crowds,Or the boom of distant cannon flatly bumpingon 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 completea sudden rout,Or in fire and smoke and fury some braveregiment goes out,War is cruel, Bill, and ugly. But full wellyou know the rest,Yet your heart is for the battle, and your faceis to the west.
For if war is beastly, Billy, you can picturesomething worse—There's the wrecking of an empire, and itsbroken people's curse;There are nations reft of freedom, and of hopeand kindly mirth,And the shadow of an evil black upon thebitter earth.
So we know what's calling, Billy. 'Tis thespirit of our race,And its stir is in your pulses, and its light ison your faceAs you march with clipping boot-heelsthrough the piping, howling townTo uphold the land we live in, and to pull atyrant down.
Thou his lines are none too level,And he's not a whale for style,And he's swanking like the devilWhen the women wave and smileHe will answer with a rifle,Trim and true from stuck to bore,When the comrades sit and stifleIn the smoking pit of war.
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 thrumOf 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 heelThe 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 meA boyhood's vision of chivalry.
The lean, hard regiment tramping down,Bushies, miners and boys from town.From 'mid the watchers the road alongOne 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 beatOf 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 kneesFor sons gone out to the long war's end;But more than mother or man wept IWho had no son in the world to send.The hour lagged by, and drifting highCame the fitful humOf the little drum,And faint, but still with an ardent flow,The pibroch, call of the piccolo.
HE came from tumbled country past thehumps of BuffaloWhere the snow sits on the mountain 'n' theSummer 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 factsdid not appear;But the parsons and the poets couldn't teachhim to discourseWhen it come to pokin' guyver at a pore,deluded horse.
If nags got sour 'n' kicked agin the rules ofthings at sea,Artie argued matters with 'em, 'n' he'd kid'em up a tree."Here's a pony got hystericks. Pipe the wordfor Privit Rowe,"The Sargint yapped, 'n' all the ship camecluckin' 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 himwith a joke;'N' presently that neddy sobers up, 'n' sez"Ive course,Since you puts it that way, cobber, I will bea better horse."
There was one pertickler whaler, knownaboard ez Marshal Neigh,Whose monkey tricks with Privit Rowe wasbetter than a play.He'd done stunts in someone's circus, 'n' heloved a merry bout,Whirlin' in to bust his boiler, or to kickthe 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'syer bloomin' sense iv duty?Well, you orter serve yer country!" Thenthere'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' thegory firmament.We had intervals iv longin', we had sweatyspells of workIn 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' arffancy we are dead,'N' the only 'uman interest on the red hori-zon's brimIs Marshal Neigh's queer faney fer the ladthat straddles him.
Plain-livin's nearly, bored us stiff. The Majorcalls on RoweTo devise an entertainment. What hischarger doesn't knowIsn't in the regulations. Him 'n' Rowe isbrothers met,'N' that horse's sense iv humor is the oddestfancy yet.
But the Turk arrives one mornin' on the outeredge iv space.From back iv things his guns is floppin' kegsabout the place,'N' Privit Artie Rowe along with others ivthe forceGoes pig-rootin' inter battle, holdin' conversewith his horse.
Little Abdul's quite a fighter, 'n' he mixes itwith skill;But the Anzacs have him snouted,, 'n', oh,ma, he's feelin' ill.They wake the all-fired desert, 'n' the land forever deadIs alive 'n' fairly creepin', and the skies aredroppin' lead.
When they've got the Ot'man goin', littlegaudy hunts begin.It fer us to chiv His Trousers. 'n' to roundthe stragglers in.Cuttin' closest to the raw, 'n' swearin' lovin'all the way,Is Artie from Molinga on his neddy, MarshalNeigh.
We're pursuin' sundry camels turkey-trottin'anyhowWith the carriage iv an emu 'n' the action iva cow,When a sand dune busts, 'n' belches arf amillion iv the foe.They uncork a blanky batt'ry, 'n' it's, Allah,let her go!
We're not stayin' dinner, thank you. Liealong yer horse 'n' yell,While the bullets pip yer britches 'n' yousniff the flue of Hell.Here it is that Artie takes it good 'n' solid inthe crust,He dives from out the saddle, 'n' is swalleredin the dust.
I got through 'n' saw them pointin' where theMarshal faced the band.He was goin' where we came from, sniffin'bodies in the sand.Till he found Rowe snugglin' under, took himwhere his pants was slack,'N' be all the Asiatic gods, he brought hissoldier back!
With a bullet in his buttock, 'n' a drill holein his ear,He dumped Artie down among us. Square'n' all, how did we cheer!There's no medals struck fer neddies, but werule there orter be,'N' the pride iv all the Light Horse is oldMarshal Neigh, V.C.
IT is thirty moons since I slung me hookFrom the job at the hay and corn,Took me solemn oath, 'n' I straight forsookAll the ways of life, dinkum ways 'n' crook,'N' the things on which it was good to lookSince 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 flightFor 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 glumEz a long-dead cod, I was blind 'n' dumb,Holdin' do the tear that was bound to comeAt 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' whenWe 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 forgetIs 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 caseWas a little swine with a dimpled face,Who a year ago was dispensin' laceIn 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. 'StrewthOn the track iv Huns, he's a eight-day sleuth,'N' at tearin' into 'em nail 'n' toothHe's got Julius Caesar beat!
I ain't proud with him ; 'n' I'm modest, too,When dividin' a can of swillWith a Algy boy from the wilds iv Kew.Cos I do not know what the cow will doWhen 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 'omeIn them pifflin' days of the years beforeTakes 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 forme.(He has curls 'n' he's fair 'n' slim).Well, I mind the days in the Port when wePuts it over Hugh coz we don't agreeWith his tone 'n' style, 'n' my foot was freeWhen the push made a hack of him.
Now he's paid me back. I had struck a snag,And must creep through the battle spumeAll a flamin' age, with a grinnin' jagIn me thigh, for water, or jest a fag.Like a crippled snake I was forced to dragShattered 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 shameDidn't get me then, for the lad was lame.They had passed him his, but his 'art wasgame.'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 seesWhen the Nurse's hands bring a kind of ease;And I thank God, too, for the things like theseThat have give me a sort of soul.
There are Percies, Algies, 'n' Claudes I'vemetWho could take it 'n' come agen,While the bullets flew in a screamin' jet.What in pain, 'n' death, and in mire 'n' sweatI 'ave learned from them that I won't forgetIs a way of not judgin' men.
I'M lyin' in a narrow bed,'N' starin' at a wall.Where all is white my plastered headIs 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 rainWhen skies were peltin' fish-plates, bricks'n' lengths of bullock-chain.
I'm lyin' here, a sulky swine,'N' hatin' of the blokeWho's in the doss right next to mineWith '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 sheCome with the chemist's swill,'N' puts a kind, soft 'and on mine, 'n' allmy nark is still.
She ain't a beaut, she's thirty two,She scales eleven stone;But, 'struth, I didn't think it trueThere was such women grown!She's nurse 'n' sister, mum 'n' dad,'N' all that straight 'n' fineIn every girl I ever had.When Gabr'el comes, 'n' all the gladYoung saints are tipped the sign,You'll see this donah take her place, firstangel in the line!
She's sweet 'n' cool, her touch is dew—Wet lilies on yer brow.(Jist 'ark et me what never knewOf 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, andHe has spoke with her!
I dunno if she ever sleepsTen minutes at a stretch.A dozen times a night she creepsTo soothe a screamin' wretchWho has a tiger-headed HunA-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 herbreast.
The curly kid we cuddled whenThere 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 markIf 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 fitTo pitch Hindoo instead of ScotchI'd get the hang of it,Because her heart it is that talksWhat now is plain to me.At war where bloody murder stalks,'N' Nick his hottest samples hawks.I have been given to seeWhat simple human kindness is, whatbrotherhood may be.
DEAR Ned, I now take up my pen to writeyou these few lines,And hopin' how they find you fit. Gorbli',it seems an ageSince Jumbo ducked the Port, 'n' drilled 'n'polished to the nines,He walked his pork on Collins like a hero offthe stage,Then hiked a rifle 'cross the sea this bleedin'war to wage.
The things what's 'appened lately calls toJumbo's mind that dayOur push took on the Peewee pack, 'n'belted out their lard,With twenty cops to top it off. But now I'mstowed away,A bullet in me gizzard where I took it goodand hard,A-dealin'-stoush 'n' mullock to the Prussianflamin' Guard.
At Bullcoor mortal charnce had dumped amutton-truck of usFrom good ole Port ker-flummox where wedidn't orter be,All in a 'elpless hole-the Pug, Bill Carkeek,Son, 'n' Gus,Don, Steve, 'n' Jack, 'n' seven more, 'n', asit 'appens, me,With nothin' in since breakfast, 'n' a weekto go for tea.
Worked loose from Caddy's bunch, we wentit gay until we foundWe'd took to 'arf the ragin' German Hempireon our own.Then down we went so 'umble, with our nosesin the ground,Takin' cover in the rubble. If a German headwas shownIt was fare-the-well to Herman with a bulletthrough the bone.
We slogged the cows remorseless, 'n' theylaid for us a treat.We held that stinkin' cellar, though, 'n' whenthe day was doneSon pussied on his bingie where a Maxie trim'n' neatHad spit out loaded lightnin', and he sluggeda 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 wasthe second day.Me left eye I'd 'ave give for jest a bubble in acup,Three fingers I'd 'ave parted for a bone I'veflung away;But the butcher wasn't callin', 'n' the fountaindidn't play.
T'was rotten mozzle, Neddo. We had blownout ever clip,'N' 'blooed the hammunition for the little boxof 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!" hesez, "it's bricks, you blighters,bricks!"
There's more than 'arf a million spilt wheresomethin' hit a pub;We creeps among 'n' sorts 'em, stack afore,'n' stack behind;The Hun is comin' at us with his napper likea tub—You couldn't 'ope to miss it, pickled, par-alysed, 'n' blind.Sez Sonny: "Lay 'em open! Give 'emblotches on the rind!"
Then bricks was flyin' in the wind. Minedinted Otto's chin;Ole Nosey got his brother, which he nevermore will roam.When Ulrich stopped a Port bookay he rolledhis alley in.Their fire was somethin' fierce. Poor Sonwas blowin' blood 'n' foam,"Fill up," he coughs, "'n' plug 'em! S'elpme Gord, we're goin' 'ome!"
With bricks we drove right at 'em 'n' wewanged 'em best we could.'Twas either bed 'n' breakfast or a scribbleand a wreath.Haynes bust a Prussian's almond, took thebay'net where he stood,Then heaved his last 'arf-Brunswick, splitthe demon's grinnin' teeth,And Son went down in glory, with a Germanunderneath!
We'd started out with gibbers in our clobberand our 'ats.They gave us floatin' lead enough to stop anarmy cor.We yelled like fiends, 'n' countered with alovely flight of bats,Then rushed in close formation, heavin' cot-tages, n' toreThrough blinded, bleedin' Bosches, 'n' lorlove yeh, it was war!
We came peltin', headfirst, 'elpless, in a drainamong a lotOf dirty, damned old Tommies (Gord! Thebest that ever blew!)Eight left of us, all punctured, each manholdin' what he'd got.Me wild, a rat hole in me lung, but in memauley, too,A bull-nosed brick with whiskers where nowhiskers ever grew.
There's nothin' doin' now. I wear me blan-kets like a toff.The way this fat nurse pets me, strewth, it'swell to be so sick,A-dreamin' of our contract 'n' the way wepulled it off.I reckon Haig is phonin' Hughes: "Hullo,there, Billy. Quick—A dozen of the pushes and a thousan' tonsof brick!"
THIS war's a waste of slurry, and its at-mosphere is mud,All is bog from here to sunset. Wadin'throughWe're the victims of a thicker sort of universalflood,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 usedto 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 tobog a cow;In the air there hangs a musty kind ofwoof;There's a frog-pond in the parlour, and thekitchen is a slough.She has neither doors nor windows, nor aroof.
When they post our bald somnambulist asmissing from his flatWe take soundings for the digger with aprop.By the day the board is gratis, by the weekit's half of that;For the season there's a corresponding drop.
Opening off the spacious hallway is my nattylittle suite,A commodious and accessible abode.By judicious disposition, with exclusion ofmy feet,There is sleeping room for Oliver the toad.
Though the ventilation's gusty, and in gobsthe ceiling falls—Which with oral respiration disagrees—Though there comes a certain quantity ofseepage from the walls,There are some I knew in diggings worsethan these.
On my right is Cobber Carkeek. There's aspring above his head,And his mattress is a special kind of clay.He's a most punctilious bloke about thefashion of his bed,And he makes it with a shovel every day.
Man is dust. If so, the Cobber has beenpuddled 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 itoff.
After hanging out a winter in this CimmerianholeWe're forgetting sheets, and baths, andtidy skins.In the dark and deadly calm last night theytook us on patrol.Seven, little fellows, thinking of their sins.
It was ours like blinded snails to prowl thesoggy, slimy night,With a feeler pricking out at every poreFor the death that stalks in darkness, or theblinking stab of light,And the other trifling matters that are war.
That's the stuff to get your liver, that's theacid on a man,For it tries his hones, and seeks his marrowthrongh.You have got the thought to comfort you thatlife is but a span,If Fritz squirts his loathly limelight overyou.
We got back again at daybreak. Cobberducked to doss and said,From the soft, embracing mud: "No moreI'll roam."Oh, thank Heaven, blokes," he murmured,"for the comforts of a bed!Gorstruth, but ain't it good to have ahome!"
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-footedthrough the clay,By waggons bogged 'n' buckin' guns,the wildest welter yet,Like 'arf creation's tenants shiftin' earlyin the wet.
We're marchin' out, we dunno where, to meetwe dunno who;But here we lights eventual, 'n' sighs 'n'slips the kit,'N', 'struth, the first to take us on is MickieMollynoo!A copper of the Port he was, when 'istorywas writ.Sez I : "We're sent to face the foe, 'n', selpme, this is It."
A shine John. Hop is Mollynoo. A mix-upwith the pushIs all his joy. One evenin' when hisbaton's flyin' freeI takes a baby brick, 'n' drives it hard aginthe cush,'N' Privit Mick is scattered out fer all theworld to see,But not afore indelible he's put his mark onme.
I got the signs Masonic all inlaid along melugWhere Molly, P.C., swiped me in them'appy, careless days.He's sargin' now, a vet'ran; I'm a newchumand a mug,'N' when he sorter fixes me there's some-thin' in his gazeThat's pensive like. "Move on!" sez he."Keep movin' there!" he says.
If after this I dreams of scraps promiscuousand crool,The mills in Butcher's Alley when thewatch is on the wine,Those nights he raided Wylie's shed to breakthe two-up school,I takes a screw at Molly. With a grin thatain't divineHe's toyin' with a scar of old I reckerniseas mine.
'N' so I'm layin' for it, 'n' I'm wonderin' how'n' what.We're signed on with the Germans, 'n' thereain'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 waitA 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 mesomethin' wet(I've got a lick or two that leaves me feelin'pretty sick)."Lor love yeh, ole John Hop," sez I, "yivburied me in debt.""Don't minton ut at all," he sez, 'n' eyesme arf-a-tick.'N' back there in the trench I sits, 'n' trimsanother brick.
'Tis all this how a month or more; thenMollynoo 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 theContinent is you,Bar one, yeh gougin' thafe, 'n' that isSargin' Mollynoo!"
I take, with knife 'n' pistol, arf a brick to lineme shirt.We creeps a thousan' yards or so to jiggerup a gunWhich seven Huns is workin' on the Irish likea squirt.We gets across them, me 'n' him. I potsthe extra one;Mick chokes his third in comfort, 'n',be'old, the thing is done!
He stands above me, rakin' sweat from off hisgleamin' nut."Me dipper's leakin', Mick," sez I; "meleg is bit in two."Sez he: "Bleed there in comfort, I'm forbringin' help, ye scut."He's back in twenty minutes, with a dilliedGerman crew."Three'll carry in the gun," sez he, "therest will carry you."
I dunno how he got 'em, but he made thembarrer me.They lugged the gun before him, 'n' heyarded them like geese.Then Mickie s'lutes the Major. "They're incustody," sez he,"Fer conduc' calculated to provoke a breachiv peace,A-tearin' iv me uniform, 'n' 'saultin' thepo-lice."
Then down he dumped. His wounds wouldmake 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, "Holdout yer bla'-guard fist,I couldn't fight yeh, blarst yeh, if yeh dintedin me pan.This messin' round wid Germans makes achicken 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 nervisAs a dog-bedevilled goose,Has bin writ be every poetWhat can rhyme it worth a dam,But the 'orror as we know itIs jist jam, jam, JAM!Oh, the 'ymn of 'ate we owe it—Stodgy, splodgy, seepy, soaky, sanguinaryjam!
There's the "fearful roar iv battle,"What gets underneath yer 'at,Mooin' like a million cattleEach 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 nippyIt 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 trenchesWriters make a solemn fuss;For the vermin 'n' the stenchesLittle ladies pity us;But the yearn that's honest dinkum,'N' the prayer what ain't a shamIs that Fritz may bust 'n' sink 'emShips 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 screechesWhen 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, boundlessbogs of jam.
WHEY our trooper hit wide water everyheart was yearin' backTo 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 eachbuck the beggar gave.Then we pulls a sick 'n' silly smile 'n' tips asaucy lid,Crackin' hardy. Willie didn't. Williesnivelled like a kid.
At Gallip' the steamer dumped us, 'n' we gotright down to work,Whoopin' up the hill splendacious, playin'tiggie with the Turk.When the stinkin' Abdul hit us we curleddown upon a stone,'N' we yelled for greater glory, crackin' 'ardyon our own.Not so Willie. He was cursin', cold ez death'n' grey ez steel,'N' the smallest thing that busted made thelittle blighter squeal.
In the bitter day's that follered, spillin' life be-side the sea,We would fake a spry expression for the thingsthat had to be,Always dressin' up the winder, crackin' 'ardythough we feltFearful creepy in the whiskers, very cold be-neath the belt.But his jills would sniff 'n' shiver in the motherof a fright,'N' go blubberin' 'n' quakin' out to waller inthe 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 waspleasin' things abed,'N' he shuddered in his shimmy if they passedhim with the dead.When he cried about his mother, in a gentlevoice he'd tellThem as dumb-well didn't like it they could goto sudden 'ell.
There was nothin' sweet for Willie in a rough-up in the wet;But if all things scared him purple, not a thinghad stopped him yet.If some chaps was wanted urgent special dirtywork to doWillie went in with a shudder, but he alwizsaw it through.Oh, a busy little body was our Willie in acrush!Then he'd cry out in the night about the facesin the slush.
Well they pinked him one fine mornin' witha thumpin' 'unk iv shell;Put it in 'n' all across him. What he wasyou couldn't tell.I saw him stitched 'n' mended where hewhimpered in his bed,'N' he'd on'y lived because he was afraid todie, he said.Sez he "Struth, they're out there fightin',trimmin' Boshes good 'n' smart,While I'm bedded here 'n' 'elpless. It fairbreaks a feller's 'eart."
But he came again last Tuesday '-n' we go itin a breath—"London's big 'n' black 'n' noisy. It wouldscare a bloke to death."He's away now in the trenches, white 'n'nervous, but, you bet,Playin' lovely 'ands of poker with his busybay-o-net,'Fraid of givin' 'n' of takin', 'fraid of gases,'fraid of guns—But a champion lightweight terror to the gor-forsaken 'Uns!
DOWN to it is Plugger Bill,Lyin' crumpled, white 'n' still.Me 'n' himChips 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' meHung together, 'n' we toreUp 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 dreamsWhere the sun infernal gleamsNight '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' upHis for me!
When they come to lift my headI 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'sDone the same!
But he isn't kiddin' now,And it knocks me anyhowSeein' 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' youHard '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!
WHAT price yer humble, Dicko Smith,in gaudy putties girt,With sand-blight in his optics, and muchleaner than he started,Round the 'Oly Land cavorting in three-quarters of a shirt,And imposin' on the natives ez one Dickthe Lion 'Earted?
We are drivin' out the infidel, we're hittin'up the Turk,Same ez Richard slung his right across theSaracen invaderIn old days of which I'm readin'. Nowwe're gettin' in our work,'N' what price me nibs, I ask yeh, ez aqualified Crusader!
'Ere I am, a thirsty Templar in the fields ofPalestine,Where that hefty little fighter, BobbySable, smit the heathen,And where Richard Coor de Lion trimmedthe Moslem good 'n' fine,'N' he took the belt from Saladin, theslickest Dago breathin'.
There's no plume upon me helmet, 'n' no redcross on me chest,'N' so fur they haven't dressed me in aswanking load of metal;We've no 'Oly Grail I know of, but we doour little bestWith a jamtin, 'n' a billy, 'n' a batteredole mess kettle.
Quite a lot of guyver missin' from our brandof chivalry;We don't make a pert procession whenwe're movin' up the forces;We've no pretty, pawin' stallion, 'n' nopennants flowin' free,'N' no giddy, gaudy bedquilts make acircus of the 'orses.
We 'most always slip the cattle 'n' we cut outall the dogWhen it fairly comes to buttin' into battle'shectic fever,Goin' forward on our wishbones, with ournoses in the bog,'N' we 'eave a pot iv blazes at the cursedunbeliever.
Fancy-dress them old Crusaders wore,and alwiz kep' a band.What we wear's so near to nothin' that it'soften 'ardly proper,And we swings a tank iv iron scrap acrossthe 'Oly LandFrom a dinkie gun we nipped ashore theother side of Jopper.
We ain't ever very natty, for the climate hereis hot;When it isn't liquid mud the dust is thickerthan 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' DickoSmith is in the van,Dicko Coor de Lion from Carlton whatcould teach King Dick a trifle,For he'd bomb his Royal Jills from out hisbaked-pertater can,Or he'd pink him full of leakage with aquaint repeatin' rif1e.
We have sunk our claws in Mizpah, andSiloam is in view.By my 'alidom from Agra we will send theFaithful reelin'!Those old-timers botched the contract, but wemean to put it through.Knights Templars from Balmain, the Port,Monaro, Nhill, andl Ealin'.
We 'are wipin' up Jerus'lem; we were readywith a hoseSpoutin' lead, a dandy cleaner that you betyou can rely on;And Moss Isaacs, Cohn, and Cohen, Moses,Offelbloom 'n' thoseCan all pack their bettin' bags, and comeright home again to Zion.
HERE in the flamin' thick of thick of things,With Death across the way, 'n' trapsWhat little Fritz the German flingsExplodin' 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 trenchWas jiggin' like a blithered loan,'N' every time she give a wrenchYou 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 findA 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-whoopOle 'Ans tries out his box of tricks.His bullets all around the coopIs peckin' like a million chicks.But Trigger when they barks his snoutDon't sniff at it. He won't confessThey're on the earth—ignores the clout,'N' makes the same old sung aboutHis brimmin' mug of bitterness.
They raided us there in the mudOne day afore the dead sun rose.Me oath, the mess of stuff and bloodWould give a slaughterman the joes!And when the scrap is past and done,Where's Trigger Ribb? The noble youthHas 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 birchHis 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!"
WE were storemen, clerks and packers onan ammunition dumpTwice the size of Cootamundra, and the goodswe had to humpThey were bombs as big as water-butts, andcartridges in tons,Shells that looked like blessed gasmains, anda line in traction-guns.
We had struck a warehouse dignity in dealingwith the stocks.It was, "Sign here, Mr. Eddie!" "Clarkson,forward to the socks!"Our floor-walker was a major, with a nozzlelike a peach,And a stutter in his Trilbies; and a limpingkind of speech.
We were off at eight to business, we were freefor lunch at one,And we talked of new Spring fashions, and thebrisk trade being done.After five we sought our dugouts lying snugbeneath the hill,Each with hollyhocks before it and geraniumson 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 soughtour special garden plot,And we 'tended to the cabbage and the shrink-ing young shallot.
So long lived we unmolested that this seemedindeed "the life."Set apart from mirk and worry and the inci-dence of strife;And we trimmed our Kitchen Eden, swappingvegetable lore,Whi1e the whole demented world beside wasmuddled up with war.
There was little talk of Boches and of bloodybattle scenes,But a deal about Bill's spuds and BillyCarkeek's butter-beans;Porky specialised on onion and he had a sortof giftFor a cabbage plump and tender that it tooktwo men to lift.
In the pleasant Sabbath morning, when thesun lit on our "street,"And illumed the happy dugout with effulgencekind and sweet,It was fine to see us forking, raking, pickingoff the bugs,Treading flat the snails and woodlice anddemolishing the slugs.
Then one day old Fritz got going. He hada hint of us,And the shell the blighter posted was as roomyas a 'bus;He was groping round the dump, and kind ofpecking after it;When he plugged the hill the world heeled up,the dome of heaven split.
Then, 0 Gott and consternation! Swooped ashell a and stuck her noseIn Carkeek's beans. Those beans came up!A cry of grief arose!As we watched them—plunk! another shellcut loose, and everywhereFlew the spuds of Billy Murphy. There wereturnips in the air.
Bill! she tore a quarter-acre from the land-scape. With it burstTommy's carrots, and we watched them, andin whispers prayed and cursed.Then a wail of anguish 'scaped us. Boomedin Porky's cabbage plotA detestable concussion. Porky's cabbageswere not!
There the Breaking strain was reached, forPorky fetched an awful cry,And he rushed away and armed himself.With loathing in his eye,Up and over went the hero. He was savageThrough 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 redburial blent,Parsnips ruined, lettuce shattered, torn andwilted beet and bean,And a black and grinning gap where once ourgarden flourished green.
. . . . . .Five and fifty hours had passed when came aGerman in his shirt.On his back he carried Porky black withblood, and smoke and dirt."I sniped six of 'em," said Porky, "an' mepris'ner here," he sez-"I done in the crooel swine what strafed mehelpless cabba-ges."
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 fieldOf battle, framed in glory,Compelling stubborn foes to yieldAs 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 bandIn little, friendly scrimmages,And here it is I start to kidNo Moslem born can hit me.The Germ then that had long laid hidCame out of Pharaoh's pyramid,And covertly he bit me.
For some few days I wore an airOf pensive introspection,And then I curled down anywhere.They whispered of infection,And hoist me on two sticks as thoughI bore the leper's label,And took me where, all in a rowOf tiny beds, two score or soWere 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 squirmSome 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 wellOne thousand years to get you;Well ambushed in a tunic foldHe waits his special mission,And never lad so big and boldBut turns to water in his holdAnd 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!
IN days before the trouble Jo was rated asa slob.He chose to sit in hourly expectation of a job.He'd loop hisself upon a post, for seldomfriends had he,A gift of patient waitin' his distinctif quality.He'd linger in a doorway, or he'd loiter on thegrass,Edgin' modestly aside to let the fleetin'moments pass.
Jo' begged a bob from mother, but more oftengot a clout,And settled down with cigarettes to smoke thedevil out.The one consistent member of the NeverTrouble Club,He put a satin finish on the frontage of thepub.His shoulder-blades were pokin' out frompolishin' the pine;But if a job ran at him Joey's footwork wasdivine.
Jo strayed in at the cobbler's door, but, scoffedat as a fool,He found the conversation too exhaustin' asa rule;Or, canted on the smithy coke, he'd hoist hisfeet and yawn,His boots slid up his shinbones, and his pantsdisplayin' brawn:And if the copper chanced along 'twas beauty-ful to seeJoe wear away and made hisself a fadestmemory.
Then came the universal nark. The Kaiserlet her rip.They cleared the ring. The scrap was for thewhole world's championship.Jo Brown was takin' notice, lurkin' shy be-neath his hat,And every day he crept to see the drillin' onthe flat.He waited, watchin' from the furze the blokesin butcher's blue,For the burst of inspiration that would tell himwhat to do.
He couldn't lean, he couldn't lie. He yelledout in the night.Jo understood—he'd all these years beenspoilin' for a fight!Right into things he flung himself. Hetook his kit and gun,Mooched gladly in the dust, or roasted gailyin the sun."Gorstruth," he said, with shining eyes, "itmeans a frightful war,'N' now I know this is the thing that Heavenmeant me for."
Jo went away a corporal and fought again theTurk,And like a duck to water Joey cottoned to thework.If anythin' was doin' it would presently comeoutThat Joseph Brown from Booragool was thereor thereabout.He got a batch of medals, and a gloriousrenownAttached all of a sudden to the name ofSergeant Brown.
Then people talked of Joey as the dearestfriend they had;They were chummy with his uncles, or ac-quainted with his dad.Joe goes to France, and presently he figure asthe bestTwo-handed all-in fighter in the armies of theWest,And men of every age at home and high andlow degree,We gather now, once went to school withSergeant 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 anhonor to the place.The town gets special mention every time hescores. We betIf peace don't mess his chances up, he'll beField-Marshal yet.Dad, mother and the uncles Brown and all ourpeople knowThat Providence began this war to find a gripfor Jo!
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 partA 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 shoneOne 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, andThe 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." SaidThe 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 findHow very far I've left behind-The girl I left behind me
ONCE in a blue eternity they gave usdabs of rumTo close the seams 'n' keep the flume inliquor-tight condition;But, soft 'n' sentimental, when the long, coldevenin's come,I'd dream me nibs was dronking' to the heightof his ambition,With rights of suction over all the breweriesthere are,Where barrels squat, like Brahma gods, inMother Hardy's bar.
I had me fit of longin' on the night the Ger-mans came,All breathin' lioke a gas attack. The airwas halcholic.We smelt 'em in the darkness, 'n' our ragewent up in flame.It was envy, squealin' envy, put the gingerin the frolic.We shot 'em full of spelter, then went over itto spiteThe swines what drunk the liquor that wasours by common right.
"If this ain't stopped, 'n' quick," sez we,"there won't be left a dropTo celebrate the vict'ry when we capturetheir position."I'm prowlin' blind, when sharp there comes afond, familiar plop-Swung round a post, a German in a pitifulconditionLooms over me. He's sprung a cork, andshales a flask on high,'N' sings of beer that touchin' it would makea butcher cry.
Sez he: "Berloffed kamarid, you haf somedrinks mit you."I meant to spike him where he waved,but altered me intention.'N' "If you put it thus," sez I, "I don'tcare if I do."We had a drink together. There's a tem-por'y suspensionOf hostilities to sample contraband 'n' otherstuffIn the enemy's possession. Which I thinkhe's had enough.
That Hun had thirty pockets, 'n' he'd stoweda flask in each,'N' presently I'm thinkin' I could love himlike a brother.He's talkin' fond 'n' friendly in outlandishparts of speech."You're prisoner of war," I sez; 'n' thenwe had another.Ten flasks he pours into his hat, 'n' fills itto the brim,'N' weeps 'n' sez his frau she will be waitin'up for him.
We drink each other's health, 'n' know nohenmity nor fear.I see I've got to pinch him, but he's out todo 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 wedoes a social bunk.
There's Fear afoot. Comes more than oncethe glug of sudden death.We're rockin' fine 'n' careless where therifle fire is breakin','N' singin' most uproar'ous, in the bomb'sdisgustin' breath,Of girls, 'n' drink, 'n' cheerful sprees, 'n''Herman thinks he's takin'A cobber home to somewhere in an subbubdamp 'n' dim,Whereas I know fer certain it is me is takin'him.
Somehow, sometime, I lands him where he'ssafely 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 meforeigh cobber 'Erman."Ve capdure each lasd nighd," sez he "youhome haf bring me, boss."For bravery in takin' me, he got the IronCross!