THE GRAVES OF GALLIPOLI
The herdman wandering by the lonely rillsMarks where they lie on the scarred mountain’s flanks,Remembering that wild morning when the hillsShook to the roar of guns and those wild ranksSurged upward from the sea.None tends them. Flowers will come again in spring,And the torn hills and those poor mounds be green.Some bird that sings in English woods may singTo English lads beneath—the wind will keepIts ancient lullaby.Some flower that blooms beside the Southern foamMay blossom where our dead Australians lie,And comfort them with whispers of their home;And they will dream, beneath the alien sky,Of the Pacific Sea.“Thrice happy they who fell beneath the walls,Under their father’s eyes,” the Trojan said,“Not we who die in exile where who fallsMust lie in foreign earth.” Alas! our deadLie buried far away.Yet where the brave man lies who fell in fightFor his dear country, there his country is.And we will mourn them proudly as of right—For meaner deaths be weeping and loud cries:They died pro patria!Oh, sweet and seemly so to die, indeed,In the high flush of youth and strength and pride.These are our martyrs, and their blood the seedOf nobler futures. ’Twas for us they died.Keep we their memory green.This be their epitaph. “Traveller, south or west,Go, say at home we heard the trumpet call,And answered. Now beside the sea we rest.Our end was happy if our country thrives:Much was demanded. Lo! our store was small—That which we had we gave—it was our lives.”L.L.
The herdman wandering by the lonely rillsMarks where they lie on the scarred mountain’s flanks,Remembering that wild morning when the hillsShook to the roar of guns and those wild ranksSurged upward from the sea.None tends them. Flowers will come again in spring,And the torn hills and those poor mounds be green.Some bird that sings in English woods may singTo English lads beneath—the wind will keepIts ancient lullaby.Some flower that blooms beside the Southern foamMay blossom where our dead Australians lie,And comfort them with whispers of their home;And they will dream, beneath the alien sky,Of the Pacific Sea.“Thrice happy they who fell beneath the walls,Under their father’s eyes,” the Trojan said,“Not we who die in exile where who fallsMust lie in foreign earth.” Alas! our deadLie buried far away.Yet where the brave man lies who fell in fightFor his dear country, there his country is.And we will mourn them proudly as of right—For meaner deaths be weeping and loud cries:They died pro patria!Oh, sweet and seemly so to die, indeed,In the high flush of youth and strength and pride.These are our martyrs, and their blood the seedOf nobler futures. ’Twas for us they died.Keep we their memory green.This be their epitaph. “Traveller, south or west,Go, say at home we heard the trumpet call,And answered. Now beside the sea we rest.Our end was happy if our country thrives:Much was demanded. Lo! our store was small—That which we had we gave—it was our lives.”L.L.
The herdman wandering by the lonely rillsMarks where they lie on the scarred mountain’s flanks,Remembering that wild morning when the hillsShook to the roar of guns and those wild ranksSurged upward from the sea.
The herdman wandering by the lonely rills
Marks where they lie on the scarred mountain’s flanks,
Remembering that wild morning when the hills
Shook to the roar of guns and those wild ranks
Surged upward from the sea.
None tends them. Flowers will come again in spring,And the torn hills and those poor mounds be green.Some bird that sings in English woods may singTo English lads beneath—the wind will keepIts ancient lullaby.
None tends them. Flowers will come again in spring,
And the torn hills and those poor mounds be green.
Some bird that sings in English woods may sing
To English lads beneath—the wind will keep
Its ancient lullaby.
Some flower that blooms beside the Southern foamMay blossom where our dead Australians lie,And comfort them with whispers of their home;And they will dream, beneath the alien sky,Of the Pacific Sea.
Some flower that blooms beside the Southern foam
May blossom where our dead Australians lie,
And comfort them with whispers of their home;
And they will dream, beneath the alien sky,
Of the Pacific Sea.
“Thrice happy they who fell beneath the walls,Under their father’s eyes,” the Trojan said,“Not we who die in exile where who fallsMust lie in foreign earth.” Alas! our deadLie buried far away.
“Thrice happy they who fell beneath the walls,
Under their father’s eyes,” the Trojan said,
“Not we who die in exile where who falls
Must lie in foreign earth.” Alas! our dead
Lie buried far away.
Yet where the brave man lies who fell in fightFor his dear country, there his country is.And we will mourn them proudly as of right—For meaner deaths be weeping and loud cries:They died pro patria!
Yet where the brave man lies who fell in fight
For his dear country, there his country is.
And we will mourn them proudly as of right—
For meaner deaths be weeping and loud cries:
They died pro patria!
Oh, sweet and seemly so to die, indeed,In the high flush of youth and strength and pride.These are our martyrs, and their blood the seedOf nobler futures. ’Twas for us they died.Keep we their memory green.
Oh, sweet and seemly so to die, indeed,
In the high flush of youth and strength and pride.
These are our martyrs, and their blood the seed
Of nobler futures. ’Twas for us they died.
Keep we their memory green.
This be their epitaph. “Traveller, south or west,Go, say at home we heard the trumpet call,And answered. Now beside the sea we rest.Our end was happy if our country thrives:Much was demanded. Lo! our store was small—That which we had we gave—it was our lives.”L.L.
This be their epitaph. “Traveller, south or west,
Go, say at home we heard the trumpet call,
And answered. Now beside the sea we rest.
Our end was happy if our country thrives:
Much was demanded. Lo! our store was small—
That which we had we gave—it was our lives.”
L.L.
Oh, Lyre-bird! tethered to the earth,Thou envy’st not the skylark in the sky,But pour’st a thousand mocking notes of mirth,Drowning the ravished songsters singing nigh.If wing’d—so pure thy voice—thou might’st aspireTo drown indeed the whole seraphic choir!And, listening to thee—captive in thy chains—I think me of a singer such as thouWho captured Nature’s notes for lovely swains,And echoed them behind a mountain plough;And moiled and sang, to prove to Gods aboveThe charm of earthly singing and of love.Leave to the soaring minstrel of the skyHer privilege of song at heaven’s gate;Leave to the nightingale the charms wherebyShe lights the grove and hushes strife and hate.As great a boon—oh, blessed bird!—is thine,Gyv’d to the soiling earth, yet singing still divine!H.J.A.8th Batt., 2nd Infantry Brigade.
Oh, Lyre-bird! tethered to the earth,Thou envy’st not the skylark in the sky,But pour’st a thousand mocking notes of mirth,Drowning the ravished songsters singing nigh.If wing’d—so pure thy voice—thou might’st aspireTo drown indeed the whole seraphic choir!And, listening to thee—captive in thy chains—I think me of a singer such as thouWho captured Nature’s notes for lovely swains,And echoed them behind a mountain plough;And moiled and sang, to prove to Gods aboveThe charm of earthly singing and of love.Leave to the soaring minstrel of the skyHer privilege of song at heaven’s gate;Leave to the nightingale the charms wherebyShe lights the grove and hushes strife and hate.As great a boon—oh, blessed bird!—is thine,Gyv’d to the soiling earth, yet singing still divine!H.J.A.8th Batt., 2nd Infantry Brigade.
Oh, Lyre-bird! tethered to the earth,Thou envy’st not the skylark in the sky,But pour’st a thousand mocking notes of mirth,Drowning the ravished songsters singing nigh.If wing’d—so pure thy voice—thou might’st aspireTo drown indeed the whole seraphic choir!
Oh, Lyre-bird! tethered to the earth,
Thou envy’st not the skylark in the sky,
But pour’st a thousand mocking notes of mirth,
Drowning the ravished songsters singing nigh.
If wing’d—so pure thy voice—thou might’st aspire
To drown indeed the whole seraphic choir!
And, listening to thee—captive in thy chains—I think me of a singer such as thouWho captured Nature’s notes for lovely swains,And echoed them behind a mountain plough;And moiled and sang, to prove to Gods aboveThe charm of earthly singing and of love.
And, listening to thee—captive in thy chains—
I think me of a singer such as thou
Who captured Nature’s notes for lovely swains,
And echoed them behind a mountain plough;
And moiled and sang, to prove to Gods above
The charm of earthly singing and of love.
Leave to the soaring minstrel of the skyHer privilege of song at heaven’s gate;Leave to the nightingale the charms wherebyShe lights the grove and hushes strife and hate.As great a boon—oh, blessed bird!—is thine,Gyv’d to the soiling earth, yet singing still divine!H.J.A.8th Batt., 2nd Infantry Brigade.
Leave to the soaring minstrel of the sky
Her privilege of song at heaven’s gate;
Leave to the nightingale the charms whereby
She lights the grove and hushes strife and hate.
As great a boon—oh, blessed bird!—is thine,
Gyv’d to the soiling earth, yet singing still divine!
H.J.A.
8th Batt., 2nd Infantry Brigade.