Some’s singin’ songs as, when I left, they wasn’t even ripe,
(A-showin’ ’at they’s rookies wot ain’t got a service stripe);
But jus’ the same they’re good ol’ Yanks, and that’s the reason why
I likes the jazz ’n’ barber shop o’ the trucks a-rollin’ by.
Jus’ God and Gen’rul Pershing knows where these here birds’ll light,
Where them bumpin’ trucks is bound for under camouflage o’ night,
When they can’t take aero pitchers with their Fokkers in the sky
Of our changes o’ location by the trucks a-rollin’ by.
So, altho’ my bed is puddles an’ I’m soaked through to the hide,
My heart’s out with them doughboys on their bouncin’, singin’ ride;
They’re bound for paths o’ glory, or, p’raps, to fight ’n’ die—
God bless that Yankee cargo in the trucks a-rollin’ by.
THE GRAVES OF GALLIPOLI
L. L. (A. N. Z. A. C.)
From “The Anzac Book.” Cassell & Co., Ltd., Publishers, London. Special permission to reproduce in this book.
This poem is one of many that were written to commemorate the stubborn bravery of the Anzacs, the British soldiers from Australia and New Zealand. These indomitables came half way round the globe at Britain’s first call. Their first appearance was in Egypt, where they drove the German-led Turks back into the desert and saved the Suez canal. They were and are officially designated the “Australian and New Zealand Army Corps,” a title too long for common use. They have won fame and the world’s admiration as the “Anzacs,” a word made by running together the first letters of their official title. Australia’s own name for her soldier is Bill-Jim. “The Graves of Gallipoli” is one of the most noble and tender poems that have come to us out of the war.
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 sing
To English lads beneath—the wind will keep
Its ancient lullaby.
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 falls
Must lie in foreign earth.” Alas! our dead
Lie buried far away.