A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Farewell to Anzac
FAREWELL TO ANZAC
OH, hump your swag and leave, lads, the ships are in the bay;
We've got our marching orders now, it's time to come away;
And a long good-bye to Anzac beach where blood has flowed in vain,
For we're leaving it, leaving it—game to fight again!
But some there are will never quit that bleak and bloody shore,
And some that marched and fought with us will fight and march no more;
Their blood has bought till judgment day the slopes they stormed so well,
And we're leaving them, leaving them, sleeping where they fell!
(Leaving them, leaving them, the bravest and the best;
Leaving them, leaving them, and maybe glad to rest!
We've done our best with yesterday, to-morrow's still our own—
But we're leaving them, leaving them, sleeping all alone!)
Ay, they are gone beyond it all, the praising and the blame,
And many a man may win renown, but none more fair
a fame;
They showed the world Australia's lads knew well the way to die,
And we're leaving them, leaving them, quiet where they lie!
(Leaving them, leaving them, sleeping where they died;
Leaving them, leaving them, in their glory and their pride—
Round them sea and barren land, over them the sky,
Oh, we're leaving them, leaving them, quiet where they lie!)
QUEENSLANDERS
LEAN brown lords of the Brisbane beaches,
Lithe-limbed kings of the Culgoa bends,
Princes that ride where the Roper reaches,
Captains that camp where the grey Gulf ends—
Never such goodly men together
Marched since the kingdoms first made war;
Nothing so proud as the Emu Feather
Waved in an English wind before!
Ardour and faith of those keen brown faces!
Challenge and strength of those big brown hands!
Eyes that have flashed upon wide-flung spaces!
Chins that have conquered in fierce far lands!—
Flood could not daunt them, Drought could not break them;
Deep in their hearts is their sun's own fire;
Blood of thine own blood, England, take them!
These are the swords of thy soul's desire!