Jessie Pope: Verses about Time

Why do we cheer those brown-faced boys with pride,
Why do dense crowds press round on every side,
Why do we throw them flowers, our hearts aglow?
Well—turn a minute to three years ago.

A moonlit beach—a cliff of scrub and bush—
The creeping, crowded boats—a breathless hush—,
A cranch of keels —a leap, a shallow splash—
And then Inferno, thunder, blaze and crash.

“Straight as a bayonet”—riddled where they fell;
Hacking the wire, across that strip of Hell;
Those untried heroes—husky and blood-drenched—
Hurled back the Turkish outposts —and entrenched!

The thing that was impossible was done!
From the beginning thus have Britons won.
So, year by year, in words of fire and gold,
The Anzacs’ glorious landing shall be told

It hangs on the wall, a trifle battered,
The wire is warped and the lining tattered.
And the leather inside shows speakingly how
It’s been wet with the sweat of a soldier’s brow.

Month after month, through that fierce campaign—
The bitterest fight that was fought in vain—
It was jammed on an Anzac’s lean, brown poll,
As he pierced his way to a glimpse of goal.

Furlong by furlong, aye, inch by inch,
From the sniping shot to the cold-steel, clinch-
Fists, “rough-housing,” any old tools—
He got there each time by “Rafferty rules.”

Till a shell, with his name on, gave him a call—
And that is the tale of the cap on the wall,
But the sequel, though strange, is an equally true one—
Its owner, thank God, is now wearing a new one.

WHEN the beagles are running like steam,
When the plough is as sticky as glue,
When the scent is an absolute scream,
And there's wire in the fence to get through
Who waits to look after his pal ?
Hung up? then he's out of the fun.
Torn, muddy, and blown, every man on his own
That's the time-honoured rule of the run.

There's wire in the fences of France.
There are bullets that whistle and spit.
The word goes along to advance,
And the wire clutches somebody's kit.
' Hold hard ! I'll unhook you, old chap.
No hurry. Oh, rubbish What rot!'
Shots patter and thud, shells burst in the mud.
' Don't pull ! Now, you're clear no, you're not!'

Well, that is how the business is done.
A sportsman will brook no delay,
With hounds it's life and death run,
He's out for himself all the way.
But when black Eternity gapes
There's time and there's patience enough.
A case of 'ware wire, and a pal under fire
' No hurry ' that's British-made stuff !

Estelle, when you and I were rising nine
Perhaps you'd rather I suppressed the date
I spent a shilling on a valentine
And left it for you at the garden gate.
Therein my heart was imaged in a bower
Of tinsel roses, with a tender verse on;
I followed it in less than half an hour
Impatient for your gratitude in person.

You ran and kissed my cheek with candied lips,
A habit, by the way, you've since neglected;
You gambolled up and down in little skips,
Yet failed to do the thing that I expected.
It should have been a give-and-take affair;
You had my tinsel heart, while I had not one,
And when I asked for yours, to make it square,
You playfully remarked you hadn't got one.

I was appalled my little bosom heaved
Such disappointment did not seem correct.
With rising tears I felt myself deceived
And lost my temper at your base neglect.
'I'll have mine back I paid for it, it's mine!'
I cried. We fought and tore the paper frilling.
By dint of nail you kept that valentine,
And left me howling for my wasted shilling.

Since then how many years have slipped away?
And time has tamed my temper to submission.
You're tall and dignified, and yet to-day
I find myself in just the same position.
The heart from out my bosom you've decoyed,
Though day by day with strenuous endeavour
I would recall it to its aching void.
I strive in vain my heart is yours for ever.