The Happy Warrior (2 page)

The people within these pages represent the thousands who have given of themselves so generously towards Australia's heritage, our traditions and our hope for the future. So this anthology is of a special kind, with a special purpose. It is partly to entertain. It is also partly to provide insight into the minds and hearts of soldiers, sailors and airmen and women who have served or are still serving their country, thus to reach those little aware of their effort and sacrifice.

Editing has been minimal, retaining the original ‘text' (at times no more than a scribble) and adding an extra word only where it appears to have been missed by mistake. Remember while reading that most of these poems were written at a time when there was no such thing as 
‘political correctness'! Punctuation, where non-existent, has been inserted; where confusing, amended as far as possible to honour the intention of the individual poet. Verse and line struc-ture have been arranged for visual variation according to the era and style of poem. Ranks are given as written at the time.

If you buy this book: thank you! The poems for the anthology have been given free of charge and proceeds from its sale will help ex-service personnel. Or you might pick the book up in a library, or see it on the desk or bookshelf of a friend. If so, and if you feel moved, you can make a donation to the Returned and Services League or Legacy office, or the Regular Defence Force Welfare Association in Canberra. To reassure you, there are no administration costs: all moneys will go straight to the point of need.

By the way, if you recognise a poem by ‘Anon', and know its author or anything about it, we would be grateful if you would contact us with the information. Enjoy (and weep over) this book — we did!

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he

That every man in arms should wish to be?

– It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought

Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought

Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought:

Whose high endeavours are an inward light

That makes the path before him always bright:

Who, with a natural instinct to discern

What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;

Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,

But makes his moral being his prime care;

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain,

And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!

Turns his necessity to glorious gain;

In face of these doth exercise a power

Which is our human nature's highest dower;

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves

Of their bad influence, and their good receives:

By objects, which might force the soul to abate

Her feeling, rendered more compassionate;

Is placable — because occasions rise

So often that demand such sacrifice;

More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,

As tempted more; more able to endure,

As more exposed to suffering and distress;

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.

'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends

Upon that law as on the best of friends;

Whence, in a state where men are tempted still

To evil for a guard against worse ill,

And what in quality or act is best

Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,

He labours good on good to fix, and owes

To virtue every triumph that he knows:

Who, if he rise to station of command,

Rises by open means; and there will stand

On honourable terms, or else retire,

And in himself possess his own desire;

Who comprehends his trust, and to the same

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;

And therefore does not stoop or lie in wait

For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;

Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,

Like showers of manna, if they come at all:

Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,

Or mild concerns of ordinary life,

A constant influence, a peculiar grace;

But who, if he be called upon to face

Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined

Great issues, good or bad for human kind,

Is happy as a Lover; and attired

With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired;

And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;

Or if an unexpected call succeed,

Come when it will, is equal to the need:

He who, though thus endued as with a sense

And faculty for storm and turbulence,

Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans

To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;

Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be

Are at his heart; and such fidelity

It is his darling passion to approve;

More brave for this that he hath much to love: —

'Tis, finally, the Man, Who, lifted high,

Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,

Or left unthought-of in obscurity, —

Who, with a toward or untoward lot,

Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not—

Plays, in the many games of life, that one

Where what he most doth value must be won:

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,

Nor thought of tender happiness betray;

Who, not content that former worth stand fast,

Looks forward, persevering to the last,

From well to better, daily self-surpast:

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth

For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,

Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,

And leave a dead unprofitable name —

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:

This is the happy Warrior; this is He

That every Man in arms should wish to be.

William Wordsworth

(1770 – 1850)

En Avant

(“Let us be going”)

There's a voice from 'way down under,

Ringing 'round the circling foam,

And it says, in tones of thunder —

“Send, at once, my Bushmen home!”

'Tis Australia that's calling,

And we echo, everyone,

Sick of this ignoble brawling —

“Send us home; our work is done!”

In the hour of Britain's trial,

When successful foes assailed,

And the noblest self-denial

And heroic courage failed,

Never one did flinch or falter,

But we bared our bosoms leal

On the sacrificial altar

Of our nation's common weal.

Through the marches, fever haunted,

Whence pale Death chill arrows drew,

And his ghostly banner flaunted

Ever on our straining view;

Onward, where the straight neck rested

Far below each frowning height,

We have hewn a path and wrested

Vict'ry in our foes' despite.

And the brown veld knows us, passing,

And our foeman know us too,

On their rocky kopjes massing,

For our bullets travel true.

So they greet us when they meet us,

Along the distant way,

[Missing Line]

Is that they've found that it will pay.

On our native hills and sandy plains,

In peaceful lands afar,

We learned things that come in handy

In the deadly game of war.

For in tracking, dodging, feinting —

Tricks which every huntsman knows —

Lies the art of circumventing

Still more cunning human foes.

Well enough for child or zeny

To be dumbly, blindly, led,

Governed like a tossed-up penny —

Tail, defeat; a victory, head.

Independent thought and action,

Trending to a given goal,

Bind together sum and fraction

In a strong, cohesive whole.

Strange that, for these vital factors,

In our measure of success,

Academical detractors

Condemnation strong express.

True, we don't go ‘Nap' on polish-,

Soldiers' business is to kill,

And we'd cheerfully abolish

Half the service form and drill.

Though the vile ‘by numbers' racket

I may aptly use in rhyme,

Plain horse-sense, with pluck to back it,

Suits the Bushmen every time.

Of mere regimental antics

We are wearied, and would fain

Quit these senseless corybantics

And take to the bush again.

Pleased for once, we'll do a double

To the stations in the west,

Where the non-coms cease to trouble

And a fellow gets a rest

Bosses there don't care a (blessing)

Whether Smith keep step with Jones,

And there's no ‘eyes right' and dressing

Heelpegs, nosebags, saddles, stones.

We can sit the war-horse fairly

When we're out ‘upon our own',

And a ‘want of training' rarely

Proves the ‘power behind the thrown';

But we're bound to take a tumble

When red tape replaces brains

And some military bumble

Comes and takes away the reins.

Not so much we blame the person

When official acts annoy;

What we stop to heave a curse on

Is the system they employ,

With its hidebound regulations,

And its blind obedience rules —

Well designed abominations

For the stock-in-trade of fools.

True, the starred, an ill-starred Johnny,

Dollars many, gumption ‘nix',

Though in drill book lore a Don,

He caps the blessed bag of tricks.

For these embryo tacticians

Humbug hath attractions rare

And the ‘Army's best traditions'

Find their best exponents there.

Such may form a theme for joking,

But the humour's not so gay

When we find John Bull revoking

As to our Rhodesian pay.

Things are crooked with an Empire

Upon which the sun never sets

When the military vampire

Cannot pay its lawful debts.

I've no wish to pose as mentor

In respect to shady modes

Shown by that financial centaur

Johnny Ball and Cecil Rhodes,

But his paper credit's riddled

Since he broke his bond to pay,

And we're dished and jerry diddled

Out of sixty pence a day.

Thus, we're ‘fed up'. Others phrase it

In a manner less polite,

Which, being the sad case, it

Wouldn't do for me to write.

So I'll wind up with a chorus,

And all hands will join the strain —

We have other work before us:

Kindly send us home again!

Epilogue

Away, my bush-bred Pegasus! My nimble brumby go!

Let's spread aboard the joyful news all Bushmen long to know: For fourteen months we've battled with the drill book and the Boer, And which has been our direst foe I cannot tell, I'm sure; At all event we've knocked both out and now, our troubles past, Fling up your hat and kick it, boys —

We're going home at last!

Trooper Fred H. Wyse

1st Australian Bushmen

(AWM 3 DRL 6070A)

When Other Lips and Other Hearts

When other lips and other hearts their tales of love shall tell

In language whose excess imparts the power they feel so well,

There maybe perhaps in such a scene

Some recollection of days that have happy been;

And you'll remember me, and you'll remember me.

When coldness of deceit shall slight the beauty now they prize

And deem it but a faded light which beams within your eyes,

Then you will remember me.

When hollow hearts shall wear a mask

T'will break your own to see in such a moment —

I but ask, that you'll remember me.

C. T. Mealing

14 August 1900

(AWM PR 00752)

Oh, Give Me Back the Days…

Oh, give me back the days of long ago,

When life was one long glad and everlasting dream

When things that were less than things that seem

No thought of sorrow then no thought of woe;

Oh give me back, give me back the days of long ago!

Oh give me back the days of long ago

When first fresh breezes breathed from far away,

When morning's splendour lingered through the day,

No thought of sorrow then no thought of woe;

Oh give me back, give me back the days of long ago!

Oh give me back the days of long ago,

When life with flashing power was all agleam