OUR FORGOTTEN ANZAC POEM

Early last century, a poem was written and published by permission of the Repatriation Department and widely distributed as an “Official Anzac Homecoming Memento”. 

Soon after, all memory of the poem disappeared in the mists of time, save perhaps for those rare occasions when it has been appropriate to recite it to small audiences as part of my performance poetry repertoire.

My best efforts over more than a decade have failed to see the poem – Our Anzacs – accorded the recognition it deserves as part of Australia’s Anzac history. 

Letters to various military agencies, including the RSL and the Australian War Memorial, have gone unanswered and offers to recite the poem as it was intended to be performed have been refused by my local RSL chapter, which has advised informally that the nature of Anzac Day ceremonies is determined centrally by the RSL.

In short, the poem has received the sort of response from officialdom one would expect if it lacked relevance, significance or the remotest semblance of talent. 

None of this can be said of Our Anzacs.

Our Anzacs was originally published under the nom de plume ‘Lou Mal’.  The reason for this was the fact that the poem was the work of a woman and, the story goes, what could a woman possibly know of war and sacrifice? 

So it was published under a masculine sounding nom de plume for enhanced credibility.

Lou Mal was in fact Louisa Mallard and she was my great grandmother.

Louisa's son, my grandfather, Lance Mallard served at Gallipoli and throughout the WWI campaigns. He was promoted in the field on several occasion - twice in the same day on one occasion - and awarded the Military Cross for bravery, so I suspect Louisa understood sacrifice only too well. 

More importantly, as the final two stanzas of the poem demonstrate with great clarity and humility, she also had a very deep and personal understanding of the toll military service exacted from our Anzacs and continues to exact from our servicemen and women to this day.

While Our Anzacs clearly has merit as a work of poetry in its own right, along with clear historical significance, I have been reluctant to publish the poem on the internet because I feel it should first be acknowledged by Australian military agencies and the author's name put to it. 

However, as 100th Anniversary celebrations approach and given the fact that officialdom clearly doesn't share my views about appropriate recognition, I have decided to relent and post Our Anzacs here on the Hunters’ Stand.

I hope you enjoy Louisa’s work as much as people have enjoyed my recitations over the years. 

It was the first poem I ever learned, thanks to the patience of my ol' dad and I confess I am still unable to get through it without misting-up. 

One day I hope to record it and post it on Youtube, where, despite the utter indifference of the relevant agencies, I am certain it will gain the recognition it deserves as a contribution to Australia’s rich Anzac history.  

Finally, for those who may not recognise the esoteric reference to "Their Birdie" in the opening line of the first stanza, it is a reference to Lieutenant General Sir William Birdwood, a senior officer in Britain’s pre-1914 Indian Army, who, in December 1914, was appointed to the command of the Australian and New Zealand forces then assembling in Egypt.  

Lieutenant General Sir William Birdwood is the man who christened our forces "Anzacs" and his men called him 'Birdie'.

Our Anzacs

Their "Birdie" called them Anzacs, he knew the brand so well;

He labelled it "War Worthy" and "Guaranteed through Hell."

They stirred the allied nations in their war for peace on earth,

Their dashing deeds cast queries as to their right of birth,

And England's hoary Lion swore sire to his cub,

He roared his claim as father above the world's hubbub,

And vowed to their true breeding and royal pedigree,

His mighty paw attested that his royal cubs they be.

They came of grand old forebears, who glory in their name,

Whose doughty deeds have filtered, along the feline vein;

They come of daring ages, of time of Pict, and Scot,

From knights who fought at Senlac when Harold "got it hot."

From loins of hardy Viking, of Anglan, Norman, Dane,

Whose ancestry goes backwards, to Father Adam's name;

From grand old Magna Charta, and feuds of Doomsday Book,

Whose rights were signed at Runnymede, whose fathers undertook, 

To fight and keep intact, by might of Christ the Lord,

And held as precious treasure, by battle-axe and sword.

These men, the men of Anzac, big shouldered, lithe of hip,

Bronzed by their native sunshine, with down upon the lip;

They heard the beat of war drum, through their orchards and their corn,

Above the bleat and bellow, the roar of guns was borne.

The bugle's note came sounding, above the factory hum,

In one insistent bidding, of "Every son must come."

And, oh!  they  answered proudly, to the Lion's call outright,

They went like their old sires, and as their scions might,

With kiss of mother, sweetheart, they went across the sea,

They went for dear Australia, to keep her safe and free,

They left each budding promise, bright hopes they left behind,

With pride of race and heritage burnt in their virile mind.

They hurried, aye, they hurried, to camp and drill and ship,

They slipped into the khaki, with steady eye and lip;

They said their farewells lightly, their smile was just as bright,

They laughed at being heroes, and dubbed it "blatherskite";

Each mate they gave a handshake, with "So-long, Bill, Jim, Jack,

You keep the cradle rocking, till we bally-well get back."

They went and wrote great pages of new-made history,

Which started at their landing, at grim Gallipoli.

They carved our arms at Helles, at Gaba Tepe the same;

At Krithia, and at Courtney's Post, they won Australia fame.

They broke the leash like bloodhounds at Suvla Bay and then,

At Chunuk and at Sari Bahr they fell undying men.

We still remember Quinn's Post, we can't forget Lone Pine,

The shells with hell's own thunder, the bullet's curdling whine.

We know of those stiff ridges, and spurs of Aghyll Dere;

The blood that gushed in rivulets, the awful gouts spilt there;

It clotted on their tunics again at Habiteh,

It christened them our Anzacs, and immortal they shall be.

'Tis writ in Shrapnel Gully, in crimson type that thrills,

From highest peak of Russell's Top, down to its lowest hills,

The name of dear Australia, the grandest land there be!

Some precious bones beneath some stones wrote her first history.

And then the Lion's signal, in muffled snarl arose,

For his Anzac cubs to up and pack, and the Dards campaign to close.

Unleashed again, these blood cubs, with muscle-tightened arm,

Came close to grips with Belgium, in Flanders, to the Marne.

Like Vulcan they bent Hindenburg, as giants pushed the Somme;

From battle on to battle they still went pushing on.

And others of true valour, those of the same true vein,

Deep in the sandy desert, the mountain kop, or plain,

With guns 'twixt hump of camel, with mortar's dragging weight,

They sprang in to war action, they did not hesitate.

To them there was no duty so urgent, near of heart,

But only one pervading, "To up and do their part."

Sharp spurs of dizzy mountains, sand troughs were trailed by them, 

Whose dogged courage drove the Turk out of Jerusalem.

Nor will they stop to parley until the final win,

Which breaks the gates of Brussels, and takes them to Berlin.

And when the Eagle spies them from his eyrie on the hill,

He'll know that they are Anzacs, and he must foot the bill.

But now the old Lion, with swelled and mighty chest,

With pride in his cubs' valour, has ordered them a rest.

Like magic craft, the order has passed from line to line,

And our illustrious Anzacs are hurrying to time,

To board the waiting transports, and plough the tumbling foam,

With hearts that beat like turbines at thought of coming home!

Ho!  set the church bells ringing, and streamer every mast,

Let bunting flap its greeting as these great heroes pass;

Make every drum beat proudly, and every throat give cheer;

The streets to shake with music to have our Anzacs here.

Then twine your pretty garlands, fit offerings to the brave,

And have your gifts in readiness - Remember What They Gave.

For some of them are battered, their future winnings lost,

When Glory stooped to kiss them it tolled them for the cost,

It left their hopes a wreckage, their manhood part undone,

So it's up to us to pay them back for what those losings won!

LOU MAL

Louisa Maria Mallard - 1859 - 1944