The Letters Of The Dead
A letter came from Dick to-day;
A greeting glad he sends to me.
He tells of one more bloody fray—
Of how with bomb and rifle they
Have put their mark for all to see
Across rock-ribbed Gallipoli.
“How are you doing? Hope all's well,
I in great nick, and like the work.
Though there may be a brimstone smell,
And other pungent hints of Hell,
Not Satan's self can make us shirk
Our task of hitting up the Turk.
“You bet old Slacks is not half bad
He knows his business in a scrim.
He gets cold steel, or we are glad
To stop him with a bullet, lad.
Or sling a bomb his hair to trim;
But, straight, we throw no mud at him.
“He fights and falls, and comes again,
And knocks our charging lines about.
He's game at heart, and tough in grain,
And canters through the leaded rain,
Chock full of mettle—not a doubt
'T will do us proud to put him out.
“But that's our job; to see it through
We've made our minds up, come what may,
This noon we had our work to do.
The shells were dropping two by two;
We fairly felt their bullets play
Among our hair for half a day.
“One clipped my ear, a red-hot kiss,
Another beggar chipped my shin.
They pass you with a vicious hiss
That makes you duck; but, hit or miss,
It isn't in the Sultan's skin
To shift Australia's cheerful grin.
“My oath, old man, though we were prone
We didn't take it lying down.
I got a dozen on my own—
All dread of killing now is flown;
It is the game, and, hard and brown,
We're wading in for freedom's crown.
“Big guns are booming as I write,
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poem by Edward George Dyson
Added by Poetry Lover
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