A Soldiers
Farewell to his Son
I stand and watch you,
little son,
Your bosom's rise and fall,
An old rag dog beside your cheek,
A gaily coloured ball.
Your curly hair is ruffled as you
Rest there fast asleep,
And silently I tip-toe in
To have one last long peep.
I come to say farewell to you,
My little snowy son.
And as I do I hope that you will
Never slope a gun,
Or hear dive-bombers and
Their dreadful whining roar,
Or see or feel their loads of death
As overhead they soar.
I trust that you will never need
To go abroad to fight,
Or learn the awful lesson soon
That might to some is right,
Or see your cobber’s blown to scraps
Or die a lingering death,
with vapours foul and filthy
When the blood-flow chokes the breath.
I hope that you will never know
The dangers of the sea.
And that is why I leave you now
To hold your liberty,
To slay the demon War God
I must leave you for a while
In mother's care - till stars again
From peaceful heaven smile.
Your mother is your daddy
now,
To guard your little ways,
Yet ever I'll be thinking of you both
In future days.
I must give up your tender years,
The joys I'll sorely miss,
My little man, farewell, so long,
I leave you with a kiss.
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The Anzac on the Wall
Loitering in a country town, 'cos I had some time to spare
I went into an antique shop, to see what was there.
Bikes and pumps, and kero lamps, the old shop had it all,
then I was taken prisoner, by the Anzac on the wall.
Such an honest open face, a young man in his prime,
and when I looked at the photograph, his eyes locked onto
mine.
A face so proud and confident, inside a wooden frame,
I felt myself drawn to him, in a way I can't explain.
"That
Anzac have a name?" I asked, the old bloke didn't know.
He said,
"Those who could have told me passed on long ago."
Anyway the old bloke kept on talking, and according to his
tale,
the photo was unwanted junk, bought at a clearance sale.
"I
asked around" the old man said, "But no one knew his face",
he's been up
on that wall for years, deserves a better place,
someone must have loved him, it seems a shame somehow."
I nodded, and said quietly, "Oh well I'll take him now."
So
you come home with me mate - too long you'd be alone,
I don't even
know your name mate, but you're welcome in my home.
Did you fight at Flanders? Or perhaps Gallipoli?
I'll never know the answer, but I know you fought for me.
I
wonder where they sent you mate, when you answered the call,
Were you
killed in action, did you have a home at all?
You must have had a family - will you be claimed one day?
To be honest mate, I hope not, cause I'm proud to have you
stay.
Sometimes
visitors look at you, and then they question me,
And I tell a
small white lie, and claim you're family.
They say, "You must be proud of him", I tell them one and
all -
that's why you got pride of place mate - the Anzac on the
wall!
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