A Digger on Gallipoli

(Being the reflections of “The Sentimental Bloke”)

There's a Digger on Gallipoli; 'is name was Ginger Mick;
   But 'e won't ever need our 'elp no more.
When Jacko's bullet sent 'im West it 'urt me to the quick;
   An', ever since, I've missed me cobber sore.
There's a Digger on Gallipoli 'oo was a friend of mine;
   Down there by Sari Bair 'e's sleepin' well.
'E reckoned war was bonzer sport an' soljerin' was fine;
   But, if 'e come back now, 'e'd think it 'ell.

E'd think it 'ell' to mooch around in these 'ere peaceful days,
   An' beg a favor that should be a right.
'E'd think it 'ell that countrymen 'oo smothered 'im with praise
   An' promises when 'e went out to fight,
Could turn 'im down when 'e come back stone cold, an' go their ways.
   Pass, gay an' 'eedless, on the other side,
An' let 'im battle. . . When I think these things, why, spare me days!
   I ain't so sorry now, that Ginger died.

For Ginger was a 'ero once, like ev'ry other lad —
   A 'ero great an' glorious was 'e.
But Ginger 'ome, an' down an' out, 'is luck all to the bad.
   An' Ginger arstin' aid— wot would 'e be?
Why, jist a Digger out of work the same as other boys,
   A worthy bloke, but slightly in the way.....
Well; when ole Ginger spilt 'is thorts 'e made a wicked noise,
   An' this is wot I reckon Mick would say.

'E'd say: "Gawblimy! Ain't a bloke the same bloke, 'ere, today,
   As marched down this same street a few years back
In a bloomin' blaze of glory, an' to one long, loud 'Ooray!
   That you yelled until we thort yer lungs would crack?
Yer purses were wide open then; the quids were flyin' round;
   An' promises? Oh, 'strewth! you made a row!
Them promises rung in our ears with quite a pleasin' sound;
   An' now— Well, blimey! Wot about it now?

"Jist think them thorts you used to think when things were lookin' blue,
   An' cannons made the music 'over there.'
You didn't 'think' of givin' then. No fear! You dam well knew
   You'd fork out every bean that you could spare.
There was rumors in the papers, there was rumblin's in the ground.
   There was bugles wailin' — wailin' on the breeze,
An' the soljer boys in khaki was meanderin' around,
   An' a Digger was a Digger, if you please.

"Oh, a Digger WAS a Digger, when you wanted coves to fight,
   An' death an' war was 'ard things to ferget;
An' a Digger was a 'ero when the world looked black as night.
   Well — a Digger out o' work's a Digger yet.
Aw! Never mind the promises, an' never mind the cheers,
   An' jist ferget them things you used to say;
Per'aps you was excited in them soul-upsettin' years;
   But, blimey! Do the dinkum thing today!

"Wot would you do if war come down an' gripped you in the night?
   Wot would you do if bugles blared again?
Wot would you do if, once again, the world went mad with fight,
   An' the country sent a call around fer men?
Wot would you do— Aw, blimey! Wot?—if danger loomed ahead,
   An' the sway of war seemed goin' any'ow,
While ev'ry day you read the lists of dyin'—an' the dead?
   Well, take a tumble, friends; an' do it now!

There's a Digger on Gallipoli, tucked in 'is little grave,
   An' 'e'll never tread the Melbourne streets no more.
'E marched away an' took the count, 'is countrymen to save,
   But 'E ain't arstin 'elp: 'e's marked 'is score.
There's Diggers on Gallipoli, there's men asleep in France—
   Aye, sound asleep; an' talk they never will.
But I seem to 'ear a whisperin': "Ah, give the boys a chance!
   An' don't ferget there's Diggers livin' still."

“C. J. Dennis”
Herald, 6 April 1922, p1