Seager, Alexandrine – August 1917
The days drag by mid the drifting sand,
And desolation of Pharaoh’s land;
The light horse cursing protestingly
“We’re out of the war; it’s infantry
If a chap is to get a single chance
He must take a footslogger’s job in France”
Bits its’ come in the end, as all things must,
Though impatient we wait or simply trust
That magical tide is affairs of men
And fortune’s flood is within light horse ken.
The gallant dead that at Anzac sleep
By the sound of booming waters deep–
Where is requiem for the proud and brave,
Sings the ceaseless song of the restless wave–
Awake in the pride of their glowing youth
For the sight that is light horse work in truth
‘Twas a dream of a glorious Melbourne Cup,
With each horse a winner and “owners up”
Charging them there with a deafening yell,
Like all the devils let loose from Hell.
Romani! Our day has come at last.
Romani! Our furious fight and fast.
Whilst echoing wide o’er the desert drear,
Rolls the rollicking, roaring light house cheer.
With dominant daring, and strafing strife.
Each galloping moment is pulsing life,
Should we live till we’re dull and worn and old,
And the red blood of youth is pale and cold,
In memory’s moment we’ll live again
Romani! Ah! life was not lived in vain,
And youth’s glad wild river once more will run
In the blood-red rays of the setting sun.
August 2nd, 1917