An Anzac Cap

It hangs on the wall, a trifle battered, The wire is warped and the lining tattered. And the leather inside shows speakingly how It’s been wet with the sweat of a soldier’s brow. Month after month, through that fierce campaign— The bitterest fight that was fought in vain— It was jammed on an Anzac’s lean, brown poll, As he pierced his way to a glimpse of goal. Furlong by furlong, aye, inch by inch, From the sniping shot to the cold-steel, clinch- Fists, “rough-housing,” any old tools— He got there each time by “Rafferty rules.” Till a shell, with his name on, gave him a call— And that is the tale of the cap on the wall, But the sequel, though strange, is an equally true one— Its owner, thank God, is now wearing a new one.