"They were so young," my father says, "so brave --
The whistling brown men from the far away.
Foemen by Allah! worth a fighting day
As they came up wave on unbending wave.
Here was a trench once. Now it is a grave.
They shuffled cards and took war much as play,
Threw ribald words about for hill and bay,
'Imshi!' 'What price a haircut and a shave!'"
"Anzacs!" they called themselves -- a haunting name.
It seems to hang about the whispering air.
They stole away like ghosts, and by the sea
Whence they had come left with their sick and lame. . . .
Why do I hear through phantom tramping there
The sound of men still whistling carelessly?
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 26 April 1938
