Jessie Pope was an English poet, writer and journalist, who remains best known for her patriotic motivational poems published during World War I. Wilfred OwenSiegfried Sassoon has grown.
Born in Leicester, she was educated at North London Collegiate School. She was a regular contributor to Punch, The Daily Mail and The Daily Express, also writing for Vanity Fair, Pall Mall Magazine and the Windsor,
A lesser-known literary contribution was Pope's discovery of Robert Noonan's novel The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, when his daughter mentioned the manuscript to her after his death. Pope recommended it to her publisher, ... more »
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Jessie Pope Poems
By bridge and battery, town and trench, They're fighting with bull-dog pluck; Not one, from Tommy to General French, Is down upon his luck.
The Blackest Lie
Big bully Belgium, Breathing blood and flame, Crafty as a serpent In a cunning game,
Play The Game
Twenty-Two stalwarts in stripes and shorts Kicking a ball along, Set in a square of leather-lunged sports Twenty-two thousand strong,
The call came in the stormy night, Beneath a stranger's sky. The soldier of a life-long fight, Still fighting, went to die.
Who's for the trench- Are you, my laddie? Who'll follow French- Will you, my laddie?
Marching To Germany
Swing along together, lads ; we'll have a little song, Kits won't be so heavy and the way won't be so long. We're goin' to cook ' the Sossiges,' to cook 'em hot and strong While we go marching to Germany.
Who's for the Game?
Who’s for the game, the biggest that’s played, The red crashing game of a fight? Who’ll grip and tackle the job unafraid?
Comrades in Arms-Lets
Not theirs the popular uniform That takes the feminine heart by storm, And wins soft glances, shy or warm, The perquisites of pluck.
The Knitting Song
SOLDIER lad, on the sodden ground, Sailor lad on the seas, Can't you hear a little clicketty sound
Shining pins that dart and click In the fireside’s sheltered peace Check the thoughts the cluster thick -
Darkness expectant, discreet Only a lamp here and there, Gloom in the clattering street, Stygian black in the square;
A Humble Appeal
She was a pretty, nicely mannered mare, The children's pet, the master's pride and care, Until a man in khaki came one day, Looked at her teeth, and hurried her away.
I. THE COMMAND To his crack army corps, 'twas the Kaiser who spoke : By Bavarians bold must the British be broke.
Little and Good
Young Thompson was a bit too short, But hard as nails and level-headed, And in his soul the proper sort Of dogged pluck was deeply bedded ;
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
By bridge and battery, town and trench,
They're fighting with bull-dog pluck;
Not one, from Tommy to General French,
Is down upon his luck.
There are some who stand and some who fall,
But how does the chorus go
That echoing chant in the hearts of all?
'Are we downhearted? NO!'
There's Jack, God bless him, upon the foam,
His isn't an easy task,
To strike for England, to strike right home,
So much, no more, does he ask.
On the dreadnought's deck where the big guns bark,
Or in quiet depths below
The salt wind wafts us a chantey. Hark !