Jessie Pope

(18 March 1868 - 14 December 1941 / Leicestershire, England)

Jessie Pope
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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.

Early Career

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,

Prose Editor

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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Comments about Jessie Pope

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  • habibifromdaeast (11/6/2018 6:25:00 AM)

    I am on camel rrrright now. pope sehr gut,

  • ya yeet (11/6/2018 6:24:00 AM)

    bOi bOi bOi this ain't it

  • dddddddddddd (10/19/2018 6:10:00 AM)


  • ololol (10/19/2018 6:05:00 AM)

    Jessie Pope looks like a hippy and a man

  • YOUR MOTHER V2 (10/19/2018 6:04:00 AM)

    Jessie Pope looks like a hippy

  • YOUR MOTHER V2 (10/19/2018 6:03:00 AM)

    Jessie Pope looks like a MAN

  • YOUR MOTHER (10/19/2018 6:02:00 AM)

    this poem is the best everyone should just go to war and kill them self's

  • nugget (10/16/2018 7:28:00 PM)


  • wilfred owen (10/4/2018 4:34:00 AM)

    commit toaster bath or ill linch your family

  • Jessie Pope (6/25/2018 4:29:00 AM)

    Hey guys I am getting my nails are you doing it wrong that the company has to do it again

Read all 21 comments »
Best Poem of Jessie Pope


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 !

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