NORTH QUEENSLAND’S CALL TO ARMS

On Tuesday, fourth of August, century twenty, year fourteenth,
From Melbourne flashed the summons to North Queensland so serene
To arms! All tropic soldiers from age forty to eighteen,
Your British mother calls you for your country and your King;
‘Cause the haughty Kaiser’s marching on the Belgian fortress, Liege,
And England’s guns must rattle when her little friend’s besieged!
But she needs her sons from Queensland, where the tropic waters flow,
And cowards never were produced where the rich banana grows.

‘Mid the city’s hum and bustle, by busy Cleveland Bay,
The startling call, repeated, entered every home that day.
But though mothers, wives and sisters heard the news with grim dismay
Not a one of them, nor sweethearts said “Citizen Soldiers stay”;
No, ’twas “Go and do your duty, as Australians did before,
When they crossed the boundless ocean to fight the valiant Boer,
And we’ll probably bear the burden of the loved ones left behind,
While you show the world that Britons can be bred south of the Line.

So the bugle call reverberates round majestic Castle Hill,
And deserted are the farm, mine, desk and sugar mill.
For the khaki-clad contingents are a-falling in to drill,
And the big troopship “Kanowna” lies in the harbour still;
But the Eighth is fast approaching, and at us young Lads
The Kissing Point encampment soon disappears from sight.
Our youthful tropic soldiers wheel briskly to the right
And as they march along the Strand present a glorious sight.

God bless them, marching onward, with that brave determined mien,
Which befits the North Queensland soldiers, when out to serve their King;
But though game as any Britons who ever fought of yore,
In their eyes the tears glisten and the bugle sounds are sore;
For, their weeping mothers watching the brave lads whom they bore
Marching out to death or glory, may never see them more,
While the bands play Rule Britannia, old Britannia rules the waves,
And the Sisters, wives and sweethearts sing “We never shall be slaves”.

Still onwards, British soldiers bred beneath the Southern Cross
For we know your hearts beat proudly that North Queensland wins the toss
That sends you first to battle for the flag of seven stars.
Which shall help to crush the Teuton like a host from deep red Mars,
And should any fall in battle, all Australians who remain
Shall pray the King of Heaven and the Angels who then reign
To waft their sound of glory where war shall be no more,
And await their dear departed from Australia’s golden shore.

F. J. O’CONNOR
Townsville Daily Bulletin, 12 August 1914