Jessie Pope

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Jessie Pope was born on March 18, 1868, in Leicester, England, and died on December 14, 1941, in Devon. A poet, journalist, and humorist, she is most remembered for her patriotic verses during World War I. Her work, which primarily aimed to support the war effort, was part of the literary tradition that sought to rally morale on the home front. While she was a prolific writer in her time, she has become a controversial figure in modern discussions of war poetry.

Pope grew up in a middle-class family and was educated at North London Collegiate School for Girls. She pursued a career in writing, contributing to newspapers and magazines such as Punch, The Daily Mail, and The Daily Express. Her style was accessible and light, often focusing on themes of domestic life, humor, and patriotism. She was part of the Georgian literary movement, which emphasized straightforward and unpretentious poetry.

When World War I began, Pope shifted her focus to war-related themes. She wrote recruitment poems that encouraged young men to enlist, often framing war as a noble and adventurous pursuit. Her poems, such as “Who’s for the Game?” and “The Call,” appeared in newspapers and were aimed at rallying public support for the war effort. Her writing was in line with the propaganda of the time, presenting the war as a duty rather than delving into its horrors.

Pope’s military connection was not direct—she did not serve but contributed to the war effort through her writing. Her work was seen as patriotic during the war, but it faced criticism for its simplicity and lack of nuance, particularly when contrasted with the visceral and somber works of soldier-poets like Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon. Owen famously addressed Pope’s rhetoric indirectly in his poem “Dulce et Decorum Est,” challenging the glorification of war that poets like her promoted.

After the war, Pope’s reputation declined. The shift in public sentiment toward the war meant that her optimistic and encouraging verses were increasingly viewed as naïve or propagandistic. Her legacy became tied to the jingoism of early wartime poetry, and she is often used as a counterpoint to the more critical voices of the time.

Outside of her war poetry, Pope was a versatile writer. She published children’s books, humorous sketches, and novels, and her journalism covered a wide range of topics. In her later years, she stepped away from public life, retiring to Devon, where she lived until her death.

Jessie Pope’s legacy is complex. While her poetry served its purpose during the war, modern readers often view her work through a critical lens, especially in the context of the devastating human cost of the conflict. Her writing remains a significant part of the conversation about the role of literature in shaping public perceptions of war, reflecting the values and attitudes of a specific moment in history.

You may learn more at the Poetry Foundation and Wikipedia.

The Blackest Lie

Jessie Pope
Big bully Belgium,

Breathing blood and flame,
Crafty as a serpent

An Anzac Cap

Jessie Pope
It hangs on the wall, a trifle battered,

The wire is warped and the lining tattered.
And the leather inside shows speakingly how

Anzac

Jessie Pope
We know that you’re sportsmen, with reason,

At footer and cricket you’re crack;
I haven’t forgotten the season

An Anzac Poem

Jessie Pope
Why do we cheer those brown-faced boys with pride,

Why do dense crowds press round on every side,
Why do we throw them flowers, our hearts aglow?

Coo-Ee

Jessie Pope
“Down under” boys on furlough are in town

Discharged from hospital, repaired and braced,
Their faces still retain, their native brown,

Cobbers

Jessie Pope
They were “cobbers,” that’s Anzac for chum.

But it means rather more than we mean –
A friendship that will not succumb,

‘Ware Wire!

Jessie Pope
WHEN the beagles are running like steam,

When the plough is as sticky as glue,
When the scent is an absolute scream,

The Zeppelin Armada

Jessie Pope
“TO-DAY, since Zeppelins are in the air,

And folks glance skywards as they go their ways,
Let us hark back a bit to an affair

To A Taube

Jessie Pope
ABOVE the valley, rich and fair,

On flashing pinions, glittering, gay,
You hover in the upper air,

A Cossack Charge

Jessie Pope
Cossacks they’re coming!

The eager hoofs are drumming,
On glinting steel the autumn sunlight glances.

Captive Conquerors

Jessie Pope
(It is reported that women in Stuttgart have been forbidden by military proclamation to cast amorous glances on the British prisoners.)

OH! Stuttgart Frauleins, and capacious Fraus,

A Sing-Song

Jessie Pope
(The Kaiser expressed a hope that the British might meet his Bavarians only once. Fifteen hundred Bavarians have been captured at Ypres.)

I. THE COMMAND

Comrades in Arms-Lets

Jessie Pope
NOT theirs the popular uniform

That takes the feminine heart by storm,
And wins soft glances, shy or warm,

Captain Von Muller

Jessie Pope
A Skipper of mark was Von Muller,

The humorous naval leg-puller.
With ubiquitous ease

De Wet

Jessie Pope
Foe and friend and foe again,

Turning coat and turning yet,
That’s a feat you don’t disdain,

Loot!

Jessie Pope
When Blucher helped us make an end

Of Bonaparte, the common foe,
He came to England as a friend,

A Humble Appeal

Jessie Pope
(The Blue Cross League, 58 Victoria Street, London, S.W., is in need of funds.)

SHE was a pretty, nicely mannered mare,

The Nut

Jessie Pope
He used to get, when in civilian state,

His tea and shaving water, sharp, at eight.
Then ten delicious minutes would be spent

The Two Goliaths

Jessie Pope
GOLIATH was a giant, the bully of his side,

His coat of mail was brazen, his face was
fierce with pride;

A Royal Cracksman

Jessie Pope
When the housebreaking business is slack

And cracksmen are finding it slow
For all the sea-siders are back

The Outpost

Jessie Pope
The dying sunset’s slanting rays

Incarnadine the soldier’s deed,
His sturdy countenance betrays

Silent Camp

Jessie Pope
In heaven, a pale uncertain star,

Through sullen vapour peeps,
On earth, extended wide and far,

“Bobs”

Jessie Pope
The call came in the stormy night,

Beneath a stranger’s sky.
The soldier of a life-long fight,

Play The Game

Jessie Pope
Twenty-Two stalwarts in stripes and shorts

Kicking a ball along,
Set in a square of leather-lunged sports

The K A Boys

Jessie Pope
Dr-rud dr-rud dr-rud dr-rud

Kitchener’s Army on the march
Through Marylebone and Marble Arch,

The War Budget

Jessie Pope
HODGE waded through the weekly news,

“The Income Tax, he said,
“That’s nowt to me, I shallunt lose,

Lights Out

Jessie Pope
Darkness expectant, discreet

Only a lamp here and there,
Gloom in the clattering street,

No!

Jessie Pope
By bridge and battery, town and trench,

They’re fighting with bull-dog pluck;
Not one, from Tommy to General French,

Marching To Germany

Jessie Pope
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

Little and Good

Jessie Pope
Young Thompson was a bit too short,

But hard as nails and level-headed,
And in his soul the proper sort

The Lads of the Maple Leaf

Jessie Pope
RIPE for any adventure, sturdy, loyal and game,

Quick to the call of the Mother, the young Canadians came.
Eager to show their mettle, ready to shed their blood,

The Nut’s Birthday

Jessie Pope
When Gilbert’s birthday came last spring,

Oh! How our brains were racked
To try to find a single thing

The Knitting Song

Jessie Pope
Sailor lad, on the sodden ground,

Sailor lad on the seas,
Can’t you hear a little clicketty sound

Socks

Jessie Pope
Shining pins that dart and click

In the fireside’s sheltered peace
Check the thoughts the cluster thick –

Who’s for the Game?

Jessie Pope
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?

War Girls

Jessie Pope
There’s the girl who clips your ticket for the train,

And the girl who speeds the lift from floor to floor,
There’s the girl who does a milk-round in the rain,

The Call__

Jessie Pope
Who’s for the trench—

Are you, my laddie?
Who’ll follow French—

The Call

W.N. Hodgson
Ah! We have dwelt in Arcady long time

With sun and youth eternal round our ways
And in the magic of that golden clime

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