Check out the Dolly the War Horse website dollythewarhorse.co.nz or why not look for the trust’s tent at the Horse of the Year show?
They hope to have a service dog in attendance and will update you on the fundraising for Dolly.
Troop Horse 61′ – L/Sergt J.R.H. Cooksey’s poem
John Robin Harris Cooksey was born in Southampton, England, but as a sheep farmer at Rissington in Hawke’s Bay he enlisted into the Wellington Mounted Rifles on August 12, 1914. On May 9, 1915 he embarked for Gallipoli and was appointed a Lance Sergeant in that unit. His poem “Troop Horse 61″ was obviously penned during his voyage to Anzac Cove, because, on arrival, he reverted to the ranks. He never held the appointment of a Lance Sergeant again. He was wounded in action on August 16, 1915 while serving at Gallipoli, and was evacuated back to Egypt. Later in the War he was promoted to the rank of Second Lieutenant and joined the New Zealand Field Artillery. This is his poem about his horse and reproduced as he wrote it. (Published with permission from family)
Troop Horse 61
You sleepy patient old idol
A’ chewin away at your ‘ay
I wonder your pore legs aint busted
A standing there day after day.
No wonder you kicks at a shovel
And bites at me arm as I pass,
I bet how you dreams of a station
Where your belly was full up with grass.
This quarrel it aint ‘o your makin’,
You lived in your station content;
When your boss ‘eard that soldiers was wanted
‘E on with your saddle and went.
You thought you was off to a picnic.
You’d be back in the paddock by morn
A ‘telling your pals how the boss told the gals
O’ the millions o’ sheep that ‘e’d shorn.
But I guess that you aint at no picnic
When once you get shoved in them stalls,
Its good-bye to green grass and freedom
An’ its feed up and water by calls.
When the ship starts a rollin’ you wonder
What kind of a stable your in
An’ you can’t go your tucker and water
An’ you can do nuthin’ but grin.
If I could I’d give you a pension
When we reach our far distant shore
But we’ll be ordered to shove on your saddle
And march you poor beggar to war.
Then remember if some blighter plugs us
Try to think of me then as your friend
Though I’ve sworn at yer, punched yer and cursed yer
We’re mates in one grave at the end.
