"Good luck to her" - Anonymous poem about female war doctors - 1915

 

As ANZAC day passes I like to make a post about ANZAC day matters. Usually it is an attempt to let a voice from the time speak.

My post for this year is a poem, it picks up some themes from other years

Letters from the front - see the Maheno letters (2020)

Poetry - see Because of thee Gallipoli (2025), Gapa Tepe (2023)

Female doctors in war - see The Angels of the Balkans (2022)

The cartoon above is somewhat unrelated but it interrupted the article in the paper so I have included it here. It is hard to promote a post if you don't have a graphic.

While we may observe that attitudes toward accepting care from female doctors may not be the issue it was when the Angels of the Balkans did there good work, or the French lampooned our soldiers for recieving care from women, there is still a significant gender gap in pay for female doctors, as can be seen from this 2025 RACGP article. There is still work to do to achieve equality.

PS - Last line courtesy of the Armidale Chronicle, together with the pen name of the poet 'Woomera'. "Woomera in the Australasian" proves to be a prodigious poet.

---

"GOOD LUCK TO HER." 

There is an old story -- recalled, strangely enough, by a letter from the front -- about a beggar who called at a consulting-room in Collins-street, and asked whether the doctor had an old pair of trousers to spare, and of the angry attendant who said: "You know very well that it's a lady doctor practises here!" 

A Victorian on service in France explains that the men from the big Buffon Hospital in Paris were chaffing the inmates of the Australian hospital about their women doctor. "Yes," said one of the patients, "we have a woman doctor, and you take it from me, mate, she's worth any two of your doctors in trousers !" Good for the doctor, and bully for the patient: 

The day is gone, quite out of date,

When either fools or wowsers

Might measure science by its garb

Of petticoats or trousers.

Embroidered or tuck-pointed.

Do trousers help to lighten.

Your troubles when they've laid you out,

Or frills or fixin's frighten?

It's not the man or maid or dame

On whom you put reliance;

It's not the sex that really counts,

But just the sex's science.

If meds. are sudden, probes are scare,

And urgent is your trouble,

A hairpin may accomplish much

Where corkscrews only wobble.

If she's the surgeon, you the case,

You'll know, when once you've met her,

Her cuts are just as keen as his,

Her stitching's rather better.

When stinging bullets wing you down

Or shrapnel in its scatter,

Do bifurcated clothes console,

Or frocks or flounces matter? 

 

Each has its compensating points

In zeal and skill and daring,

Good luck to Dr. What's-her-name. 

Whatever kind she's wearing.

 

Woomera in the Australasian

 

 

Source: "GOOD LUCK TO HER." (1915, December 11). The Globe and Sunday Times War Pictorial (Sydney, NSW : 1914 - 1917), p. 2. Retrieved May 2, 2026, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article100567258

Trousers and Sofenoo. (1916, July 29). The Armidale Chronicle (NSW : 1894 - 1929), p. 7. Retrieved May 2, 2026, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article187711693 

Lament of the Handsome Man - Anonymous Poem - 1834

There is a newspaper with a small record on Trove, the Trumpeter General of Hobart,  whose record spans just one year, December 1833 to December 1834. It sometimes included poetry in its offerings. Here is one of the poems. Offered as a bit of fun. I do not identify with the author ;-) Though roughly wearing my hair and clumsy boots does seem true to brand.

Lament of the Handsome Man

My nose is very aquiline,

My eyes are very grand,

My teeth are very beautiful,

And six feet two I stand ;

My whiskers black, mustachios too,

My waist a child could span,

My dark hair curls, my foot is small,

I am a handsome man.

Horses take fright, that I may help,

Hankerchiefs fall by chance,

Sandals untie that I may tie,

Hands linger in the dance ;

Chains, purses, lockets, rings,

In scores, come to trepan,

But I am not a marrying, though

I am a handsome man.

I wish my flirting nonsense were

Not told with such delight,

I wish my smiling gave no joy.

My 'cutting' caused no fright ;

And would that I might be excused,

From picking up each fan,

They’re only dropped to be returned,

By such a handsome man.

Dancing I hate — so only ask,

Those who have partners found,

But ah! for me, they wilfully

Forget to whom they’re bound ;

I try the Spanish dance with one,

Each other lays a plan,

Just to mistake, and waltz down once,

With such a handsome man.

I’d like to study politics,

And how each member votes,

But dare not look at the debates,

I’m reading soft pink notes ;

Two grooms I keep, express to ride,

With answers, scarce they can,

Attend to all who ask a line

From such a handsome man.

I wish that I were very plain,

I wish my eyes were green,

I wish my hair was red and straight,

My figure short and mean ;

To shun these female plagues I'd be

Deformed and rude as pan,

I wish they’d give me up, and say.

He’s not a handsome man.

I’ve tried ill-made and vulgar clothes,

Put on with sloven air,

A rude or stupid look assumed,

And roughly worn my hair ;

Worn clumsy boots, (Heavens! thick of that)

But useless was each plan.

They cried, "To dress he nothing owed,

He's such a handsome man.

Whoever sings, I'm forced to take,

A part in her duet,

With tender words (sung out of time)

For ever I'm beset;

I, opera music love—but there

Attend I never can ;

All smile, bow, beckon, sigh or flirt. With such a handsome man.

Source:

POETRY. (1834, September 2). Trumpeter General (Hobart, Tas. : 1833 - 1834), p. 4. Retrieved April 17, 2026, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article172895995

Image:

AWKWARD FOR OUR ARTIST. (1869, December 23). Melbourne Punch (Vic. : 1855 - 1900), p. 5. Retrieved April 17, 2026, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article174539646