Edward George Dyson
Edward George Dyson was an Australian poet, journalist and short story writer.
He was born at Morrisons near Ballarat in March 1865. His father, George Dyson, arrived in Australia in 1852 and after working on various diggings became a mining engineer, his mother came from a life of refinement in England. The family led a roving life during Dyson's childhood, moving successively to Alfredton, Bendigo, Ballarat and Alfredton again.
Unconsciously the boy was storing for future use the life of the miners, farmers and bushmen, among whom he lived. At 12 he began to work as an assistant to a travelling draper, after that was a whimboy in a mine, and for two or three years an ... more »
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Edward George Dyson Poems
When the horse has been unharnessed and we've flushed the old machine, And the water o'er the sluice is running evenly and clean; When there's thirty load before us, and the sun is high and bright, And we've worked from early morning and shall have to work till night,
The Old Whim Horse
He's an old grey horse, with his head bowed sadly, And with dim old eyes and a queer roll aft, With the off-fore sprung and the hind screwed badly, And he bears all over the brands of graft;
Australia, my native land, A stirring whisper in your ear— 'Tis time for you to understand Your rating now is A1, dear.
Marching somewhat out of order when the band is cock-a-hoop, There's a lilting kind of magic in the swagger of the troop,
A Poor Joke
‘NO, you can’t count me in, boys; I’m off it— I’m jack of them practical jokes; They give neither pleasure nor profit,
The Church Bells
The Viennese authorities have melted down the great bell in St. Stephen's to supply metal for guns or muntions. Every poor village
As The Troops Went Through
I heard this day, as I may no more, The world's heart throb at my workshop door. The sun was keen, and the day was still;
A quaint old gabled cottage sleeps be- tween the raving hills. To right and left are livid strife, but on the deep, wide sills
Back again 'n' nothin' missin' barrin' arf a hand, Where an Abdul bit me, chokin' in the Holy Land.
Men of Australia
Men of all the lands Australian from the Gulf to Derwent River, From the Heads of Sydney Harbour to the waters of the West, There’s a spirit loudly calling where the saplings dip and quiver, Where the city crowds are thronging, and the range uplifts its crest!
Down to it is Plugger Bill, Lyin' crumpled, white 'n' still. Me 'n' him Chips in when the scrap begins,
The boarder in the bar-room rose, A pale gaunt man who lodged with Hann, “I bear,” he said, “the worst of woes, And suffer torments no one knows,
I have a trim typewriter now, They tell me none is better; It makes a pleasing, rhythmic row,
Peace, Blessed Peace
Here in the flamin' thick of thick of things, With Death across the way, 'n' traps What little Fritz the German flings
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
When the horse has been unharnessed and we've flushed the old machine,
And the water o'er the sluice is running evenly and clean;
When there's thirty load before us, and the sun is high and bright,
And we've worked from early morning and shall have to work till night,
Not a man of us is weary, though the graft is pretty rough,
If we see the proper colour showing freely through the stuff.
With a dandy head of water and a youngster at the rear
To hand along the billy, boys, and keep the tail race clear,
We lift the wash and flash the fork and make the gravel fly.