Edward George Dyson Poems

WE SPECKED as boys o’er worked-out ground
By littered fiat and muddy stream,
We watched the whim horse trudging round,
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In politics there’s room for jest;
With frequent gibes are speeches met,
And measures which are of the best
Are themes for caustic humor yet
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’TIS the tale of Simon Steven, braceman at the Odd-and-Even,
At The Nations, in the gully. They were sinking in the rock.
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I’ve sung of Honor’s golden hair
And Hero’s auburn tresses,
Of Bella’s back abundance, where
The sun throws his caresses;
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’TWAS a sleepy little chapel by a wattled hill erected,
Where the storms were always muffled, and an atmosphere of peace
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I slung me khaki suit to-day.
Civilian now front heel to chin
I 'op round on a single shin;
At home in peace I'm bound to stay.
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WE’VE a tale to tell you of a spavined emit,
A bird with a smile like a crack in a hat,
Who was owned by M‘Cue, of the township of Whroo,
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There was a moment when of you
A splendid hope I had to tell,
Believing 'Here is one man who
Will serve our waiting country well.'
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IN THE MORN when the keen blade bites the tree,
And the chips on the dead leaves dance,
And the bush echoes back right merrily
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We are wondering why those fellows who are writing cheerful ditties
Of the rosy times out droving, and the dust and death of cities,
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