The Project Gutenberg EBook of 'Hello, Soldier!', by Edward Dyson

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

Title: 'Hello, Soldier!' Khaki Verse

Author: Edward Dyson

Release Date: October 19, 2005 [EBook #16904]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 'HELLO, SOLDIER!' ***

Produced by Peter O'Connell

"Hello, Soldier!"
Khaki Verse

by Edward Dyson

   Many of these verse were originally
printed in the "Bulletin," others in "Punch,"
"The Leader" and Melbourne "Herald."
Some few are now published for the first time.

The paper famine leaving me no option but to print on peculiar paper, not wholly prohibitive or to defer the publication of my verses for an unknown period, the natural longing of a parent to parade his "well be- gotten" prevails. If my book is unusual and bizarre from a craftman's point of view, I plead the unusual times and extraordinary conditions. Of these times and conditions. I hope "Hello Soldier" is in some measure characteriastic.—Edward Dyson.

AUSTRALIA.

AUSTRALIA, my native land,
   A stirring whisper in your ear—
'Tis time for you to understand
   Your rating now is A1, dear.
You've done some rousing things of late.
That lift you from the simple state
In which you chose to vegetate.

The persons so superior,
   Whose patronage no more endures,
Now have to fire a salvo for
   The glory that is fairly yours.
At length you need no sort of crutch,
You stand alone, you're voted "much"—
Get busy and behave as such.

No man from Oskosh, or from Hull,
   Or any other chosen place
Can rise with a distended skull,
   And cast aspersions in your face.
You're given all the world to know
Your proper standing as a foe,
And hats are off, and rightly so.

You furnished heroes for the fray,
   Your sterling merit's widely blown
To all men's satisfaction say,
   Now have you proved it to your own?
Now have you strength to stand and shine
In your own light and say, "Divine
The thing is that I do. It's mine!"

The cannon's stroke throws customs down
   The black and bottomless abyss,
And quaking are the gilded crown
   And palsied feet of prejudice.
The guns have killed, but it is true
They bring to life things good and new.
God grant they have awakened you!

My ears are greedy for the toast
   Of confidence before our guest,
The loyal song, the manly boast
   Your splendid faith to manifest.
In works of art and livelihood
Shirk not the creed, "What's ours is good,"
Dread not to have it understood.

Australia, lift your royal brow,
   And have the courage of our pride,
Audacity becomes you now,
   Be splendidly self-satisfied,
No land from lowliness and dearth
Has won to eminence on earth
That was not conscious of its worth.

CONTENTS

AUSTRALIA BILLY KHAKI AS THE TROOPS WENT THROUGH MARSHAL NEIGH V.C. IN HOSPITAL SISTER ANN BRICKS MUD MICKIE MOLLYNOO JAM WEEPING WILLIE BILLJIM THE CRUSADERS PEACE, BLESSED PEACE THE HAPPY GARDENERS THE GERM JOEY'S JOB THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME HOW HERMAN WON THE CROSS WHEN TOMMY CAME MARCHING HOME HELLO, SOLDIER! THE MORALIST REPAIRED OUT OF KHAKI THE SINGLE-HANDED TEAM BATTLE PASSES THE LETTERS OF THE DEAD BULLETS UNREDEEMED THE LIVING PICTURE THE IMMORTAL STRAIN THE UNBORN THE COMMON MEN THE CHURCH BELLS THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT THE ONE AT HOME THE HAPLESS ARMY

BILLY KHAKI

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,
Swinging all aboard the steamer with her
   nose toward the sea.
What is calling, Billy Khaki, that you're foot-
   ing it so free?

Though his lines are none too level,
   And he lacks a bit of style.
And he's swanking like the devil
   Where the women wave and smile,
He will answer with a rifle
   Trim and true from stock to bore,
Where the comrades crouch and stifle
   In the reeking pit of war.

What is calling, Billy Khaki? There is
   thunder down the sky,
And the merry magpie bugle splits the morn-
   ing with its cry,
While your feet are beating rhythms up the
   dusty hills and down,
And the drums are all a-talking in the hollow
   of the town.

Billy Khaki, is't the splendor of the song the
   kiddies sing,
Or the whipping of the flags aloft that sets
   your heart a-swing?
Is't the cheering like a paean of the toss-
   ing, teeming crowds,
Or the boom of distant cannon flatly bumping
   on the clouds ?

What's calling, calling, Billy? 'Tis the rattle far away Of the cavalry at gallop and artillery in play; 'Tis the great gun's fierce concussion, and the smell of seven hells When the long ranks go to pieces in the sneezing of the shells.

But your eyes are laughing, Billy, and a ribald song you sing, While the old men sit and tell us war it is a ghastly thing, When the swift machines are busy and the grim, squat fortress nocks At your bolts as vain as eggs of gulls that spatter on the rocks.

When the horses sweep upon you to complete
   a sudden rout,
Or in fire and smoke and fury some brave
   regiment goes out,
War is cruel, Bill, and ugly. But full well
   you know the rest,
Yet your heart is for the battle, and your face
   is to the west.

For if war is beastly, Billy, you can picture
   something worse—
There's the wrecking of an empire, and its
   broken people's curse;
There are nations reft of freedom, and of hope
   and kindly mirth,
And the shadow of an evil black upon the
   bitter earth.

So we know what's calling, Billy. 'Tis the
   spirit of our race,
And its stir is in your pulses, and its light is
   on your face
As you march with clipping boot-heels
   through the piping, howling town
To uphold the land we live in, and to pull a
   tyrant down.

Thou his lines are none too level,
   And he's not a whale for style,
And he's swanking like the devil
   When the women wave and smile
He will answer with a rifle,
   Trim and true from stuck to bore,
When the comrades sit and stifle
   In the smoking pit of war.

AS THE TROOP 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;
   The township drowsed in, a haze of heat.
A stir far off on the sleepy hill,