Hello, Soldier!

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Title: 'Hello, Soldier!'
Khaki Verse
Author: Edward Dyson
Release Date: October 19, 2005 [EBook #16904]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
0. 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
begotten"
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 footing
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
morning
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 tossing,
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