Hello, Soldier! Part 1

'h.e.l.lo, Soldier!'

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 "h.e.l.lo 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 s.h.i.+ne 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.

G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+rk 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.

BILLY KHAKI

MARCHING somewhat out of order when the band is c.o.c.k-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 sw.a.n.king 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 b.u.mping 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 h.e.l.ls When the long ranks go to pieces in the sneezing of the sh.e.l.ls.

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 sw.a.n.king 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 towns.h.i.+p drowsed in, a haze of heat.

A stir far off on the sleepy hill, The measured beat of their buoyant feet, And the lilt and thrum Of a little drum, The song they sang in a cadence low, The piping note of a piccolo.

The towns.h.i.+p woke, and the doors flew wide; The women trotted their boys beside.

Across the bridge on a single heel The soldiers came in a golden glow, With throb of song and the c.h.i.n.k of steel, The gallant crow of the piccolo.

Good and brown they were, And their arms swung bare.

Their fine young faces revived in me A boyhood's vision of chivalry.

The lean, hard regiment tramping down, Bus.h.i.+es, miners and boys from town.

From 'mid the watchers the road along One fell in line with the khaki men.

He took the stride, and he caught their song, And Steve went then, and Meneer, and Ben, Long Dave McCree, And the Weavers three, All whisked away by the "Come! Come! Come!"

The l.u.s.ty surge of the vaunting drum.

I swore a prayer for each soldier lad.

He was the son that might have had; The tall, bold boy who was never mine, All brave with dust that the eyes laughed through, His shoulders square, and his chin in line, Was marching too with the gallant few.

Pa.s.sed the m.u.f.fled beat Of their sw.a.n.king feet, The swell of drum, the exulting crow, The wild-bird note of the piccolo.

They dipped away in the listless trees; A mother wept on her beaded knees For sons gone out to the long war's end; But more than mother or man wept I Who had no son in the world to send.

The hour lagged by, and drifting high Came the fitful hum Of the little drum, And faint, but still with an ardent flow, The pibroch, call of the piccolo.

MARSHAL NEIGH, V.C.

HE came from tumbled country past the humps of Buffalo Where the snow sits on the mountain 'n' the Summer aches below.

He'd a silly name like Archie. Squattin'