An Inequitable Impost

The first one with conviction penned:
This conflict in seven weeks will end.

Another, later in the war,
Gave Germany just one month more.

Since then Ive read predictions free,
They dribble in unceasingly.

All wrong. And still the critics say
When it will finish to the day.

Hughes should get cash in mighty sacks
From his proposed War Prophets Tax.

Edward

Edward Dyson was a versatile Australian writer and poet known for his prose and poetry that vividly depicted the lives and experiences of miners and working-class people in Australia. Born on March 4, 1865, in Ballarat, Victoria, Dyson worked in various manual labor roles in the mining industry before turning to writing. His works often drew from his firsthand experiences and offered a unique perspective on the struggles and triumphs of everyday Australians. Dyson passed away on August 22, 1931.

Edward

Since Nellie Came To Live Along The Creek

Edward , Simple Poetry

Unredeemed

Edward , Simple Poetry

To The Theoretical Selector

Edward , Simple Poetry

Marshal Neigh, V.C.

Edward , Simple Poetry

English

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To The Chancellor Of The Exchequer

    (Before his Retirement)

    My dear Sir Michael Hicks-Beach, -
    The devotion of one's life
    To the service of the Muses
    And the neglect of golden opportunities,
    Is not without its compensations,
    One of the chief of them being
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    Out of this balance, my dear old friend, yo...

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

Twelve Months After

Hullo! here's my platoon, the lot I had last year.
"The war'll be over soon."
    "What 'opes?"
    "No bloody fear!"
Then, "Number Seven, 'shun! All present and correct."
They're standing in the sun, impassive and erect.
Young Gibson with his grin; and Morgan, tired and white;
Jordan, who's out to win a D.C.M. some night;
And Hughes that's keen on wiring; and Davies ('79),
Who always must be firing at the Boche front line.
    *        *        *        *        *
"Old soldiers never die; they simply fide a-why!"
That's what they used to sing along the roads last spring;
That's what they used to say before the push began;
That's where they are to-day, knocked over to a man.

Siegfried Sassoon

An Excellent New Song; Being The Intended Speech Of A Famous Orator Against Peace.

An orator dismal of Nottinghamshire,
Who has forty years let out his conscience to hire,
Out of zeal for his country, and want of a place,
Is come up, vi et armis, to break the queen's peace.
He has vamp'd an old speech, and the court, to their sorrow,
Shall hear him harangue against Prior to-morrow.
When once he begins, he never will flinch,
But repeats the same note a whole day like a Finch.[1]
I have heard all the speech repeated by Hoppy,'
And, "mistakes to prevent, I've obtained a copy."

THE SPEECH

Whereas, notwithstanding I am in great pain,
To hear we are making a peace without Spain;
But, most noble senators, 'tis a great shame,
There should be a peace, while I'm Not-in-game.
The duke show'd me all his fine house; and...

Jonathan Swift

The Happy Gardeners

We were storemen, clerks and packers on an ammunition dump
Twice the size of Cootamundra, and the goods we had to hump
They were bombs as big as water-butts, and cartridges in tons,
Shells that looked like blessed gasmains, and a line in traction-guns.

We had struck a warehouse dignity in dealing with the stocks.
It was, Sign here, Mr. Eddie! Clarkson, forward to the socks!
Our floor-walker was a major, with a nozzle like a peach,
And a stutter in his Trilbies; and a limping kind of speech.

We were off at eight to business, we were free for lunch at one,
And we talked of new Spring fashions, and the brisk trade being done.
After five we sought our dugouts lying snug beneath the hill,
Each with hollyhocks before it and geraniums on the sill.

Singing Home, Sw...

Edward

Now Listen To Me And I'll Tell You My Views

Now listen to me and I'll tell you my views concerning the African war,
And the man who upholds any different views, the same is a ritten Pro-Boer!
(Though I'm getting a little bit doubtful myself, as it drags on week after week:
But it's better not ask any questions at all, let us silence all doubts with a shriek!)

And first let us shriek the unstinted abuse that the Tory Press prefer,
De Wet is a madman, and Steyn is a liar, and Kruger a pitiful cur!
(Though I think if Oom Paul, as old as he is, were to walk down the Strand with his gun,
A lot of these heroes would hide in the sewers or take to their heels and run!
For Paul he has fought like a man in his day, but now that he's feeble and weak
And tired, and lonely, and old and grey, of course it's quite safe to shriek!)

And ...

Andrew Barton Paterson

Nemesis

It is night-time when the saddest and the darkest memories haunt,
When outside the printing office the most glaring posters flaunt,
When the love-wrong is accomplished. And I think of things and mark
That the blackest lies are written, told, and printed after dark.
Tis the time of late editions. It is night when, as of old,
Foulest things are done for hatred, for ambition, love and gold.

Racing from the senseless city down the dull suburban streets,
Come again the ragged newsboys yelping with their paltry sheets,
Lying posters meaning nothing, double columns meaning less,
Twisted facts and reckless falsehoods, dodges of the Daily Press.
In the town the roar and rattle of the great machines once more,
Greedy for the extra penny, while the Public howls for war.

War...

Henry Lawson