Highly Desireable

The boarder in the bar-room rose,
A pale gaunt man who lodged with Hann,
I bear, he said, the worst of woes,
And suffer torments no one knows,
For do my best I never can
Have sleep like any other man.

I have insomnia, said he.
At times it drives me mad outright.
Whateer I do, whereer I be,
Its just the same, so sleep for me.
You wont believe for three years quite
I havent slept two hours a night.

Boss-cocky Billson softly swore,
And turning from his chestnut cob.
Whats that? he questioned from the door.
You say that you dont sleep no more
Than two hours? I pay thirty bob.
Now, mister, do you want a job?

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

Sister Ann

Edward , Simple Poetry

Battered Bob

Edward , Simple Poetry

The Old Whim Horse

Edward , Simple Poetry

Jonahs Luck

Edward , Simple Poetry

English

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Night Shift

Hello! thats the whistle, be moving.
Wake up! dont lie muttering there.
What language! your style is improving,
Its pleasant to hear you at prayer.
Turn out, man, and spare us the blessing.
Cribs cut, and the teas on the brew.
Youll have to look slippy in dressing
For that was the half-hour that blew.

Half-past! and the nights simply awful,
The hut fairly shakes in the storm.
Hang night-shifts! They shouldnt be lawful;
Ive only had time to get warm.
I notice the huts rarely bright, and
The bunks always cold as a stone,
Except when I go on at night, and
The half-after whistles have blown.

Bob built up that fire just to spite me,
The conscienceless son of a swab!
By Jove! it would fairly delight me
To let Hogan be hanged...

Edward

Our Visitor

Theres a fellow on the station
(He dropped in on a call,
Just casual to stay a pleasant week),
Hes a bankers near relation,
Strongly built, and very tall,
Not altogether destitute of cheek;
Hes a descent judge of whisky,
And the hardest working youth
Who ever played a polo on a cob;
His anecdotes are risky,
And to tell the honest truth,
Hes waiting here until he gets a job.

Hes waiting, as I mention,
And wheneer he says his prayers,
Which he doesnt do as frequently as some,
And I fear that his intention
Isnt quite so good as theirs
For he prays to God the work may never come.
He marches with the banner
Of the noble unemployed,
He mixes with the fashionable mob,
But while hes got a tanner
He scorns to be decoyed

Barcroft Boake

The Freak

Just beyond All Alone, going back,
Is the humpy of Hatter Magee.
We had travelled all day on the track,
And he offered us mutton and tea.
Mack is rather reserved, but will speak
On one theme, and with eloquence too,
Thats his angular chestnut, The Freak.
Heres a tale that he told through the week,
And I try to believe it is true:

True, he aint no account ez a nag,
An Im not goin to boast of his blood;
If I liked I could pitch you a mag
Bout his sire, once a prince of the stud;
Give performances coloured and plain,
An a pedigree long ez my arm,
Which is style, but Im straight in the main,
So he aint of the Wangdoodle strain,
Nor his dam wasnt Kate nor The Charm.

Fiddle-headed an spavined! Well, praps.
Yes, his legs is a...

Edward

In Town

Out of work and out of money,out of friends that means, you bet,
Out of firewood, togs and tucker, out of everything but debt,
And I loathe the barren pavements, and the crowds a fellow meets,
And the maddening repetition of the suffocating streets.

With their stinks my soul is tainted, and the tang is on my tongue
Of that sour and smoky suburb and the push were thrown among,
And I sicken at the corners polished free of paint and mirk
By the shoulders of the men whore always hanging round for work.

Home,good Lord! a three-roomed hovel twixt a puddle and a drain,
In harmonious connection on the left with Liver Lane,
Where a crippled man is dying, and a horde of children fight,
And a woman in the horrors howls remorsefully at night.

It has stables close behind ...

Edward

Lodgings For Single Gentlemen.

Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place,
Has seen "Lodgings to Let" stare him full in the face:
Some are good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis well known,
Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.

WILL WADDLE, whose temper was studious and lonely,
Hire'd lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only;
But WILL was so fat he appear'd like a ton;--
Or like Two Single Gentlemen roll'd into One.

He enter'd his rooms, and to bed he retreated;
But, all the night long, he felt fever'd, and heated;
And, tho' heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,
He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep.

Next night 'twas the same!--and the next;--and the next;
He perspire'd like an ox; he was nervous, and vex'd;
Week past after week; till, by weekly succe...

George Colman

To An Hotel Keeper

    My dear Sir, -
    Oft in the stilly night
    My thoughts fly
    In your direction,
    For oft in the stilly night
    It is my unfortunate habit
    To have uncomfortable dreams,
    And the worst of them
    Runs to bankruptcy.
    I have a horror of bankruptcy,
    At any rate in my dreams.
    I sometimes lie
    Between the blankets
    In a cold sweat
    And for public examination as it were,
    And the presiding genius of the court
    Says to me, sepulchrally,
    "To what do you attribute your financial rottenness?"
    I fall into a colder sweat
    And remark,
    With a humility
    Which becomes my unfortunate position,
    "Sir, if you please,
    I have been living at an hotel."
    At this junctu...

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland