Edward George Dyson

(March 1865 - 22 August 1931 / Ballarat / Victoria / Australia)

Edward George Dyson Poems

1. The Old Whim Horse 1/4/2003
2. Cleaning Up 1/1/2004
3. Men Of Australia 1/1/2004
4. Peter Simson's Farm 1/1/2004
5. Worked-Out Mine 1/1/2004
6. Breaking It Gently 4/13/2010
7. A New Girl Up At White’s 4/13/2010
8. A Poor Joke 4/13/2010
9. A Thermometrical Ballade 4/13/2010
10. Ah Ling, The Leper 4/13/2010
11. An Inequitable Impost 4/13/2010
12. As The Troops Went Through 4/13/2010
13. Bashful Gleeson 4/13/2010
14. Battered Bob 4/13/2010
15. Battle Passes 4/13/2010
16. Billjim 4/13/2010
17. Billy Khaki 4/13/2010
18. Bricks 4/13/2010
19. Bullets 4/13/2010
20. Bullocky Bill 4/13/2010
21. Cricket Is A Serious Thing 4/13/2010
22. German Joe 4/13/2010
23. Hello, Soldier! 4/13/2010
24. Highly Desireable 4/13/2010
25. How Herman Won The Cross 4/13/2010
26. In The Benevolent 4/13/2010
27. In Hospital 4/13/2010
28. In Town 4/13/2010
29. Jam (A Hymn Of Hate) 4/13/2010
30. Joey’s Job 4/13/2010
31. Jonah’s Luck 4/13/2010
32. Marshal Neigh, V.C. 4/13/2010
33. Mickey Mollynoo 4/13/2010
34. Mud 4/13/2010
35. My Typewriter 4/13/2010
36. Night Shift 4/13/2010
37. Of The True Endeavour 4/13/2010
38. Out Of Khaki 4/13/2010
39. Peace, Blessed Peace 4/13/2010
40. Quits 4/13/2010
Best Poem of Edward George Dyson

Cleaning Up

When the horse has been unharnessed and we've flushed the old machine,
And the water o'er the sluice is running evenly and clean;
When there's thirty load before us, and the sun is high and bright,
And we've worked from early morning and shall have to work till night,
Not a man of us is weary, though the graft is pretty rough,
If we see the proper colour showing freely through the stuff.
With a dandy head of water and a youngster at the rear
To hand along the billy, boys, and keep the tail race clear,
We lift the wash and flash the fork and make the gravel fly.
The ...

Read the full of Cleaning Up

The Old Whim Horse

He's an old grey horse, with his head bowed sadly,
   And with dim old eyes and a queer roll aft,
With the off-fore sprung and the hind screwed badly,
   And he bears all over the brands of graft;
And he lifts his head from the grass to wonder
   Why by night and day the whim is still,
Why the silence is, and the stampers' thunder
   Sounds forth no more from the shattered mill.

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