Mickey Mollynoo

Edward George Dyson 1865 (Ballarat, Victoria) – 1931 (Saint Kilda, Melbourne, Victoria)

A mile-long panto dragon ploddin'
'opeless all the day,
Stuffed out with kits, 'n' spiked with rifles,
steamin' in its sweat,
A-heavin' down the misty road, club-footed
through the clay,
By waggons bogged 'n' buckin' guns,
the wildest welter yet,
Like 'arf creation's tenants shiftin' early
in the wet.

We're marchin' out, we dunno where, to meet
we dunno who;
But here we lights eventual, 'n' sighs 'n'
slips the kit,
'N', 'struth, the first to take us on is Mickie
A copper of the Port he was, when 'istory
was writ.
Sez I : “We're sent to face the foe, 'n', selp
me, this is It.”

A shine John. Hop is Mollynoo. A mix-up
with the push
Is all his joy. One evenin' when his
baton's flyin' free
I takes a baby brick, 'n' drives it hard agin
the cush,
'N' Privit Mick is scattered out fer all the
world to see,
But not afore indelible he's put his mark on

I got the signs Masonic all inlaid along me
Where Molly, P.C., swiped me in them
'appy, careless days.
He's sargin' now, a vet'ran; I'm a newchum
and a mug,
'N' when he sorter fixes me there's some-
thin' in his gaze
That's pensive like. “Move on!” sez he.
“Keep movin' there!” he says.

If after this I dreams of scraps promiscuous
and crool,
The mills in Butcher's Alley when the
watch is on the wine,
Those nights he raided Wylie's shed to break
the two-up school,
I takes a screw at Molly. With a grin that
ain't divine
He's toyin' with a scar of old I reckernise
as mine.

'N' so I'm layin' for it, 'n' I'm wonderin' how
'n' what.
We're signed on with the Germans, 'n' there
ain't a vacant date;
But sure it's comin' to me, 'n' it's comin' 'ard
'n' 'ot.
Me lurk is patient waitin', but I'm trim-
min' while I wait
A brick to jab or swing with, in a willin'

Oh, judge me wonder! There's a scrim that
follers on a raid.
I'm roughin' it all-in with Hans. He sock
me such a bat
I slides on somethin' narsty, 'n' me little grave
is made;
But Molly butts my Hun, 'n' leaves no face
beneath his hat,
'N', “'Scuse me, Mister Herr,” sez he, “I have a lien on that!”

He helps me under cover, 'n' he 'ands me
somethin' wet
(I've got a lick or two that leaves me feelin'
pretty sick).
“Lor love yeh, ole John Hop,” sez I, “yiv
buried me in debt.”
“Don't minton ut at all,” he sez, 'n' eyes
me arf-a-tick.
'N' back there in the trench I sits, 'n' trims
another brick.

'Tis all this how a month or more; then
Mollynoo sez he:
“Come aisy, Jumm, yeh loafer, little hell 'n'
all to view.
A job most illegant is on, cut out fer you 'n'
The damnedest, dirtiest fighter on the
Continent is you,
Bar one, yeh gougin' thafe, 'n' that is
Sargin' Mollynoo!”

I take, with knife 'n' pistol, arf a brick to line
me shirt.
We creeps a thousan' yards or so to jigger
up a gun
Which seven Huns is workin' on the Irish like
a squirt.
We gets across them, me 'n' him. I pots
the extra one;
Mick chokes his third in comfort, 'n',
be'old, the thing is done!

He stands above me, rakin' sweat from off his
gleamin' nut.
“Me dipper's leakin', Mick,” sez I; “me
leg is bit in two.”
Sez he: “Bleed there in comfort, I'm for
bringin' help, ye scut.”
He's back in twenty minutes, with a dillied
German crew.
“Three'll carry in the gun,” sez he, “the
rest will carry you.”

I dunno how he got 'em, but he made them
barrer me.
They lugged the gun before him, 'n' he
yarded them like geese.
Then Mickie s'lutes the Major. “They're in
custody,” sez he,
“Fer conduc' calculated to provoke a breach
iv peace,
A-tearin' iv me uniform, 'n' 'saultin' the

Then down he dumped. His wounds would
make a 'arf a column list.
When hack to front I chucks me bricks 'n'
smiles the best I can.
He grins at me: “Yer right,” sez he, “Hold
out yer bla'-guard fist,
I couldn't fight yeh, blarst yeh, if yeh dinted
in me pan.
This messin' round wid Germans makes a
chicken iv a man.”

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 05, 2023

3:58 min read

Quick analysis:

Scheme abcdxbxded xfageahgig ijkeajeeaE elmnmlmnek xeeaxxoaca xohpxexpab oqxorqxoo edasrdxsxs aeafaEefka athaxtxaaa koefhbbfef meeuaexuex xvaaxvbaba
Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 3,898
Words 758
Stanzas 13
Stanza Lengths 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 9, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10

Edward George Dyson

Edward George Dyson, or 'Ted' Dyson, was an Australian journalist, poet, playwright and short story writer. He was the elder brother of illustrators Will Dyson (1880–1938) and Ambrose Dyson (1876–1913), with three sisters also of artistic and literary praise. Dyson wrote under several – some say many – nom-de-plumes, including Silas Snell. In his day, the period of Australia's federation, the poet and writer was 'ranked very closely to Australia's greatest short-story writer, Henry Lawson'. With Lawson known as the 'swagman poet', Ogilvie the 'horseman poet', Dyson was the 'mining poet'. Although known as a freelance writer, he was also considered part of The Bulletin writer group. more…

All Edward George Dyson poems | Edward George Dyson Books

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