Analysis of A Letter to the Front
Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis 1876 (Auburn) – 1938 (Melbourne)
I 'ave written Mick a letter in reply to one uv 'is,
Where 'e arsts 'ow things is goin' where the gums an' wattles is -
So I tries to buck 'im up a bit; to go fer Abdul's fez;
An' I ain't no nob at litrachure; but this is wot I sez:
I suppose you fellers dream, Mick, in between the scraps out them
Uv the land yeh left be'ind yeh when yeh sailed to do yer share:
Uv Collins Street, or Rundle Street, or Pitt, or George, or Hay,
Uv the land beyond the Murray or along the Castlereagh.
An' I guess yeh dream of old days an' the things yeh used to do,
An' yeh wonder 'ow 'twill strike yeh when yeh've seen this business thro';
An' yeh try to count yer chances when yeh've finished wiv the Turk
An' swap the gaudy war game fer a spell o' plain, drab work.
Well, Mick, yeh know jist 'ow it is these early days o' Spring,
When the gildin' o' the wattle chucks a glow on everything.
Them olden days, the golden days that you remember well,
In spite o' war an' worry, Mick, are wiv us fer a spell.
Fer the green is on the paddicks, an' the sap is in the trees,
An' the bush birds in the gullies sing the ole, sweet melerdies;
An' we're 'opin', as we 'ear 'em, that, when next the Springtime comes,
You'll be wiv us 'ere to listen to that bird tork in the gums.
It's much the same ole Springtime, Mick, yeh reckerlect uv yore;
Boronier an' dafferdils and wattle blooms once more
Sling sweetness over city streets, an' seem to put to shame
The rotten greed an' butchery that got you on this game -
The same ole sweet September days, an' much the same ole place;
Yet, there's a sort o' somethin', Mick, upon each passin' face,
A sort o' look that's got me beat; a look that you put there,
The day yeh lobbed upon the beach an' charged at Sari Bair.
It isn't that we're boastin', lad; we've done wiv most o' that -
The froth, the cheers, the flappin' flags, the giddy wavin' 'at.
Sich things is childish memories; we blush to 'ave 'em told,
Fer we 'ave seen our wounded, Mick, an' it 'as made us old.
We ain't growed soggy wiv regret, we ain't swelled out wiv pride;
But we 'ave seen it's up to us to lay our toys aside.
An' it wus you that taught us, Mick, we've growed too old fer play,
An' everlastin' picter shows, an' going' down the Bay.
An', as grown man dreams at times uv boy'ood days gone by,
So, when we're feelin' crook, I s'pose, we'll sometimes sit an' sigh.
But as a clean lad takes the ring wiv mind an' 'eart serene,
So I am 'opin' we will fight to make our man'ood clean.
When orl the stoushin's over, Mick, there's 'eaps o' work to do:
An' in the peaceful scraps to come we'll still be needin' you.
We will be needin' you the more fer wot yeh've seen an' done;
Fer you were born a Builder, lad, an' we 'ave jist begun.
There's bin a lot o' tork, ole mate, uv wot we owe to you,
An' wot yeh've braved an' done fer us, an' wot we mean to do.
We've 'ailed you boys as 'eroes, Mick, an' torked uv just reward
When you 'ave done the job yer at an' slung aside the sword.
I guess it makes yeh think a bit, an' weigh this gaudy praise;
Fer even 'eroes 'ave to eat, an' - there is other days:
The days to come when we don't need no bonzer boys to fight:
When the flamin' picnic's over an' the Leeuwin looms in sight.
Then there's another fight to fight, an' you will find it tough
To sling the Kharki clobber fer the plain civilian stuff.
When orl the cheerin' dies away, an' 'ero-worship flops,
Yeh'll 'ave to face the ole tame life - 'ard yakker or 'ard cops.
But, lad, yer land is wantin' yeh, an' wantin' each strong son
To fight the fight that never knows the firin' uv a gun:
The steady fight, when orl you boys will show wot you are worth,
An' punch a cow on Yarra Flats or drive a quill in Perth.
The gilt is on the wattle, Mick, young leaves is on the trees,
An' the bush birds in the gullies swap the ole sweet melerdies;
There's a good, green land awaitin' you when you come 'ome again
To swing a pick at Ballarat or ride Yarrowie Plain.
The streets is gay wiv dafferdils - but, haggard in the sun,
A wounded soljer passes; an' we know ole days is done;
Fer somew'ere down inside us, lad, is somethin' you put there
The day yeh swung a dirty left, fer us, at Sari Bair.
Scheme | AAXA XBCDEBFF GGHHIAJJ KKLLMMBB NNOOPPCC XDQQEERR EESSTTUU DDVVRRWW IAXXRRBB |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 111010100011111 11111111011101 11111110111111 1111111111111 101110110010111 10111111111111 11011101111111 1010101010101 111111111011111 1110111111111101 1111111011110101 11010111011111 11111111110111 1011010101110 11010101110101 01111101111101 10111011011001 1011001010111 1111111111011 111111101111001 11011111111 111010111 11010101111111 01011100111111 01110101110111 110111101111 01111111011111 01110101111101 1101111111111 010101101011 11110100111111 111110101111111 11110101111111 111111111110101 11111111111111 1111110101 111111111111 11111111101111 11011101111101 1111111111011 1101101111111 1001011111111 11111011111111 11010101111101 11011111111111 111111111111111 1111111111101 11110111110101 11111101111101 1101111111101 0111111111111 101110101101 11010111111111 1101101010101 110110111101 1111011111111 111111111111 1101110101101 01011111111111 1101111110101 01110101111101 1011001010111 1011111111101 1101111111 011111110001 0101101111111 111011111111 01110101111101 |
Closest metre | Iambic heptameter |
Characters | 4,121 |
Words | 832 |
Sentences | 23 |
Stanzas | 9 |
Stanza Lengths | 4, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8 |
Lines Amount | 68 |
Letters per line (avg) | 45 |
Words per line (avg) | 12 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 342 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 92 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:20 min read
- 63 Views
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"A Letter to the Front" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 2 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/6148/a-letter-to-the-front>.
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