Our Cow
Down by the slipralls stands our cow
Chewing, chewing, chewing,
She does not care what folks out there
In the great, big world are doing.
She sees the small cloud-shadows pass
And green grass shining under.
If she does think, what does she think
About it all, I wonder?
She sees the swallows skimming by
Above the sweet young clover,
The light reeds swaying in the wind
And tall trees bending over.
Far down the track she hears the crack
of bullock-whips, and raving
Of angry men where, in the sun,
Her fellow-beasts are slaving.
Girls, we are told, can scratch and scold,
And boys will fight and wrangle,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Hope
When we went singing down the road,
In days when want was not a goad,
Dull care behind us flinging,
No step we stayed, no joy we missed,
To hearken to the pessimist,
But gaily went on singing.
We'd faith in this great country then;
We'd hope in her great, stalwart men,
Who built a worthy nation.
Hope? Hope was ever in our hearts,
For we seemed cast for Builders' parts
And there was our salvation.
But what has changed our outlook now?
With weary eyes and furrowed brow
The uphill road we're facing.
But why? This land is still aflame
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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KSmith
Hoping you will not deem it rude,
I'd like to call an interlude
In our remarkable array
Of leading statesmen of the day,
And introduce to you forthwith
That great economist, Ksmith.
Not, as you might suppose, a myth,
But very real is Ksmith;
For daily, in the morning train,
I'm privileged to gauge his brain.
One glance inside his morning sheet,
And he has grasped it all complete.
He lays it down; and then, in wrath,
To patient travellers he holds forth.
No question that the times involve,
No problem is there he can't solve.
One moment's thought, and, quick as light,
Ksmith can put the country right.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Jim
Have you heard the magniloquent, eloquent Jim?
The yogi of Yarra, whose silvery tongue,
In days of his promise won many votes from us,
When loud in the land was the praise of him sung,
And he magnetised all with his vigor and vim -
That great oratorical oracle, Jim.
But the days of his rigorous, vigorous speech
And plausible promise have gone to the pack.
When days comes for action, the feud and the faction
Are making him seem a political hack
For the gamour is gone andhis glory goes dim,
And inflation oration may jettison Jim.
The silence so golden, in olden days gone,
Is not yet debased, tho' he talked without end.
His usus loquendi has come to an end, he
Must seek for new methods if ways he would mend,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Politics for Tots: Lesson 2~ "The Party"
Now, children, in this Lesson Two,
Briefly we'll make some mention
Of party, just in case that you
Some day, with the intention
Of furthering ambitions grand,
May seek to serve your native land.
You join a Party, first of all
This move is most essential.
Your Private Views you must recall,
They're quite unconsequential;
For if you'd be a Party Man
You must cleave to the Party Plan.
Either you must be Black or White;
Browns, Drabs and Greys don't matter.
If you choose White, White's always right,
If Black, then with the latter
Rests all Wisdom in the Land.
You've got to Barrack for your Brand.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Yellow Robin
I'm the friendliest of them all,
When winter comes;
Daily at your door I call
Begging crumbs.
Clinging sideways to a stake,
Eloquent appeal I make.
'Spare a scrap for pity's sake!
This cold air numbs.'
I will follow as you dig
And search the dirt.
Worms or bettles, small or big,
Are my dessert;
And, should you seem gently kind,
From your hand I do not mind
Taking anything you find;
But I'm a flirt.
For when spring comes to the land
You are forgot.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Waiting
Oh, how I love the fine old chap
Who sits upon my left at meals,
And drops his cabbage, in my lap
From swooping fork, while he reveals
How he, at Hay, in '83,
Gave Hamlet's grand so-lil-o-quee.
He slops his supper beer o' nights,
Or fills my dexter ear with stout,
While strenuously he recites,
And hurls his lanky limbs about,
To prove that every modern cuss
Has missed the true Polonius.
His oysters down my back he'll throw,
Or freely spray me with his soup,
When suddenly inspired to show
How savage Ingomar should whoop,
Or illustrate the proper scream
With which to finish 'Denver's Dream.'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Day of Unrest
There ain't enough of strikes an' things,
There ain't enough of strife,
There ain't enough dislikes an' things
In this 'ere modern life:
'Ow can we 'ope to 'ave unrest
When blokes don't know that they're oppressed?
On Sundees they enjoy theirselves,
An' rush from trams an' trains
When they could best employ theirselves
Be strikin' off their chains:
'Ow can we bid their chains begone
When blokes don't know they got 'em on?
Give us a chance to speak with 'em,
An' tell 'em 'ow they're cursed.
Give us an hour a week with them
So they can know the worst.
'Ow can the crowd know they are slaves
Unless the agitator raves?
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Kilts, Ye Ken
Noo, ye ken, we'll see 'em agen,
Waggling doon the street,
While the baton twirls an' the piper skirls
To the beat of the marching feet.
Left - right - glimmerin' bright,
Buttons and cairngorms shine;
While the pipes give forth 'The Cock o' the North'
Ho! The kilts are in the line!
Far an' faint ye hear the plaint
Comin' adoon the breeze,
Closer it comes, wi' the crackle o' drums
An' the lift o' the naked knees.
Left - right - was ever a sight
Finer by burn or glen?
Wi' the tunes ye know, like the auld 'Keel Row'
Tis the march o' the Cameron men.
Pageantry it ever shall be
An asset in any land.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Escape
Sing me to sleep when I go West;
But sing you, soft and low,
No song from the olden masters'
Or I shall not want to go:
Not Schubert, wondrous harmonist,
Not great Beethoven, Grieg nor Liszt,
Nor any rare old melodist;
For I'd hate the passing so.
I'll hate to part with the good green trees
And the birds and the soft, kind sky;
For I've abiding love for these,
And I shall not want to die.
But, most of all, shall I doubly grieve
For the joys of earth when I have to leave
Those melodies to which I cleave
When the lust for life runs high.
Sing me to sleep when I go west
The latest thing you know
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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