Dawn
Here, in soft darkness where the whole night thro',
Dreamless, my quiet garden slumbered well.
Night's soothing fingers all adrip with dew
Crept in and out, weaving a mystic spell
O'er wilting bud and bell;
Now with deft touches deepening tints anew.
Now lifting up some languid suppliant who
Had wooed the sun too well.
In the grey twilight tall trees seem to yawn
And, waking, stretch their mighty limbs on high.
A small bird cheeps; and, silver in the dawn,
The jewelled wattles to a soft wind sigh.
Hard etched against the sky
The timbered hill-tops stand forth boldly drawn. . . .
A sunbeam, laughing, trips across the lawn,
And smiling day is nigh.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Yarra Glen
Where the Yarra dreams along,
Now in shadow, now in sun,
Murmuring a drowsy song,
Here she rests, the placid one.
Here she rests and takes her ease,
Peaceful home of cattlemen;
Haste and hustle, things like these,
Touch her lightly - Yarra Glen.
Easy flow with little care
Flows her rich river-flats
'Mid the lush green grasses where
Roam the milkers and the fats;
Where the sun-tanned herdsmen ride
Leisurely about green fields
Sloping to the river-side,
Rich with Nature's kindly yields.
Well content to drift and dream,
Life's high fever stirs her not,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Caesar Redivivus
In the olive groves of Italy
Men minds are all aflame;
For the war-lust spreads thro' Italy,
Where war-lords call the game.
And they dream of Roman legions
And the glory that was Rome's;
Yet reck not of the misery
That stalks Italian homes.
By the vine-clad hills of Italy
Men talk and dream of war;
Of the triumphs that were Caesar's,
And the glories known of yore.
But a mockery of triumph,
And an end to dreaming vain
Comes to victor, as to vanquichsed,
With a counting of the slain.
Oh, the women-folk of Italy,
They give their sons to Mars;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Farmer's Lament
'The backbone of the country and the salt of all the earth'
That was how they styled us when the farmer had his worth.
But what's his valuation now, when times are pretty thin?
Chorus:
Two bob a dozen, an' the garments given in.
Solo:
We made the country's money an' we paid the country's way,
We raised the wealth for cities from the farm thro' many a day;
But what's the price of farmers now the profits disappeared?
Chorus:
Two bob a dozen, an' a bonus on the beard.
Solo:
They'll pay to patch machinery or cure old Dobbin's sprain;
But they cannot spare a stiver when the farmer gets a pain;
For what's the use o' mendin' him when all he's valued at
Chorus:
Is two bob a dozen, if he's nice an' prime an' fat.
Solo:
But the farmer ain't repinin', tho' his price is down an' out.
There's a good time comin' soon without the smallest doubt;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Country Doctors
The quiet country doctors
Of many a country town,
Whose lives are spent to service bent,
With scant hope of renown
Those sturdy country doctors,
That walk the healer's way,
At beck and call of one and all
That pain be smoothed away.
Those patient country doctors,
That journey day and night
By country roads to far abodes
To ease some sufferer's plight;
Thro' fire and flood and tempest
They make their pilgrimage
To bring release and healing peace,
The comforters of age.
Those modern country doctors,
They do not advertise;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Country Towns - Portland
Here she hides, an aged dame.
Here she dreams beside the waves.
Ever baulked of modern fame
And the deep-sea trade she craves.
Tall ships, riding at her port,
Waking her to life anew -
Here she hides, and holds the fort,
Hoping yet dreams will come true.
Charming lady, dignified,
Proud, hospitable and kind;
With full half her rights denied.
Here she waits, and calls to mind
Pictures of the olden days
When the whalers, sailing down
To her quiet waterways
Gave first promise to her town.
First came Dutton - half forgot
To establish well her claim
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Grey Goshawk
There is a flutter in the trees,
And now a sudden, dread unease
Stills all the bushland melodies
Amid the gums;
Stills now the song of wren and thrush,
Robin and honeyeater hush.
Now, with a swoop, a whistling rush,
Grey goshawk comes.
I am the threat: the dread king.
Grim Azrael, is on the wing,
And every little living thing
Dares scarce a breath.
And now a parrot, shrill with fear,
Flies dodging there and doubling here
Thro' inlaced limbs, in mad career
From lusting death.
Grey ghost, grey death, I work my will
O'er forest dense, o'er wood hill,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Billy
At the risk of seeming silly,
I would ask you, 'Where is Billy?'
Here's a crisis, here's a fight,
And he's missing. Strike a light!
Blithering blazes! Here's a mill -
Rough house stuff; and where's our Bill?
Where's the speech with phrases frilly,
Trouncing foemen willy nilly,
Waving arms, gesticulations,
Posturing and wild gyrations?
Briefly, where's the vaudeville
That, in olden days was Bill?
Where's the harsh voice, rising shrilly
To uphold the views of Billy?
Far too grave grow politics,
Lacking all his circus tricks.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Country Roads ~ Pretty Sally
The diggers came from Bendigo,
From Albury the drovers,
From where the Goulburn waters flow
Came bearded teamsters travelling slow.
And all the brown bush rovers;
And where the road goes winding still
To dropp to Melbourne valley,
They sought the shanty by the hill,
And called for beer and drank their fill,
And sparked with Pretty Sally.
The teamsters halted by the door
To give their horses water
And stood about the bar room floor
To ogle, while they had one more,
The shanty keeper's daughter.
Diggers with gold from creek to claim
About her used to rally,
Shearers and booted stockmen came
And to the hill they gave her name,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Dargo
Dargo is a dark-haired lass
Prone to independent ways;
Few men know her, fewer pass,
Where her pleasant river plays
But the smile in her blue eye
Promises a wealth of cheer
For the tired passer-by
Who would seek him respite here.
Long forgot, the days of gold
When the miners, crowding down,
Stirred a turbulence of old
Round about her pleasant town.
Now the quiet cattle-men.
Riding in from her high plains
Seek her portals now and then
With a tale of worthier gains.
Riding up Insolvent Track,
In the days before its change
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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