Mildura
Where the sunlight, burning down,
Lights her luscious orange groves,
Lights the river and the town;
Where the placid Murray roves;
Where each shining summer gives
Life to loveliness serene;
Here the tropic lady lives
'Mid her almost tropic scene.
Palm trees spreading to the sun,
Dusk of lemon, sheen of vine;
Vitamin and vigour won
And imprisoned, till the wine,
Gushing from the purple grape
In the press, allows again
Golden sunlight to escape
These the dower of her domain.
Gay and glad and vigorous,
Winning wealth from summertime,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Frank the Jester
There's joy in legislative halls
When Frank's in opposition;
But gloom upon the Chamber falls
When Frank holds high position.
His merry japes no longer flit
About the House to mellow it,
For cares of office dull his wit
And mar his life's great mission.
Frank's mission - and a high one, too,
Amongst the chiefest rating
Is to infuse come joy anew
Into the dull debating.
When speakers drone and lose their grip,
And every member has the pip,
Up rises Frank with merry quip
And humor scintillating.
But as a Minister, alack,
His ready wit grows clouded.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Heritage Of Ease
Are we so flabby, and are we so soft?
I have pondered the question long and oft;
And happy-go-lucky we may appear
When the fat and easy days are here,
When it's easy come and it's easy go,
And there's never a long, hard row to hoe.
But exceedingly hard and remarkably tough
Are the terms that fit when the days grow rough,
And Australia faces the jobs ahead
That fall in the seasons of stress and dread.
And the sturdier stuff of the pioneers
Has not all gone with the old, stern years.
And the tasks we faced and the loads we bore,
When the folly of nations brought us war,
Were not too many and not too great
To bend our backs or to halt our gait.
For the same old metal they tried anew,
And then, as ever, the stuff rang true.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Blue Kingfisher
Where the little river gleaming
Thro' its shadows green and cool
Broadens to the quiet dreaming
Of a little shady pool;
There an azure jewel burning
O'er the waters you may spy,
Never moving never turning:
'Tis the silent fisher,
Head aloft above the river,
With an apathetic air,
Not the smallest quirk nor quiver
Warns you of my presence there.
Mayhap you will thnk me sleeping -
Dreaming summer days away -
Till you mark a keen eye peeping
Where the tell-tale ripples play.
Now a dive, a sudden darting,
Now a flash of gold and blue,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Hats
I sing of the hat, of the human lid,
The cadev, the tile, or whatever you please,
The thing that we wear - or our fathers did
For the making of comfort and greater ease.
Man suffers a roof up over his head
'Gainst the wind and the weather, to keep them out;
But as for a woman, when all is said,
It's the very last thing she thinks about.
Why queer 'creations' should deck her brow,
Or the back of her neck, or her small pink ear,
She hasn't the least idea, I vow;
For out of the blue come things of fear,
And, all in a night as it were - like that
Every matron and maid in town
Abandons the saucer she had for a hat
For a thing like a billy-can upside down.
Weird fruit salads and flower-decked tiles,
Dingle-dangles, roosters and bows,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Martyr of Bovinia
She milked the cow; and all the morn was hushed
(It was a beast that never kicked or rushed)
The startled dicky-birds of early Spring
Sat up amazed to mark this splendid thing,
Nigh fainting with delight upon the bough . . . .
She milked the cow.
She milked the cow; nor all the glory rare
Of that October morning could compare
With that sweet sylvan scene; the grace, the charm
The rhythmic movement of her dimpled arm,
Would make a poor bloke feel just anyhow . . . .
She milked the cow.
She milked the cow. 'Twas at South Sassafras
(Which is a cruel word to rhyme,alas)
And all who gazed thereon decalred, with force,
It was sublime - except the cow, of course
Who wore a patient frown upn her brow . . . .
She milked the cow.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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African Interlude
I t'inkin' da war now go for stop
Between Black Sammo, da slush,
An' Nicko, da boss of da fry-fish shop.
All sound of da conflic' hush
Since da corner-a cop he putta da foot
Down firm an' talk tinna tack;
For Nicko see wer he notta so goot
If he make-a da beezness slack.
For da corner-a cop made food for t'ink
When he spika to Nick an' say
He apply-a da sanc' so quick like-a wink
An' Nicko, he have-a to pay.
If da customer stop for come to da shop
How da beezness carryin' on?
More better, Nick t'inkin', for war to flop
If he goin' for lose da mon'.
So da cop make term for da peace discush,
All da same like lig-a-da-Naish,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Camperdown
The dignity of Camperdown
Is not to be denied,
Where Leura looks upon the town
And that lush countryside
And comfortable, stout and sleek,
She wears the air of one who'd seek
To mind her manners rather much,
And cultivate the English touch.
A haughty lady prone to row
Her eyebrows, when the road
Brings in some traveller whose ways
Tend to offend her code.
The robust life of modern towns
Suits ill her verdant dells and downs.
She is particular, aloof;
As witness many a manor roof.
'Tis said that Leura, long ago,
Belched flames up to the sky,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Dominant Male
Your place is by my side, my dear,
A-holding of my hand
When I am feeling rather queer
And hard to understand;
Not 'mid that fierce forensic crew
Who argue in the courts;
But doing all that you can do
When I am out of sorts.
To me it all seems very clear:
Yours to submit and bow;
Mine to command and domineer.
Your place is by my side, my dear,
A-stroking of my brow,
Consoling me for all my ills
My proud position brings.
The while you find vicarious thrills
Midst all the humbler things.
Your place is by my side, my sweet;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Old Shanty
Look at 'em! Toffs with their big cigars,
Drivin' along in their motor cars.
Nothin' at all like the olden days
When the blokes came by in their bullock drays,
When a cut o' the joint and a hunk o' bread
Was a meal for a king; an' a man was fed.
But beer! Why, man, they could lap a lot.
There was thousands made on this very spot;
Forchins taken behind this bar
An' never the sight of a motor car,
Or a dolled-up mug with 'is bag o' tricks
Lookin' for tucker at 'arf past six!
Struth! I ain't running no resterong
With food on the table the 'ole day long.
This is a pub - or it used to be,
An' the bar-room takin's is wot suits me.
But 'the food ain't 'ot!' and 'the rooms ain't clean!'
An' they spen's on likker - not one brass bean.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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