Fiduciary Friendship
'E 'ad spragged me before for the loan of a quid.
But I told 'im straight out I was broke.
Still 'e would 'ang around me, wotever I did.
'E's a regiler obstinit bloke.
'E'd tapped me for dollars an' bit me for bobs;
An' I ain't too finanshil meself.
Wot with times like they are an' not too many jobs;
So a bloke 'as to 'ang to 'is pelf.
But this Mister Theodore give me a lead
'E's a genius all on 'is own
'E put me wise yestidy - jist wot I need,
When a bloke comes along for a loan.
I rekin this Theodore's out on 'is pat
As a shrewd an' a far-seein' bloke,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Lone Wolf Of Canberra
A man without a party, he
Knows nought of obligation
To any friend; but, fancy free.
He represents the nation.
In lonely majesty he sits
To give the Opposition fits,
Or rend the Government to bits
With fierce vituperation.
Of all he is most wise, most free,
Most pure, and - inter alia
Shorn of responsibility,
He speaks for all Australia.
Tho' parties rise or parties fall,
What cares he? He's 'Agin 'em all.'
Sole patriot, clad, at Freedom's call,
In Liberty's regalia.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Cobbers and Quids
Is youth not less pedantic, less absurd,
Less prone to value things of little worth
In failing to wax wrath about a word
That bears suspicion of a lowly birth?
All words have known their low and vulgar days
Known grime and poverty when they were young;
And many a proud and pompous modern phrase
Was once the plaything of a common tongue.
But as we grow respectable and staid
Mere sound, to middle-age, parades as sense.
Grey slaves of precedent, we grow afraid
Of youth and all its sane inconsequence.
Forgetting words are no god-given things,
With queer intolerance we would insist
In terms to which the mould of ages clings
On purity that never did exist.
Language is not the gift of any god;
Rude tribesmen made it when the race was young;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Warrior King
Albert, King of the Belgians,
Lived for his whole reign thro'
The father and friend of his people,
Soldier and statesman, too.
When his armies rode to the carnage,
'Twas their King who rode at their hear
To battle as great Kings battled...
And Albert the King is dead.
Albert, King of the Belgians,
Looking at doomed Louvain,
Wept for the plight of his people,
Grieved for his country's pain.
But the pride of a King upheld him;
The strength of a true King stayed,
And the love of a wise King triumphed
Thro' the travail, undismayed.
Albert, King of the Belgians,
After the red war's close,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Dogs' View
I'm only just a common racing dog,
Simple in habit, and my diet's plain.
I have never had a longing for the grog
That some men seem to need, more vim to gain.
And I have heard it said of such a one,
Who in his swilling emulates the hogs:
'He's boozing day and night: he's getting done.
Poor man,' they say: 'he's going to the dogs.'
But now 'tis threatened that a dog should win
A newer culture and a swifter pace
By taking to the whisky and the gin,
That he may wax more reckless in the race.
And we, who hitherto have been content
With just a lap of water and a rub,
Will soon enough contract that human bent
Of knocking off and going to the pub.
And then, who knows? Some badly balanced pup,
Weak-willed, and too intent on hectic joys,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Our Rampant Coat-Of-Arms
The Lion and the Unicorn
Of England's Coat-of-Arms
Seldom make bold, so we are told,
To ravage English farms.
In fact, 'tis said by travellers
Who lately have been there,
That lions hardly ever roam
About the dales and dells at Home,
And unicorns are rare.
But in this topsy-turvy land
Where often - inter alia
Strange forms of bird, in ways absurd,
Are grafted to mammalia.
And beasts have bills to fit the goose,
Our crazy Coat-of-Arms breaks loose
To roam at night and play the deuce
'Mid farmers in Australia.
The Lion and the Unicorn
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Lorne
Where the road's white bracelet runs
Round the cliff 'twixt bush and sea,
Gleaming 'neath the summer's suns
There she rests delightfully
There she rests, a jewel set
In the bracelet's shining band
Far from all the stress and fret
Of the markets of the land.
Summers come and summers go:
There she beckons pleasantly
By the gentle ebb and flow
Of her blue, eternal sea.
Where the Ocean Road dips down,
There she greets, the Southern Queen,
Weary men from mart and town,
Seeking strength from her bright scene.
Wooded slope and waterfall,
Mountain path and shining sand,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Dusk
Now is the healing, quiet hour that fills
This gay, green world with peace and grateful rest.
Where lately over opalescent hills
The blood of slain Day reddened all the west,
Now comes at Night's behest,
A glow that over all the forest spills,
As with the gold of promised daffodils.
Of all hours this is best.
It is time for thoughts of holy things,
Of half-forgotten friends and one's own folk.
O'er all, the garden-scented sweetness clings
To mingle with the wood fire's drifting smoke.
A bull-frog's startled croak
Sounds from the gully where the last bird sings
His laggard vesper hymn, with folded wings;
And night spreads forth her cloak.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Beauty Hint
Sweet, think how much the better it would be
If you thro' life should thus preserve your beauty.
It really doesn't matter much to me;
But don't you think you owe the world a duty,
And don't you think that thro' some kindly thought -
Of me, for instance - beauty were well bought?
Those wrinkles on your face, dear,
Those bags beneath your eyes
Are but the evil trace, dear,
Of temper, spite and lies.
Why can't you be a saint, dear,
Like dear old Joan of Arc;
Be pleasant - which you ain't, dear,
And do not be a nark.
Consider, sweetheart, if you smiled always
How much, thro' weeks, your face might be improving;
In place of which, in these unhappy days,
You go to beauty shops for the removing
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Traveller
As I rode in to Burrumbeet,
I met a man with funny feet;
And, when I paused to ask him why
His feet were strange, he rolled his eye
And said the rain would spoil the wheat;
So I rode on to Burrumbeet.
As I rode in to Beetaloo,
I met a man whose nose was blue;
And when I asked him how he got
A nose like that, he answered, "What
Do bullocks mean when they say 'Moo'?"
So I rode on to Beetaloo.
As I rode in to Ballarat,
I met a man who wore no hat;
And, when I said he might take cold,
He cried, "The hills are quite as old
As yonder plains, but not so flat."
So I rode on to Ballarat.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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