Mad, But Not So Mad
Though our eye in recent seasons
Has a wild and glassy glare,
And we fail to offer reasons
For the straws that deck our hair;
There are certain consolations
That are unction for the soul
When we view the older nations
Gone completely up the pole.
We may be mad, but not so mad
As others quite bereft
Of reason. Though our case is sad,
We've sparks of gumption left.
For, while we have the art to see
From this our island raft,
How mad the other nations be
That sail the economic sea,
We're not completely daft.
In regard to hops and butter,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Rose and the Bee
'Well, what tidings today?' said the bee
To the burgeoning rose.
'You are young, yet already you see
Much of life, I suppose.'
Said the rose, 'Oh, this life is so filled
With astonishing things
That I think I could not be more thrilled
E'en if roses had wings.
Three lupins have bloomed by the pond
Since last you were here;
In the nest of the blue-wrens beyond
Three nestlings appear.
A gay butterfly slept by my side
All yesternight thro'
Till dawn, when a thrush hymned his pride.
But how goes it with you?'
'There are great things at hand,' said the bee.
'Change comes to my life.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Indian Myna
Gimme the town an' its clamour an' clutter;
I ain't very fond of the bush;
For my cobbers are coves of the gardens and gutter-
A tough metropolitan push.
I ain't never too keen on the countryfield life;
It's the hustle an' bustle for me an' me wife.
So I swagger an' strut an' I cuss an' I swagger;
I'm wise to the city's hard way.
A bit of a bloke an' a bit of a bragger;
I've always got plenty to say.
Learned thro' knockin' about since my people came out
From the land at the back of Bombay.
When out in the bush I am never a ranger;
There never ain't nothin' to see.
Besides, them bush birds got no time for a stranger;
So town an' the traffic for me.
I sleep in the gardens an' loaf in the street,
An' sling off all day at the fellers I meet.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The League Of Youth
There was never a hint, when I was a boy,
That the joy of the wilds might bring man joy;
Never a thought that a wild thing slain
Might wake in the slayer pain for pain.
We were savages all, with the hunter's thrill
In the lure of the chase and the lust of the kill;
And the bud on the bough, and the bird in the nest
Were beautiful things to be possessed.
But a worthier thing comes now to the earth,
Since pity in minds of the young has birth.
'Tis the glorious gift, that wisdom brings,
Of knowing and loving all lovely things:
Of loving and sharing with all the boon
Of the glad free things that may teach us soon
The gift of living, as glad and free,
As bird and blossom in Arcady.
'Oh, youth is heedless,' the elders say,
'Youth is callous and cruel in play,'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Convalescence
Underneath a tree I lie,
Watching with lack lustre eye,
All those little trivial things
Weakness after sickness brings;
Watching birds flit to and fro;
Watching how the grasses grow;
Watching how the leaves and trees
Blend in Autumn harmonies
And wise insects, taught by God,
Build their shelters in the sod.
Oh, how low the pride of men
Falls and grovels meekly, when
Convalescence comes at last
After long borne sufferings past,
E'en the arrogance of pain
That strange vanity - is vain
And he lies, a stricken thing,
Bereft of even suffering.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Kindly Copper
Oh, for that kindly copper
I knew long years ago,
A stalwart man and proper,
Crime's unrelenting foe.
He was for me a shield, a friend
Who sole concern was to defend
Such just rights as I know.
My bedtime thoughts went with him
What time his forthright feet,
In slow and measured rhythm,
Patrolled his midnight beat;
And, knowing he was on my side,
I blessed him, snugly satisfied,
Our concord was complete.
And now, tho' we've neglected
No duty, sought no change,
This friend I once respected
Half hostile grows, and strange.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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John Galsworthy
Not for vague honors, not for treacherous power
He lived and toiled thro' this, his earthy span;
But to uphold and cultivate the dower,
God-given, for enlightment of man,
Here was no tale of talents mis-applied,
But of gifts to the last hour multiplied.
Grave, kindly scrivener, moved to no swift wrath
By tyrannies or Greed's condoning pleas:
Pity was there for Vandal and for Goth
Clutching insensate at earth's vanities.
Pity was there, with truth and justice, when
He held his shining mirror up to men.
That they might see themselves; not as they seem
To smug content and sleek complacency
Lulled by the opiate of their false dream;
But as some wise, kind visitant might see
And weigh and, by wise standards, judge the worth
Of all the sad frailities of earth.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Faith of Old George Jones
War raged around this troubled world,
When I was but a lad,
And into battle men were hurled,
As some ambition mad
Moved kings on their unstable thrones
To bring the world unease.
Mad days, I'll grant (said old George Jones),
But not as mad as these.
They fought for power, fought for gain,
For land and plunder then;
They fought for ends that they made plain
And understood of men.
But in this strangely restless age,
And this world's changing scene,
Men fight and die while nations rage,
For visions half unseen.
They fight for theories untried,
Ideals, untested creeds,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Autumn Song
With the advent of the Autumn
Trees behave as Nature taught 'em;
Maple, Sumach, Plum and Poplar, and the Chestnut known as Horse,
Ere they shed the Summer fashion,
Break into a perfect passion
Of sweet rivalry in color (if deciduous, of course).
Autumn comes, and Claret Ashes,
Liquidambars, showing splashes
From her palette, don the motley - Joseph's coats of many a hue:
Russet-red and golden-yellow
As the season waxes mellow.
As for me, like certain gum-trees, I perversely grow more blue.
I would quaff in ample measure
Every draught of Autumn's pleasure
Were it not a grim foreboding spreads its color thro' the mind.
And I know that Autumn breezes
Bring the first hint of the wheezes;
For, when Fall the Summer follows, Winter is not far behind.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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As Between Pensioners
''Tis precious stuff,' said old George Jones
'When men sore needs a fall;
Tho' how or why it comes, I owns
I ain't got clear at all.
Some sez that in the sun, a spot
Controls it in some way.'
'It's this 'ere wireless, like as not,'
Said old Pete Parraday.
'Wireless,' scoffed grey-haired Joey Park.
'Wot wireless did they use
When ole man Noah sailed the ark?
It's them black cockytoos.
Last week I seen more than a few,
An' then wot did I say '
''Tis wireless - I'm tellin' you!'
Said old Pete Parraday.
'Cockies? Sun-spots?' said Daddy Shore,
'Jist foolish talk an' vain.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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