Country Roads ~ White Horse Road
By White Horse Tavern, White Horse Road
In olden days wound down;
And many a waggon bore its load
And many a bullock felt the goad
From town to country town.
Thro' Ringwood on, by hill and vale,
Their patient way they went.
Until they came to Lilydale,
The olden town of Lilydale.
And teamsters paused at Lilydale,
A place of calm content.
But days of bitumen and tar
Have changed the ancient mode;
And now the speeding motor car,
Where traffic-cops and bowsers are,
Go down the White Horse Road,
Upon a smooth, broad way they sail,
Till, sudden, up and down,
The bumps begin at Lilydale,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Advance Australia
Borrowin' over the water; I've seen it all before
Raisin' loans (said Old George Jones)
Was a trick we learned of yore.
Borrowin' over the water
In the old Australian way
Splash the cash an' cut a dash
An' leave the kids to pay.
Steel rails an' sausage skins, cotton goods an' fal-de-rals,
Drapery an' rollin'-stock an' pocket knives an' sich;
That was how we took it out
When we was but a growin' lout;
But sich-like habits calls for doubt
Now we are grown an' rich.
Borrowin' over the water for reproductive works
That ain't produced; sich habits used
To mark the crowd that shirks.
That's why we're heaped with taxes
In this sad year A.D.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Green Walls
I love all gum-trees well. But, best of all,
I love the tough old warriors that tower
About these lawns, to make a great green wall
And guard, like sentries, this exotic bower
Of shrub and fern and flower.
These are my land's own sons, lean, straight and tall,
Where crimson parrots and grey gang-gangs call
Thro' many a sunlit hour.
My friends, these grave old veterans, scarred and stem,
Changeless throughout the changing seasons they.
But at their knees their tall sons lift and yearn -
Slim spars and saplings - prone to sport and sway
Like carefree boys at play;
Waxing in beauty when their young locks turn
To crimson, and, like beaconfires burn
To deck Spring's holiday.
I think of Anzacs when the dusk comes down
Upon the gums - of Anzacs tough and tall.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Letter From England
Dear Boy
As it appears to us old fogeys
If you'll excuse the term that we adopt
You and your battery of bowling bogeys
Seem to have come a rather nasty flop.
Psychology, you know, and moral suasion,
And all these fine nuances of the game
Appear to us, at least on this occasion,
To have been, so to speak, a trifle tame.
We would not be too hard; we know your task is
Sterner than we supposed when you set out
Avoiding criticism, all we ask is.
Please dropp 'shock tactics' and cut 'stunting' out.
Try to avoid a batting ace with roots on,
Like Don's, to keep him at the crease, old chap;
Use only bowlers who can keep their boots on,
And, please, please don't count too much on that cap.
If you think it would make your prospects brighter
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Averted Violence
Stripped to the buff they circled round,
And jagged and swung and crossed;
To uppercut and smash and pound
No chances either lost;
Till folks opined, in some alarm,
That they might do each other harm.
Fiercely, they swung the left and right,
With punch and bash and clout:
Each grimly hopeful that he might
Secure the glad knock-out.
And, as they watched the 'claret' spurt,
The crowd feared someone might be hurt.
The ribs of one were bruised and sore,
His chin was badly gashed;
The other's face was streaked with gore;
And yet they biffed and bashed.
And someone said, 'It this goes on
There'll be an injury anon.'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A New Year Thought
Brother, who on some near morrow
Makes a pledge conceived in sorrow
Makes a New Year resolution
Seeking plenary ablution.
Makes a vow to cease from sinning
With this New Year's beginning
Here's a thought to give you gladness,
Here's relief from old year sadness.
Brother, you and I are men.
We have sinned; and yet again
Shall we sin. An old year's dying
Still shall find us ever trying.
Yet here is a thought worth knowing,
While our wild oats we are sowing,
Sowing where we may not reap
Here's a thought to have and keep.
Why waste effort in our sinning,
For no goodlier grace we're winning?
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Legs And The Man
Alas, my dear, be you high-born,
Or just a Sydney cutie,
I fear you've earned a he-man's scorn
Thro' failing in your duty.
A lady would avert her eyes,
Taught by her caste to realise
That the male leg without disguise
Is not a thing of beauty.
Even when used to underpin
A dress-reforming dandy,
‘Tis still a prop of reddened skin,
Mostly knock-kneed, or bandy.
And, oh, my dear, you must have known
How sensitive are those who own
These knobby knuckles thickly sown
With ebon hairs, or sandy.
And oh, my dear, be you de Vere,
Or just some saucy Sadie,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Little Black Cormorant
By inlet and islet and wide river reaches,
By lake and lagoon I'm at home,
Yet oft' the far forests of blue-gum and beeches
About the broad ranges I roam,
'There's a strange, sombre bird with a hook in his beak.'
'Tis the little black cormorant raiding your creek.
And woe to the fisher and woe to the fishes
A gourmand I freely confess
When I come a-searching for succulent dishes,
Arrayed in my funeral dress,
Then the fishermen rave, and in anger they speak:
'There's a little black cormorant coming up creek!'
But I'm quick and I'm cunning, as many a greyling,
A blackfish, a trout or a bream
Has known to his sorrow when down I go sailing
To hunt him beneath the dark stream.
To my cavernous maw then they all come alike,
And 'tis death should the little black cormorant strike.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Loneliness
A lonely soul . . . According to her lights
She has lived on, mid all our worldly strife,
Thro' that procession of mad days and nights
That most men lay to waste, and call it life.
And men have smiled a little, too, may be,
At what they deem her eccentricity.
'This have we done, and this,' the proud souls cry;
'In pomp and pageantry vast riches spent,
Builded cathedrals yearning to the sky,
And scattered gold for God's aggrandisement,
That we may be immortalised on earth
In monuments to our undying worth.
'This we have done, and this; for we were just;
Captained great armies for the Lord of Hosts,
Left erring brothers bleeding in the dust,
Our enemies - and His. The worldling boasts;
And, boasting, dies to seek a meek reward
From a remote and half-envisioned Lord.'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Loving But Leaving (A Sob Song for Conscientious Crooners)
When I led you to the altar
Vows were made, you'll call to mind
Darling wife. Now a defaulter
Must I seem if I'd be kind.
For you know how well I love you,
How I've sought work far and near;
But to keep a roof above you
I must now desert you, dear.
Because I love you I must leave you,
Wife o' mine I cherish so;
Yet the parting should not grieve you
When the whole mad tale you know.
Well you know I don't deceive you.
Since the glad day we were wed
I have loved you; I must leave you
If I'd gain our daily bread.
You will pardon the pretending
When I figure in the courts,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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