The Old White Horse
In olden days the Old White Horse
Stood brave against the sky;
And ne'er a teamster shaped his course
To pass the good inn by.
Far shone its lights o' winter nights
To beckon weary men;
By the long road where calm life flowed
It loomed a landmark then.
And many a good right yarn was spun
Mid pewter-pots agleam;
And mnay a friendship here begun
Grew riper as the team
Drew down the road its precious load
Of merchandise or mail,
And faced the ills of long, steep hills
To far-off Lilydale.
The tap-room rang to many a song,
While patient teams stood there;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Grey Fantail
The bushmen call me 'Cranky Fan,'
Because my strange erratic flight
Seems to uncomprehending man
Sign of a wit not over-bright;
But nimble wit and nimble wing
Uphold me in the trade I ply
Of ever-restless foraging
Excuse me - there's another fly!
A tireless ball of buff and grey;
White-shafted, my important tail
Guides me on my unstable way
When stronger aviators fail;
Now right rise up, now upside down,
Now tumbling crazily from high,
I ape the antics of a clown
Whoop! - and that's another fly!
'Tis thus my daily fare I earn
By nimble trick of wit and wing;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Dinkum Aussie Block
What have we missed? Now he returns no more
We are left with but our blindness to deplore,
But, concentrating on his spats instead,
Missed all the lure of that impressive head.
Caricaturists, gazing at his feet,
Drew little else, and deemed the sketch complete;
Likewise cartoonists, whose gaunt fingers crept
Unconsciously to limn him as they slept.
And we poor Aussies of the rough hewn 'dile,'
Think to salve our vanity the while,
Who said: 'Though we've a gargoyle for a face,
At least 'tis typical of our strong race'
Where are we now? Where is our last excuse
For owning features so unlike a Bruce?
The Bruce, round whom admiring artists flock
Because he owns the dinkum Aussie block.
He kept his block; and keeping it became
A classic type to spread his country's fame.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Duty Done - 1933
A duty done ... What else was there to do?
A simple matter; and as simply solved.
His straight young mind worked straightly - worked as true
As ever youth's clean mind. Here no involved
And weighty pondering of faith or fact.
Duty demanded; and he leapt to act.
He leapt and died . . . Could he but tell it now,
There would, be sure, come no heroic tale.
'What else would any man do, any how?'
This thing cried to be done. How could he fail?
The cry; the danger; Duty's sudden call;
Then - well, a bit of bad luck. That was all.
They say that youth grows cynical: too prone
To weigh advantage; thro' some modern plan
Changed from the clear-eyed youth old days had known:
More of a crafty huckster, less a man.
They say - and they are answered by one youth,
Proving again one wholesome human truth.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Antarctic Pioneers
Because some unimportant man
In politics talks loud and high,
Or some wild, economic plan
To lift depression takes his eye,
The apathetic citizen
Pays little heed in these dark days
To Mawson and his merry men
Back from the desolate sea ways.
'A rather chilly trip,' says he,
What time the page he idly flicks,
With visions of an ice-bound sea,
Then turns again to politics.
Fish, fur and iceberg, seal and whale;
He gives the thing a passing glance
And misses all the wondrous tale
With all its high significance.
Because the voyagers return
With no tale that the mind beguiles
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Anzac Eve
For some, it was the last sun that should set,
For many, their last glimpse of fecund day
A splendid sun, dipping, reluctant yet,
Into blue water west of Mudros Bay;
And they - new burnished coin to squander free
In 'that red purchase' on Gallipoli.
They guessed not; or, half guessing, did not reck
That for the doomed no other sun should rise
But to reveal the still forms that would fleck
The Anzac Beach; staring with lifeless eyes
Where carrier pigeons, white against the blue,
Bore the dread tale for other skies they knew.
They sang, they laughed; and laughing cursed again
The long monotony of Mudros Bay.
Like hounds released, the eager shouting men
Crowded the decks and whiled the time away
At cards; half fearing what they most desired
Might be denied them yet; and no shot fired.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Bloke Wot Gits The Girls
'E passes by, each day, at ten
A bottle-shouldered yid
Wot looks as if 'e pushed a pen
An' drawes a weekly quid;
'E's always with some little lass;
(By cripes, 'e gets some pearls!)
We calls 'im, watchin' of 'em pass,
The bloke wot gits the girls.
An' strewth! it beats me outer sight
'Ow girls can stand 'im - straight!
'E don't go five-feet-two in height
Or eight-stun-two in weight;
'E couldn't swing a pick, - or scrap,
Soft 'ands an' sheeny curls!
'E's just a sorter - well, mishap,
The Bloke wot gits the girls.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Gus
Do you know Gus? Now, he should interest you.
The girls adore him - or he thinks they do.
He owns a motor bike, not of the sort
That merely cough a little bit, or snort.
His is a fiery, detonating steed
That makes the town sit up and take some heed
A thunderous thing, that booms and roars a treat,
With repercussions that awake the street.
That's Gus. Dead flash. One of the rorty boys,
Whose urge is to express themselves with noise,
He wakes the midnight echoes, when to sleep
We vainly strive, with detonations deep.
And Gus has visions, as he thunders by,
Of maidens who sit up in bed, and sigh,
'It's Gus! It's Gus, the he-man. What a thrill!
'Mid Jovian thunders riding up the hill!'
You can't blame Gus. He has to make a row.
He's got to get publicity somehow.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Criminal War
I am shocked beyond words!
(Said the statesman. 'Tis crime
That the clamoring herds
Should seek war at this time.
For a criminal war is sheer folly
Subversive to ideals sublime.
There are wars that are nice;
There are wars that are not.
And 'tis seeking with vice
That the nations should plot
World war when my land is unready.
I refuse to consider such rot.
My philosophy's clear;
My morality, too;
Tho' my rivals may sneer
At the things that I do.
If at present, for me, war's illegal It must be illegal for you!
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Distrust Appearances
He came into the bird-shop where I stood
A hulking giant, monumental, grim,
A paragon of muscular manhood.
'What is sold here,' I thought, 'that could serve him?'
His heavy brow, his grat, prognathic jaw
Spoke brooding truculence; he wore no vest;
And, where his shirt flared one side, I saw
The matted hair upon his mighty chest.
I thought of Gog, Carnera, Hercules,
As he stood by me, breating like a gale.
'What can he want,' I wondered, ''mid all these.
Pet dogs, birds, goldfish offered here for sale?
Bulldogs at least.' The parrots watched him, tense;
The yelping pups grew still to see him pass;
All sensed his presence, dominant, immense.
Even the goldfish goggled thro' their glass.
He scared me. Hastily I made my choice
And paid my cash. Yet loitered by the door,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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