The Lean, Brown Man
There's a big, brown man in the hinterland
Whom the nation had forgot;
He's a stolid man and a patient man
And he does not talk a lot:
And the seasons frown or the seasons smile
As he toils to sow, to reap;
And as he toils he thinks the while;
And his thoughts are long and deep.
There's a silent man in the hinterland
A land of earth-stained clowns
To the little street-bred people cooped
In the noisy seaboard towns
In the towns where many a catch-cry's raised
And devious scheme devised,
Where the talkers reign, and thoughts, like men,
Grow smug and standardised.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Intangible Tigers
There's a moral in this: tho' I own that the preaching
Of moral and maxim in season and out
Grows stale; yet these days of depressions far-reaching
Demand any means to put worry to rout.
So in that menagerie now populated
By home-coming chickens and wolves upon mats
Consider, when finally doubt's dissipated
How often our tigers turn out to be cats.
Three-fourths of our troubles some Frenchman has told us,
But seldom occur. Tho' the ills of the mind
Loom forth as fierce tigers while doubts yet unfold us,
They turn into cats once we've put them behind.
How often the dread of some darkened tomorrow
Has ruined today; till, at Time's urgent call,
Tomorrow's false fears become yester's small sorrow
Innocuous cats, and not tigers at all.
So, here is the moral - just take it or leave it.
It doesn't much matter, you'll scorn it, no doubt.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Golden Age
Is it the dawn of a Golden Age
And a swift release from pain?
The politicians fight and rage
Where doubt and chaos reign.
But out on the fields, with one accord,
And small concern for bed or board,
Men follow the lure of the Golden Star
Out where the sand and the mulgas are.
Oh, the old dry blower's out again,
And the windlass, pan and pick:
For hope, high hope, has come to men
Where the miners muster thick.
They have made a strike at the seventy mile,
And the urgent fever grows the while;
And luck may come or fortune frown,
But these are men who are ne'er cast down.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Week-ends
I don't know what's come to the summer
In these dull and decadent years;
But a fellow grows glummer and glummer
As promise of autumn appears;
For there's not been a sign of a week-end of shine,
Or the sun on the sea all aglimmer.
And, as the weeks pass, wet and windy, alas,
Thin hope grows yet slimmer and slimmer.
Oh, the sad days, the mad days,
Of rain and wind and mud!
The week speeds by with the sun on high
To come a sickening thud.
When the slippery slosh of the gum golosh
On the soaked and sodden ground
Thro' the country lane sounds once again
When the week-end comes around.
When I go to the bush for a week-end
From a city aglow in the sun,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Lotsertime
Aw, chuck the mail bags over there,
It's great to have 'em brought by air;
But, now they're here, just sling 'em round,
Out anywhere, upon the ground.
I'll pick 'em up an' make full speed
Soon as me 'orse 'as 'as a feed.
Delays don't count in this fair clime;
This is the land o' Lotsertime.
I 'ear 'ow Europe's gone fair mad
On speed. But I'm like my ole dad.
The things a man don't do today
He does termorrer, anyway.
So wot's the odds! This speed's all tripe.
Wait on until I light me pipe.
A spell for yarnin' ain't no crime;
This is the land o' Lotsertime.
The Melbourne cockies, they don't care.
There's always 'eaps o' time to spare.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Milk Billy
So nice it is of you to call . . .
Yes; Monday week we done it;
Right 'igh-clarse weddin' - church an' all.
Cost Bill a bit to run it.
An' wotjer think 'e ups and sez
First night, or thereabout?
'Hey, Lil!' (Lor, it give me sich a thrill),
'Didjer think to put the milk-billy out?'
'Im! Thinkin' of the milk like that.
Show's 'e's domesticated.
'Er? She's no right to tork, the cat!
Although they are related.
It shows my Bill ain't like she sez:
A harum-scarum lout.
'Hey, Lil?' 'Wot's yer troubles, Bill?'
'Didjer think to put the milk-billy out?'
Sounds funny, comin' like from 'im,
A lover so 'igh mettled.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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One Happy Man
Today I met a happy man
Greeting the glad new year.
About his face the sunbeams ran
And danced, as straightaway he began
To laugh with right good cheer.
His garb was mean, tho' neat and clean;
No scarf, no hat had he.
He seemed indeed to be in need
And touched by poverty.
'Good friend,' said I, 'why do you laugh
And chortle in the sun,
When we've a bitter cut to quaff.
With profits down to less than half
And gloom for every one?
Know you that these are troublous days,
And life a stern affair,
And all must tread uncertain ways,
Haunted by grim despair?'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mr Fitzmickle Has A Test Match Fright
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Stern lord of his house and kin,
Is a small, bald man, and a cricket fan
Since the night he listened in
On his young son's set one winter morn.
Now his Test complex grows tireless;
But his small, meek wife tends a lonely life,
And the small son mourns his wireless.
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Was met at his door last night
By the low-voiced maid whose eye betrayed
A state of chronic fright,
And Mary stammered in nervous tones
'Mum-Madam's took a chill, sir.'
Fitzmickle gasped, 'What's that?' he asked,
Said Mary, 'Madam's ill, sir.'
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Clutched at his brow and groaned,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Alternative - 1908
If, some day, you should find me, cold and stark
If you should stumble o'er my lifeless clay
In some still thoroughfare or public park
And sadly say:
'Alack, and had he lived, as like as not
He'd reigned with Bent!' I should not care a jot.
If I should die in some by-way obscure,
And you should come across my silent corse
In its last sleep, my spirit would - be sure
Know no remorse.
'Twere better that I thus had ceased to live
If life with Bent were the alternative.
I say, if I should die, and all alone;
And, dying thus, escape the wiles of Bent;
O'er my remains I'd have you make no moan,
Nor yet lament.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Charity
Oh, loyal Orange breth-er-en.
I pray you act as Christlan men,
And, should your spleen arise, count ten
Before you speak.
Nay, bear me, brothers, I beseech.
Refrain from all un-Christian speech
Remember! He, whose Word we preach,
Was ever week.
The lazy, low Italian,
The cheating, shifty Mexican
All Papist creatures to a man;
Avid brutes at that
The scum that Rome's base agents skim
With mummery from ages dim.
Dear brothers, let us sing a n'ymn,
And pass the bat.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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