Arch Criminal
When muddled mentors take the stage
To gird against our erring,
They simulate an awful rage,
They funk the task and straight engage
A palpable red-herring.
Fearing at higher marks to aim,
The futile knuckle-rapper,
With flaming words of bitter blame,
Plays at the rather outworn game
Of 'Flagellate the Flapper.'
Altho', my sweet, you may be neat
And winsome, too, from head to feet,
In face and form a nymph complete,
In manner softly winning;
One touch of powder Number Two,
And heaven's gates are closed to you;
Tho' still ajar for those who do
This sad world's heavy sinning.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Case for Kings
I've never had much truck with kings
(Said old George Jones). For all my days
My lot's been cast 'mid common thngs,
My path has run by humble ways.
Tho' I have live my life in what
Men call 'The shadow of the throne,'
No king disturbed my peace one jot,
And I have left them well alone.
But I have heard men rave and rant
Of great injustice, wrongs and rights
And all that maudlin, modern cant
Of liberty and freedom's fights.
But peacefully I've gone my way
And sought content on this bright earth.
I've harked to all they've had to say,
And summed it up for all it's worth.
But foreign lands have crushed their kings,
And raised new flags of strange design;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Anzac
Anzac! And war's grim storm . . .
The scream of a pass'ng shell
Torn earth, and - a quiet form . . .
'Pass, comrades. All is well.'
Nay, but his spirit lives; be very sure.
Year follows year, and earthly things depart;
But what he dying, gave us shall endure
Now and for ever in the nation's heart.
Now and for ever; tho' the flesh be gone,
Still shall that Spirit bid us, 'Carry on!'
Anzac! The mounds increase;
Marking where soldiers fell . . . .
Earth's healing scars; and peace.
'Sleep, comrades. All is well.'
And be full certain that they do but sleep,
Who, falling, yet were well content to find
Fit sanctuary in the hearts that keep
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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There's a Good Time Coming
There's a good time coming in the golden by-and-by:
And I wish, oh, how I wish that it would come!
There's a wise day dawning, by the portents in the sky,
To usher in the glad millenium.
When heaven-sent technocracy displaces our democracy,
Goodbye to man's hypocrisy and greed.
But I wonder, oh, I wonder if we'll all be planted under
Ere the good time gladdens human need.
There's a good time coming, but the road we have to go
Is strewn with all the wreckage of the past.
And there's quite a lot of salvage ere we end this worldly woe
And gain the golden terminus at last.
The wonders of machinery that dominates our scenery
Have left the blundering ancients far behind;
But I wonder, oh, I wonder if we haven't made a blunder
In neglecting that machine, the human mind.
There's a good time coming; but the echo answers, 'When?'
And I wish, oh, I wish that I could say.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Lilydale
Three hills lead on to Lilydale,
Where runs the White Horse Road.
Three slopes dip down into the vale
The placid vale of Lilydale,
That somnolent abode
Of dreams that compass olden days,
Of tranquil life and easy ways,
Where transient beauty tints her trees
With golden Autumn's harmonies.
For Lilydale is now a dame
Unhurried and content.
Traditions that attend her name
Serve her from all she needs of fame,
Who scorns the brandishment
Of modern haste and modern show.
And, as the speeding motors go
Down thro' her street, to hasten by,
She marks them with a sleepy sigh.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bobbie
Gin you're gangin' doon the city
Come next Sabbath afternoon,
An' you'll catch a glimpse o' Tartan
An' you'll hear a skirlin' tune;
An' you'll see a crowd o' laddies
Lookin' verra dour an' staid,
Wi' just here an' there a Cairngorn,
An' a wee tiny speck o' plaid;
Dinna think from their expression
They are on some mission sad
For their thoughts are back wi' Bobbie,
Wi' the braw, brave ploughman lad.
Once again they'll see him treadin'
Dreary-eyed behind the plough,
With his thoughts amonsgt the angels
And a brave light on his brow.
Once again they'll see him sparking
By the burnside and the glen,
Wi' another sort of angel
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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How we backed the Favourite
'Sure thing,' said the grocer; 'as far as I know, sir,
This horse, Peter Pan, is the safest of certs.'
'I see by the paper,' commanded the draper,
'He's tipped and he carries my whole weight of shirts.'
The butcher said, 'Well, now, it's easy to tell now
There's nothing else in it except Peter Pan.'
And so the baker, the barman, bookmaker,
The old lady char and the saveloy man.
'You stick to my tip, man,' admonished the grip-man,
'Play up Peter Pan; he's a stayer with speed.'
And the newspaper vendor, the ancient road mender,
And even the cop at the corner agreed.
The barber said, 'Win it? There's nothing else in it.
I backed Peter Pan with the last that I had.'
'Too right,' said the liftman. 'The horse is a gift, man.'
The old jobbing gardener said, 'Peter Pan, lad!'
I know nought of racing. The task I was facing,
It filled me with pain and unreasoning dread.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Drapers Dummies
What do they dream about standing there
In the windows facing the street?
Eyes transfixed in a strange, far stare,
Smiles so ineffably sweet;
Lady and gentleman dummies clad
In the newest fashion, the latest fad.
Garbed so expensively, well turned out
What have they got to commune about?
Winter comes. Now a chill wind stirs;
The rain comes pattering down
But they suddenly snuggle in coats and furs
And the coziest cloaks in town.
Field-glasses there or a race-book here
'The National? Why, of course, my dear,
I mean to be there tho' Trophet may freeze.
How could I miss it, in clothes like these?'
Spring smiles down and the days grow bright,
And the ladies, garbed anew,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Ant Explorer
Once a little sugar ant made up his mind to roam-
To fare away far away, far away from home.
He had eaten all his breakfast, and he had his ma's consent
To see what he should chance to see and here's the way he went
Up and down a fern frond, round and round a stone,
Down a gloomy gully where he loathed to be alone,
Up a mighty mountain range, seven inches high,
Through the fearful forest grass that nearly hid the sky,
Out along a bracken bridge, bending in the moss,
Till he reached a dreadful desert that was feet and feet across.
'Twas a dry, deserted desert, and a trackless land to tread,
He wished that he was home again and tucked-up tight in bed.
His little legs were wobbly, his strength was nearly spent,
And so he turned around again and here's the way he went-
Back away from desert lands feet and feet across,
Back along the bracken bridge bending in the moss,
Through the fearful forest grass shutting out the sky,
Up a mighty mountain range seven inches high,
Down a gloomy gully, where he loathed to be alone,
Up and down a fern frond and round and round a stone.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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George Jones Wonders
'When I was young,' said old George Jones
(And rumbling from his bearded lips,
His deep voice boomed in measured tones)
Them airyplanes an' motor-ships
Was never knowed in that far day.
The wind-blown craft that roamed the sea,
The stout draught horse, the bullock dray
Was quick enough for me like me.
'We lived and toiled and fared not ill:
Life was a thing to be enjoyed.
We sold out crops and ate our fill,
And heard few tales of unemployed.
But, lately, like some secret flame,
This world beheld a puzzling thing;
Peace, progress, plenty - yet, too came
Want, idleness and suffering.
'I asked a wine man from the town
Why, 'mid these riches, such ills are.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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