We Mean to Say
We mean to say, it never has been granted
That anyone but England could decide,
In the crease or at the wicket,
Just exactly what was cricket
And, of course, I mean to say, we have our pride.
The great old game was, as it were, invented
On the playing fields of Eton, and all that,
And to try to steal our thunder
When you think we've made a blunder
Why, dear old bean, that's talking thro' the hat!
We mean to say - the game originated
With us, back in the dear old top-hat days,
And the gentlemen who played it,
By their sterling methods, made it
A top-hole game for sportsmen - hence the phrase.
So, hang it all! If something 'isn't cricket'
It's our prerogative to say so, flat.
And it's cheek, you know, cool cheek,
When you dash in, so to speak,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Expert
Bill? Oh, him ... Well, he's taken a knock.
Real sad when I spoke to him last;
Sufferin' like from a nasty shock.
Just drivin' a wee bit fast
Round a corner - no chance to halt
Skittles a kid on the road.
An' they're tellin' him now it's all his fault,
'Case he didn't observe the Code.
Code? Wot Code? Why, Bill can drive!
An' they're tellin' him now he was rash.
It's his skill at the wheel kept him alive
And out of many a smash.
And now, this luck. Yes; the youngster died,
But the evidence plainly showed
That Bill was fair on the proper side,
What more could he do with the Code?
Why, I've seen Bill drive on just two wheels,
Miss trees by a coat of paint.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Country Towns - Boort
She knows the Mallee's tragedy
Of thwarted hope, of pain,
Of promise wrecked, when weak men flee
And strong men pray in vain;
While day on burning day drifts by
Beneath a brazen, cloudless sky.
She knows the bane of Mallee dust
When Mallee droughts come down
To filch the last of lingering trust
And darken her small town
Darken men's hearts and minds until
Nought serves her, save a stubborn will.
All this she knows. Yet she knows, too
On thro' the tale of years
The changing luck of gamblers, who
Undaunted, scorning fears
Strive on, till fickle fortune rains
A wondrous gift of sudden gains.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Bore
Ah, prithee friend, if thou has ought
Of love and kind regard for me
Tell not you bore the stories droll
That yesternight I told to thee.
Nor tell him stories of thine own,
Nor chestnut of antiquitee;
Nor quip, nor crank, nor anything
If thou has ought of love for me.
For sense of humour hath he none,
No gift for telling tales hath he:
Yet thinks himself within his heart
A wit of wondrous drolleree.
And in the golden summer-time
With ear a-cock he roameth free,
Collecting quibble, quip, and crank;
And anecdotes collecteth he.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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On the Road to Jericho
On the road to Jericho
Mark the stricken one,
Moaning in his agony,
Prone beneath the sun.
Prone beneath the blazing sun,
Naked and alone,
Bleeding from a score of wounds,
Stricken to the bone.
Now his tossing arms lie still;
Now his moans grow faint.
Is there none to succor him
Publican or saint?
Publican or Pharisee
Are none passing by
On the road to Jericho
Is he left to die?
On the road to Jericho
Hurry, hurry, priest!
'Twere a sin wert thou away
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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An Appeal to End Appeals
Sir, - I try to do my duty as a patriotic man
With sane views about the science of gastronomy;
And I'd ask the promulgators of each food consuming plan
To consider man's interior economy.
I shall not go into details. But I merely wish to say
My observance hitherto has been meticulous
Of the many noble slogans: but I fear the scheme today
Has at last begun to merge with the ridiculous.
Very nobly I responded to the urge to 'Eat More Fruit';
I bought it and consumed it with avidity.
I was keen to serve my country; and the diet seemd to suit
(If we waive a tendency to slight acidity)
Then the ringing slogan sounded thro' the contry: 'Eat More Wheat!'
I assimilated faithfully that cereal
Then we were asked to eat more eggs, to eat more oats, more meat;
While tissue waxed - both moral and material.
And now, sir, to my horror, 'Eat more butter' is the plan.
But I ask you: Can I hope to rise superior?
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Ballad of Captious Critics
Stuffed with tradition and trammels of yore,
Cramped in their studies, they sneer and scold
At the strange, new passions young hearts would pour
Thro' a sunlit land, and a tale unfold
Of youth's ambition - new-minted gold
Fresh from life's furnace, all aglow
With none of its worth are their hearts cajoled,
If it waken no echo of things they know.
Their minds close cluttered with olden lore,
Their praise for the new is charity doled;
Their memories, clogged with a moss-grown store
Of dead men's wisdom, naught also may hold,
The flight of an eaglet, overhold,
Is an impudent thing, so their judgements go;
And the song of a bush bird leaves them cold,
If it wakes no echo of things they know.
Songs have sprung from this virgin shore,
Tales that are turned from an unworn mould,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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From Fame to Fowls
Mr Blenkinsop and I
Are much concerned to learn
That, somewhere in the further sky,
A frightful heat-belt lurks on high,
Where torrid ethers burn.
And I and Mr Blenkinsop
We take it rather hard,
Because all work will have to stop
Henceforth within the small work-shop
In Blenkinsop's back-yard.
For many years we labored there,
In Blenkinsop's back-yard.
And, in our town, plain folk would stare
And mutter: 'That's the learned pair
Who'll win the world's regard.'
We planned a gadget in that shop
To journey to the moon;
And deferential friends would stop
To speak to me and Blenkinsop
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Forest Scene
As I went down a forest place
At the closing of the year
To find me peace, and gather grace
In this green gladness here.
I saw a scene I knew of old,
In many a year gone by
A loveliness to have and hold
Here, with the gully waters cold,
And the bland, blue peeping sky.
And I saw the blue wrens trooping near,
And I heard the thrushes call,
And found surcease from worldly fear
For a peace was over all.
And my mind went back to long ago,
For here was a scene I knew
Where the gums and ancient tree ferns grow,
And the ever-lasting waters flow,
And life yields little new.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 7
Well I remember him - Big Jack Herrington;
Big Jack, the lumper, tanned and honest-eyed,
The clean, straight limbs of him,
The strength in those limbs of him
Strength that was the end of him, and once had been his pride:
Big Jack Herrington, toiling up the stack,
Hefting up the wheat sacks on his mighty back.
One year, two years he labored when the wheat came;
Three years, four years, in the grimy heat,
Toiling up the planks there
The crazy, narrow planks there.
Folk said, 'A wonder! Why, there's nothing got him beat!'
Never had he faltered beneath a heavy bag
Big, Jack, the lumper, never known to sag.
For five years, for big pay he larbored there.
'Ten bob a day!' they said. 'Jack's the boy to score.'
And then came the end of him
A false step, and the end of him;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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