The Genesis of Gloom [Australian Variety]
Once upon a time, in days remote,
A politician bought a vote.
The price he paid is not quite clear,
But probably a pot of beer
Secured his end. But he got in;
So folk excused this venial sin.
Now if the thing had stayed right there,
We might have dodged a load of care.
But pots of beer soon failed to serve
The candidate of dash and nerve;
And, with cold cynicism, came
The urge to organise the Game.
Soon the political machine
Beheld the profit it might glean
Thro' gifts spread thro' electorates
To help the 'Outs' the 'Ins' frustrate;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Country Roads ~ The New Chum Road
A new chum went, to ease his care,
A-many years ago,
To loiter round Toolangi where
The stately blue gums grow.
No bushcraft had he for his quest,
No friend to be his guide,
But sought the grade that served him best,
From Yarra's plain to mountain crest,
And crossed the Great Divide.
And round and round the hills he wound
No lilting tramp song sang he
First East, then North, then West-ward bound.
An easy grade at last he found
That led him to Toolangi.
And tho' they vowed his trail a freak,
The men that followed after
No straighter, easier path might seek,
Yet named the brook the New Chum Creek,
With rough, good-humored laughter.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Quantum Sufficit
'I only said this German plan
Had points,' remarked the small, meek man.
'I merely said an extra wife
Might add variety to life.
Strange how a woman will resent
A hypothetic argument.
I didn't mean my reference
As personal, in any sense,
But she - aw, why talk, anyhow?
Look at me now!
'This eye. These bumps, here, on my head.
This battered face. I only said
The Germans seemed to be a race
Who had sane views of woman's place.
Who knew her value. As I spoke
I smiled, to show it was a joke,
A merry quip. Have they no sense
Of humor? Are they all as dense
As she? Will none of them allow -
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Wanderers Lost
Oh, we are the phantoms of rovers lost
See how the mocking mirages play!
Men who have ventured and paid the cost.
Lone, waiting women, 'tis vain to pray!
We dies unshriven, as rovers die,
And no man knows where our white bones lie.
Black birds gather when rovers stray,
Out where the mocking mirages play.
A maiden has waited a long year thro'.
Mark where a crow from the northward flies!
'Ah, can he be false that had sworn so true?'
They say that a wanderer woos with lies.
A maiden has waited and counted the days,
Since a lover went roving the northward ways.
What do they profit - unheeded sighs?
Mark where a crow from the northward flies!
Out in the desert a still thing lies.
Westward the sun is sinking low.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Broken-Teapot
Mum's bit of egg money on the mantelpiece
In the broken teapot in the olden days,
Hardly earned and hoarded there,
Much content afforded there
Long before inspectors came and bureaucratic ways.
But science by the barn-door rules the farmer's lot
And Mum's bit of egg-money dwindles in the pot.
Ever since the first years this was mother's perquisite,
Eggs daily gathered by the old barn door,
From the stable gathered in,
From the shed and fodder bin,
Carted in and traded at the small town store;
Gathered from the wayward hen laying far afield
As the new-cleared acres gave their golden yield.
Long it was a stand-by while the kids were little ones
Mum's broken teapot resting on the shelf
Some print to make a dress for Lil,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bendigo
A golden maid whose golden voice
Calls to the northern lands,
Of riches she has had her choice.
Twin treasures to make men rejoice
Came easy to her hands:
The golden harvest of broad fields,
Or that dark gift of sudden yields
Won from her golden sands.
But men have scorned her worthier pride
In rich and fruitful soil;
And, spreading desolation wide,
Ranged all her verdant countryside
To ravage and despoil.
And now grey wastes of tortured earth
Await the glory of rebirth
Thro' nature's patient toil.
She has the wish, she has the will
To gather beauty round.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Demon Milk
'Yer honor, please!' the prisoner said,
'It isn't wot you think.
To look on wine when it is red
Or alco'olic drink
Is not among me little ways.
I been teetotal all me days.
It ain't the wine, it ain't the beer,
It ain't the gin-an'-two
That bows me 'ead in sorrer 'ere.
'Tain't no fermented brew
That druv me on to sin an' strife.
Hark: 'Ere's the story of me life.
When I was just a little kid
I was a model child.
Wot I was tole to do I did,
Reel innercint an' mild.
But, bein' wise, an' unlike some,
At one year old I 'owled for rum.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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In A Forest Garden: A Promise of Spring
Spring surely must be near. High over head
The kind blue heavens bend to timbers tall;
And here, this morning, is the picture spread
That I have learned to love the best of all.
I hear Flame Robin call
His early love-song. Winter's might is sped;
And young crows now begin to fleck with red
This great green, living wall.
Picture of promise, that I count the best
Of many a fair familiar Bushland scene;
Lifting o'er all, the far mount's sunlit crest
Looks down where silver wattles lightly screen
Blue smoke, that peeps between
Their tall tops, from some settler's hidden nest
Looks down on golden wattles closely pressed
To blackwood's luscious green.
Before the dovecote, mirrored in the pond,
A veil diaphanous of drifting mist
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Post-Cup Tale
I'ad the money in me 'and!
Fair dinkum! Right there, by the stand.
I tole me wife at breakfus' time,
Straight out: 'Trivalve,' I sez 'is prime.
Trivalve,' I sez. An', all the week,
I swear ther's no one 'eard me speak
Another 'orse's name. Why, look,
I 'ad the oil straight from a Book
On Sund'y at me cousin's place
When we was torkin' of the race.
'Trivalve,' 'e sez. ''Is chance is grand.'
I 'ad the money in me 'and!
Fair in me 'and I 'ad the dough!
An' then a man 'as got to go -
Wot? Tough? Look, if I 'adn't met
Jim Smith (I ain't forgave 'im yet)
'E takes an' grabs me be the coat.
'Trivalve?' 'e sez. 'Ar, turn it up!
'Ow could 'e win a flamin'Cup?'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Important People
The success of the Scout movement throughout the whole world has been amply proven by the present triumphant gathering in Melbourne.
Great and important people, these
Important far beyond our ken
Who mark with adult sophistries
Their serious air of sober men,
Their fancy garb, their solemn fuss,
With code and law, their tender age.
Soon shall they count for more than us
Stale actors on an outworn stage.
They are, say we, mere children drawn
By make-believe from many lands;
Yet soon, at some swift morrow's dawn
Earth's destiny top these small hands
Must pass; and, should their creed prevail,
As well it may for all earth's good,
They shall have triumphed where we fail,
In peace and long-sought brotherhood.
Here rests a new world's shining hope,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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