The Drought King's Trumpeter
Said old Pete, the Pensioner:
'I met him down the road
Where, twixt the shadders of the gums,
The silver moonlight flowed.
His skin was white like shrivelled grass,
His eyes was eyes o' flame.
He was the Drought King's trumpeter,
An' tooted as he came.
He tooted on a holler bone, of some thing dead o' thirst,
Like dry winds a-moanin' low. Then into song he burst:
'Ho! The Drought King's a-comin, as he came to men afore,
Out of his home within the sun. They're flingin' wide the door.
Then shall Folly flee before him an' Destruction spread behind.
He comes to purify the earth an' chasten humankind. . . .,'
I saw the Drought King's trumpeter as plain as I see you.
An' not a dropp inside o' me - save, maybe, one or two.'
Said old Pete, 'I saw him there
Underneath the moon,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Barter Boom
Now, since man became a martyr
To this economic stress,
He has sought relief, in barter,
From financial wretchedness;
So, dispensing with the banker,
If you've aught to trade at all,
Any thing for which you hanker,
From a needle to an anchor,
From a slipway to a spanker,
Is at call.
So, now, what have you to proffer?
Make an offer! Make an offer!
Here's a punting gent prepared to make a deal;
He'll exchange a betting system
(All the winners, never missed 'em),
For a pair of boots - size seven - and a meal.
Here's a trusted politician,
Giving up his great position.
(Voters vacillate so shamefully alas!)
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Laissez-Faire
We'd harbored them on hovels, and in dens,
Altho' in price they counted less than cattle,
Had they not still the right, that ws all men's,
To strive and in a place in life's stern battle?
Had they not still the gift of God's free air,
His glorious sun, and every freeman's birthright
To fight the snarling pack and snatch a share?
Why should the task be ours to set the earth right?
Man may not win (we'd said) to earthly ease
Saving thro' strength, or birth, or lucky gamble.
Why, then, a truce to sentimental pleas;
Let us continue with the merry scramble
In which the valiant strong, to gain high place
Pulls down and climbs upon some weaker rival.
'Tis Nature's law. And thus a stalwart race
Is e'er upheld by glorious survival.
Upon the olden road to Jericho
We watched, not one, but myriads fall and sicken.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Oil from Bill Shane
I got the oil: too right. A cove called Shane.
Yes; ole Bill Shane. You've 'eard of 'im, of course.
Big racin' 'ead. There's no need to explain
The things he don't know about a 'orse.
Good ole Bill Shane. They say he's made a pile
At puntin'. Shrewd! I wis I 'ad 'is brain.
An' does 'e know the game? Well, I should smile.
They can't put nothin' over ole Bill Shane.
Yes; Shane, Bill Shane ... Aw, listen, lad. Wake up!
Why everybody's 'eard of ole Bill Shane.
They say he made ten thousan' on the Cup
Last year, an' now he's got the oil again.
Wot? Owner? Trainer? Nah! Who 'eeds their guff?
Bill's a big racin' man - a punter. See?
Top dog. I alwiz sez wot's good enough
For ole Bill Shane is good enough for me.
Yes; he gave me the oil. I got it straight
Well, nearly straight. Of course, I've never spoke
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Our Town Awakes
Six o'clock. From the railway yard
The engine toots; careering hard,
A milk-cart rattles by and stops;
A magpie calls from the gum-tree tops;
The pub 'boots', sweeping out the bar,
Waves to the early service-car,
While the town's chief toper waits outside,
Woe-begone and bleary-eyed;
Two cows go lowing down the way;
A rooster crows. It's another day.
Eight o'clock. The tradesmen come
Shop-boys whistling, masters glum,
To stand at doors and stretch and yawn;
Fronts are swept and blinds are drawn;
The washerwoman, Mrs Dubbs,
Slip-slops off to her taps and tubs,
Washing clothes for other folk;
The cheery barber cracks a joke,
But the day's first client fails to laugh -
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Cataclysm
We curse our lot; we gird at fate;
Like peevish children we complain;
Hope dies, and life grows desperate
Because of ease and pleasures salin.
Because bright fortune fails to smile
And pamper us, as once she used,
But frowns a little for the while,
To bleak despair we are reduced.
Yet, o'er a narrow stretch of sea,
Where lately smiled a city fair,
Falls cataclysmic agony,
And death in horrid shapes is there.
All in an instant men are hurled -
Who knew no foe, who earned no blame -
Out of a peaceful, sunlit world
'Mid shattered homes and seething flame.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bones, A.B. is Reminded
Men of the sea (said Bones, A.B.)
Is touchy coves and curious,
They stands a lot, till some dark plot
Gets 'em all hot an' furious.
Tricks with their food brings on a mood
That's apt to be real shirty.
That's how come we once struck at sea
In days when ways was dirty
Them blastin', blazin', hazin' days
When ships an' seas was dirty.
We was 'Frisco bound in a ship ill-found
An' scarce a sound plank in 'er,
Wheh cook speaks free, an' he says, says he:
'There's no plum-duff for dinner!'
'Wot? No plum-duff?' we answers gruff
An' snarky like, an' surly.
'Avast!' says we. 'We'll strike at sea
Till we gets it, late or early
Down marlinspikes! The whole crew strikes!
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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On With the Dance!
Hi, Cockalorum! But - Misery me!
What is the aftermath going to be?
With joy at its zenith and sorrow its least,
I am the skeleton come to the feast.
Now the centenary swells over all,
I am the writing aglow on the wall:
Eat, drink and make merry. Eat, drink and make merry.
Hip, hip. Cockahoop! And alack-a-day derry!
I am the spoil-sport a-gnawing his nails,
Boding disaster when merriment fails.
Dance, little lady; oh, dance while you may,
Shout ye, good gentlemen. Merry's the day!
Sorrow is looming.
Hear the far booming.
The ghouls and the ghosts are a-groaning and glooming.
Today for the dancing, the love and the laughter,
But what of the morning after? Aye!
Happy-go-lucky! But - Misery me.
What is the aftermath going to be?
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Lure of Trees
I honour all trees well; but, best of all,
I love those scarred old veterans, proud and tall,
Gazing from eminences, kingly wise,
Across great sweeps of changing earth and skies;
Gazing with seeming scorn upon the race
Of midgets who despoil this forest place
The restless race of men who, with edged tools,
With fire, have come to serve the end of fools.
Well these patricians know their own high worth;
Well know their task in serving Mother Earth:
Beckoning rain-clouds sailing overhead
That earth may drink and living things be fed,
Clutching with myriad roots the precious soil
The sun or sudden flood else would despoil,
Bending to tempests, spreading to the sky,
Remote, untamed, unconquered till they die.
I know them in the rose light of the dawn,
Sharp-etched upon the hill-tops, boldly drawn
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Cuppacumalonga
'Rover, rover, cattle-drover, where go you to-day?'
I go to Cuppacumalomga, fifty miles away;
Over plains where Summer rains have sung a song of glee,
Over hills where laughing rills go seeking for the sea,
I go to Cuppacumalonga, to my brother Bill.
Then come along, ah, come along!
Ah, come to Cuppacumalonga!
Come to Cuppacumalonga Hill!
'Rover, rover, cattle-drover, how do you get there?'
For twenty miles I amble on upon my pony mare,
The walk awhile and talk awhile to country men I know,
Then up to ride a mile beside a team that travels slow,
And last to Cuppacumalonga, riding with a will.
Then come along, ah, come along!
Ah, come to Cuppacumalonga!
Come to Cuppacumalonga Hill!
'Rover, rover, cattle-drover, what do you do then?'
I camp beneath a kurrajong with three good cattle-men;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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