A Hymn Of Heat
When Summer comes
To silence the retreating drums
Of stubborn Winter, when content
Shall salve my chill predicament.
And I shall loll beneath the sun
And dream of duties to be done;
While Phyllis my tall beaker fills
And Strephon dances on the hills
And pipes a lay, I'll take my ease
And listen to the labouring bees.
And mock their dull industrious hums
When Summer comes.
When Summer's here
And labourers look upon their beer
Most lovingly, while winking foam
Lisps, 'Send me home! Ah, send me home!'
And they, intoning briefly, ''Sluck!'
Its gladness 'neath their pinnies tuck,
I, too, mayhap, shall send a pot,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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You and I
They say the eagle is a bird
That sees some splendid sights
When he soars high into the sky
Upon his dizzy flights:
He sees the ground for miles around
Our house, and Billy Johnson's;
But we can not be Eagles, for
That would, of course, be nonsense.
But you and I, some summer day,
Providing we're allowed,
Will go up in an aeroplane
And sail right through a cloud.
But, if they say we may not go,
We'll stay upon the ground
With other things that have no wings,
And watch them walk around.
They say the bottom of the sea
Is beautiful to view;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Matter Of Degree
B. SMITH would most undoubtedly be very, very cross
If some rude person called him Jap, and yet, I'm at a loss
To see how he could argue otherwise in that respect:
A Jap is human - or a rumour's rife to that effect.
And he talks and argues much the same as B.
So, if SMITH is not a twin
To his cherished Yellow-skin,
Why it's only just a matter of degree,
Just a trifling little matter of degree.
Now, a Jap is not a monkey. though he's oft compared with such,
And he doesn't look unlike one, so it hardly matters much.
A monkey has a fearsome phiz, and hands that grab at things,
And he imitates his betters - all of which the matter brings
To a very clear conclusion, seems to me,
Which you cannot fairly funk:
If a Jap is not a monk
Ey, it's patently a matter of degree.
And we needn't mind a matter of degree.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Barley Grass
Wavin' corn upon the hillside,
Twinklin' daisies on the rise,
Mystic bushes across the ranges,
Wattle in its spring-time guise,
Stately gums that mark the twinin's
Of the ole creek - let 'em pass.
Leave me here to lie, a-lazin'
In the noddin' barley grass.
Barley grass was noddin', noddin'
'Long the dear ole township track
Where, in school days, we were ploddin':
Four mile there an' four mile back.
Teacher, on the summer mornin's,
Called us, scoldin', from the class,
An' we wasted precious moments
Pickin' out the barley grass.
Barley grass insinuatin',
In a summer long ago,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Obadiah Bell
I am fit and I am well (so said Obadiah Bell.)
I take life as it come from day to day,
I have never been a scorner
Of the 'trouble round the corner,'
For it may be lurking half a life away.
No false vision ere bewitches
Me with dreams of fame or riches,So I'm fairly well content and free of strife.
With my job and friends and my garden and my fowls, and my club and my bowls
and my pipe and my books and my dog and my family and my wife.
And, since I seek the safer things in life,
Most especially my family and wife.
On occasion, vagrant fears stir me with the passing years,
A sudden qualm, a flash of half-felt fright;
But I know my limitations
As a savior of nations:
And who am I to put the world aright.
So, when qualms like these assail me,
What I find may never fail me
As, contented as I may, tho' life I jog,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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More for the Money
What are the wild waves saying now that their lengths are changed?
In a manner most dismaying are the stations now aranged.
And I twist and twirl and twiddle at the knobs, then, with a screech
Come sounds of a sobbing fiddle and a League of Nations speech,
Or the Abyssinian crisis with the football field's alarms,
Or the fat stock market prices mixed up with stuff by 'Brahms.'
More for my money truly in these daft days I get.
Since the waves become unruly and the solo's a duet:-
From 3HA and 3DB, or 3LO and 7NT,
From 3AR and 5CK. Sounds mingle in the cutest way:
'You are listening now . . . to a song by Bach . . .
On the Jersey cow . . . 'Hahk, Hahk, the Lahk!'
On the cult of the tomato . . .
My cutie says . . . Scratched for the Cup . . .
Von Plonken plays . . . Prime wethers up . . .
With a 'cello obligato . . .'
What are the wild waves saying, now that their paths o'erlap?
And the trumpet's brazen braying breaks in on the solemn chap
Who tell the listening nation how flames of war arise;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Mystic
An 'Ode to the Moon' did he indite
With his two-and-half soul-power.
('Twas the child of a starlit summer night,
Begot by a gloomy hour.)
And he vowed it was a work immense,
And he quoted it a lot,
And be published it at his own expense;
But the cold, hard world said - 'Rot!'
And he wrote him ringing verse of horse,
And the stockman, and his pipe,
And the brooding bushland; but, of course,
The world just murmured - 'Tripe!'
So he sat him down for another fling,
And his time-exposure mind
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Wisdom after Victory
Now comes to an end all our dolorous drifting;
Clouds pass away and depression is lifting.
Because we were wise in our planning and sought
The lesser of ills that the greater be fought
Hope springs again in the heart of the nation;
Because we were brave and accepted oblation
Of sharp sacrifice, now comes recompense near
With the dawn of our glorious Centenary year.
For the good of our souls have we borne the dark sorrows
Of that gloomy day which buys many bright morrows;
For the good of our land have we chosen to shun
The glittering sand, that real treasure be won.
And we who were counted the prodigal nation
Have won new renown by our self-immolation
And the lands of the earth now in wonder behold
This youngest of lands in grave wisdom grown old.
And now we return with new heart to our labor,
And, where gloom was rife, neighbor smiles upon neighbor;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mallee Wife
Home's best (she said), and the tale
Of the hungering soil and the flail
Of the sun and the shuddering threat
Of the heat, and more heat yet;
Of more than a woman can stand,
Almost, in that merciless land,
With its lifelong, lingering strife,
For the Mallee mother and wife.
Oh, I've seen all the spurious zest
Of the city, and yet, home's best;
The sweep of the plain's vast verge,
And the calling of Life and the urge
To struggle and hope in vain,
Then struggle and hope again
That, and the faith that clings
For the solving of human things.
Home's best (she said). I have seen
The glamor of cities, the sheen
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Homeward Track
Once a year we lumber southward with the clip from Yarradee;
Spell the bullocks in the township while we run our yearly spree.
What's a bullocky to live for? Days of toil are hard and long;
And you'd not begrudge him yearly one short week of wine and song.
While it lasts he asks no better. When it's over 'Yoke 'em up,'
And we'll make another promise for to shun the brimming cup.
When we've done our little cheque in, and the township's at our back;
Then we start to think of mending - out along the Homeward Track.
For there comes a time of reck'ning when we're trudging by the team;
Back again to work an' worry; kind of waking from a dream;
We begin to see the folly of a week of wicked fun,
Bought with months of weary slaving, punching bullocks on the run.
But our views are somewhat tempered when we've done a twelve months' drouth;
And our thoughts ain't so religious when the team is heading south.
When the pleasure is before us, work and worry at our back,
We forget the grim reformers out along the Homeward Track.
What's the odds? It's got to happen. What we've done we'll do again;
And we know it while we make 'em, resolutions are in vain.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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