Definitions
We have heard it. Oft we heard it long before we came of age.
In whatever fields we practise, art whatever arts engage:
Ever praise for the performance, still begrudging utmost fame,
From who would extol the action yet withhold its hallowed name.
Thus, in painting, think how often, praise is mingled with complaint:
'No, of course the man's no 'artist' but, by jove, sir he can paint!'
As in fields of art and letters, tho' Australian pride has swelled
We may never match our betters while the title is withheld,
So in sport. Consider racing. This young champion. What a horse!
At all distances breaks records, old and new, on every course.
But the veterans, harking backward, ban the upstart with a word:
'Yes; no doubt the nag has speed. sir. But a 'racehorse'? Bah! Absurd!'
When the Digger put a show up Over There - some push or road -
He won almost fulsome praise: 'The bravest thing God made.'
But it seemed he still lacked something - something vague and undefined
That would make him, if he had it, the supremest of his kind.
And 'twas said in all good feeling of the valiant Aussie band:
'These men never will make 'soldiers'. But as fighters? Gad, sir! Grand!'
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Frank and his Little Bank
When he was quite a small boy, Frank
Was fond of useful playthings;
So he was given a toy bank
That he might learn the way things
Were done in the financial world;
So, on the playroom floor he curled,
Tho' short of pence, and had great dreams
Of wonderful financial schemes.
No lack of pennies grieved small Frank,
He simply took some paper
And posted slips into his bank
A cunning childish caper.
And soon he found that, with due care,
He could become a millionaire.
A happy child. And all day
He sang himself this little song:
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
A Deep Sea Chantey
We didn't like the bo'sun's mate
(Yo, 'eave ho! an' a bottle o' lemonade or somethin' soft, Miss).
Becos 'is dile filled us wiv 'ate
(Yo, 'eave ho! An' a bottle o' near-beer, or somethin' that's real easy scoffed,
Miss).
We ain't the crowd for gettin' shick
Becos we've joined the Bolshevik.
An' we reckon Jack's as good as - Hic!
(Schuse me! 'Tain't the likker. I'ah the sense of injush-tish an' wash the right
thing to be dealt out ter seamen's sorter sent me aloft, Miss).
We didn't like 'is kind o' face
(Yo, 'eave ho! An' a bot'l Soviet Sarsparliler - or anythin' the comrades drink,
Miss).
Ses 'e, 'Yeh lubbers! Splice mai brace!'
(Yo, 'eave, Hic! . . . . Sheems ter me these Bolsh'vik ..... make yeh skicker'n yeh
think, Miss).
'E wash a reel two-fisted bloke.
One o' them coves 'oo made a joke
O' swillin' rum - like the ole sea folk.
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Anonymous Altruist
A mysterious cove in the Customs
The boss, so to speak, of the Ban
I have blamed a good deal;
But I wronged him, I feel,
Since I've come to imagine the man.
When he censored some book that I wanted
I sneered at him once, I'll allow;
But, since I've given heed
To the life he must lead,
He has all my sympathy now.
This mysterious cove at the Customs
Is clearly a martyr; that's sure.
On his shoulders he takes
Loads of sin for our sakes,
And he suffers to keep us all pure.
For he reads all the hot stuff imported
And never once threatens to strike,
Tho' he loathes it, no doubt.
Ah, my pity goes out
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Dictator
Avaunt! What news is this I hear
Of portent grim and sinister?
Is he, whose words insult mine ear,
A mere, upstart Prime Minister?
Odds fish! These fellows hitherto
Wore no demeanor critical;
But, cap in hand, have sought my view
On all affairs political.
'Sdeath! Has the caitiff not the sense
To be polite and affable
Like others, whose meek diffidence,
At times, was even laughable?
Aha! I made them sore afraid!
They gave my schemes the preference,
And murmured: 'Thank you, Mister Wade,'
With low and seemly deference.
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Last Sundowner
He sat upon a fallen log
And heaved a long, deep sigh.
His gnarled hand fondling his old dog
As his gaze went to the sky.
"There goes another pane," said he
"A soarin', roarin' pest!
They robs a man of privacy,
An' motor cars of rest."
"Sundownin' ain't the game ut was
Since men have took to wings;
An' life grows narrer, jist because
Of plans an' cars an' things.
For the planes have pinched me privit skies
An' the cars have grabbed me earth
An' all the news by wireless flies;
So what's sundownin' worth?
"Time was when I could sit me down
Where man had left no sign,
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Automatic Umpire
Now, Plugger Palook was a man in a thousand
(Said Horace the Howler) not one of yer fools.
But his barrackers vowed that he wasn't allowed
Full scope for his talents account o' the rools.
For Plugger Palook was a footballer. Get me?
An' one of the old-school. A wonder! A wow!
He was no lily-handed gazook to be branded
No sort of weaklin'. Not Plugger; no how.
Not much of a kicker - not so you would notice
His handball an' passin' left much to desire;
A dub at high-markin', his business was narkin'
An' knocking out umpires wot rose up his ire.
He'd done in a dozen first half of the season,
But the depth of officials you never can tell.
Now, a shortage they're fearin'; so, Plugger, not hearin',
They goes an puts in a serlenium cell!
The dawgs! Plugger starts in the very first quarter
An' gets a bit rough'ouse in makin' things hot
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Old Town Types No.2 - Red Matt
He gleaned all the gossip and he gathered all the news,
Mad Matt, the carrier, delivering the grub;
He knew the trooper's tattle and he knew the parson's views,
The gossip at the station-yard, the gossip at the pub.
That high-pitched voice of his, the loudest voice in town,
That shrewd blue eye of his, with humor all a-gleam -
Old Red Matt, with his cabbage-tree hat,
His trolley, and his two-horse team.
Driving down the main street a-clatter with his load,
The great red beard of him blowing out behind:
'Hear about that accident's mornin' up the road?
Hear about the gold rush at Joe Scott's find?
Warmish sort o' day we got; thirsty weather this.
Got a bag o' spuds for you - Dang! Fergot the cream!'
Says old Red Matt with his cabbage-tree hat,
And his trolley, and his two-horse team.
Mad Matt, the carrier, standing at the bar:
'Well here's a go, boys. Got to get along
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
If Cohen Would
O, Cohen, hear our song of sentiment!
Withdraw thy sordid thoughts from cent. per cent.,
And, for, the sake of Empire, gentle Yid,
Lend us a million quid.
If England's great Financial Houses would
Back up our aspirations as they should,
If we could influence cold £ s. d.
By sentiment and words of loyalty,
What joy - and cash - were ours! Ay, what a loan
We'd gaily spend - if our true aims were known.
How might we proudly flaunt our nationhood!
If Cohen only would.
If uncle owned a little sentiment,
And pondered less upon his much per cent.;
If blind financiers could he made to see
The high cash value of our loyalty,
How they would rush, with many offers rash,
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Swagman
Oh, he was old and he was spare;
His bushy whiskers and his hair
Were all fussed up and very grey
He said he'd come a long, long way
And had a long, long way to go.
Each boot was broken at the toe,
And he'd a swag upon his back.
His billy-can, as black as black,
Was just the thing for making tea
At picnics, so it seemed to me.
'Twas hard to earn a bite of bread,
He told me. Then he shook his head,
And all the little corks that hung
Around his hat-brim danced and swung
And bobbed about his face; and when
I laughed he made them dance again.
He said they were for keeping flies -
"The pesky varmints" - from his eyes.
He called me "Codger". . . "Now you see
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!