Old Town Types No 20 - Mr Blades the Butcher
Mr Blades, the butcher, was a large and beefy man,
'Best him at a cattle deal,' 'twas said, 'no other can.'
He ate a lot and drank a lot and had a lot to say,
And he jollied all the ladies in his large and airy way.
His family was numerous, and helped him in 'the trade,'
And townsfolk had a deal to say of money what they made.
But Mr Blades just went his way, and had his bit of fun;
And joked about his appetite, his girth, or else his 'run.'
His 'run' - a stretch of scrubland at the back of Connor's place -
Was a joke about the district; for it did not bear a trace
Of building or improvement. Yet some said Mr Blades
Had ambitions as a squatter, and a secret scorn for 'trades' . . .
Then the cattle duffers started in the district. Connors raved,
But folk said it was wonderful how Mr Blades behaved.
Tho' he lost a hundred stores one night. But soon began the rows
When people in the town began to lose domestic cows.
Police surprised the gang one night out in the mulga shades,
And took the lot, red-handed, with their leader - Mr Blades.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No.11
As first I remember him: A red man, and tall,
Great Toll, the blacksmith, filled my childish eye.
At its first crisp, clamorous stroke,
Every morning I awoke
To the ringing of his anvil as the years lagged by.
And, when the season came for them, he made us iron hoops
And iron hooks to trundle them: for children were his joy,
And then down the village street we raced with joyous whoops;
For little things contented us when I was a boy.
A glad giant toiling in his little tin shop
The great swelling arms he had, the great rugged head
There he loomed beside the forge
Calling to his striker, george,
'Smite it, laddie! Smite it while the iron glows red!'
So simply joyous in his strength, he made of life a song;
A straight man, a proper man, on no swift fortune bent,
He went about his heavy tasks humming the whole day long,
Accepting, simply as it came, his great gift of content.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 28 - Lah-Di-Dah Lane
In the old town traditions - as greybeards will explain
One epic tale immortalises Lah-di-dah Lane,
Clerk to a local wheat-buyer in the railway yard.
Some deemed him just a 'masher,' but a few said 'knowing card'
With his waxed moustache, his monocle, his grey 'hard-hitter' hat,
His braided coat of black 'Berlin,' his lavender cravat,
His buttoned boots and finger-ring and thin Malacca cane
Oh, a sight on pleasant Sundays was our Lah-di-dah Lane.
His manners were meticulous, his smile so softly sweet
That he soon became the butt of every urchin in our street.
But he took their banter calmly, and his brow wore ne'er a frown
Till the bully, Turk Trevanion, caused a scandal in the town.
A loud-mouthed blusterer was Turk, a crude, sardonic lout
Who made a set at Lah-di-dah, but failed to draw him out
Till he used, in ladies' hearing, words both blasphemous and vain:
Then, 'I'll meet you on the wiver flat,' said Lah-di-dah Lane.
Discreetly on that Sabbath day the word was passed about,
Till half the town came to the flat to see poor Lane pass out;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 23 - Little Miss Mix
In a rather tiny building at the bottom of the street,
With a green door and a window small and very neat,
With its shock of beads and button-cards, cottons, bones and braid,
Miss Mix, the village dressmaker, plied a modest trade.
The front shop, with its counter, was a miniature affair,
And trivial the business that was conducted there.
But the back room - the workroom - 'Hours from Nine to Six' -
Was a vestal shrine whose priestess was little Miss Mix.
Tho' man had never gazed within, the sanctum held, 'twas known,
A wealth of female mysteries, for female eyes alone:
Dress-dummies, skirt-stands, a host of fashion fads,
Hip improvers, buckram shapes, curious bustle-pads.
But Mr Mole, who owned a store, and sold things ready-made,
Was oft-times strangely bitter over Miss Mix and her trade.
'A tittle-tattle factory!' said he. 'A gossip-shop!
With its babbling cotton-biters. Why, the thing had ought to stop.'
And many another male declared that Mr Mole was right -=
Chiefly husbands - for the charges of Miss Mix were never light.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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King Billy Chips In
Boss Oberseer, Dat BULLUMTIN! Goo' day, boss Plurry 'ot!
Bloke tell me writum BULLUMTIN, bin plenty bacca got.
'You Billy, makum writin'-yabber,' bloke he say to me;
'Him quick bin pay fer writin' - plenty tsugar plenty tea.'
S'pose mine write it pretty good, you gib it two t'ree poun'?
Bin teachum mishum station plenty good write yabber down.
Mine jes' bin readin' BULLUMTIN alonga scrub. Ma word!
Mine tink it Gub'mint yabber 'bout de bee' de kin I heard.
Mine tink it pitcher budgerry - dat Lin'say an' dat Hop.
Mine tink it dem corrob'ree songs been alla same up top.
Bin plenty good, dat lubra yabber; Red Page, berry fine;
Dat White Australia policy jes' same alonga mine.
But, tell you straight, boss, all dat talk 'bout 'possum, 'roo and snake,
Bin pull your leg, mine tink it. It bin all a plurry fake.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 22 - The Baker
Our baker, Mr Brackenby, toiler in the night,
Was a lean, tall, glum man whose face was very white;
A brooding man 'twas said of him, and mannerisms odd;
For a grunt of recognition and a rather surly nod
Were all he granted any who came strolling by his shop
In the cool of summer even, when a man might wish to stop
For a bit of neighbor's gossip. But our baker chose to mope
Like one who nursed grave illness or deep grief beyond all hope.
His chirping little 'missus' had the old town's sympathy;
For she loved to hold a customer and let her tongue run free
On stay bits of tittle-tattle; and we said, 'Poor thing,
With a dumb man for a husband, well, she has to have her fling.'
For silent Mr Brackenby, he never seemed to speak
To wife or child or anyone from week to dreary week.
There he sat upon his doorstop, and he stared and stared ahead
Like a being sore afflicted. But he baked good bread.
Yet once a year, on Show Day, some urge removed his gag,
And gloomy Mr Brackenby went out upon a 'jag.'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No.15 - Mrs Felix Donnett
Mrs Felix Donnett was a lady of renown,
For ten years her husband was mayor of the town;
For ten years she queened it as our local social light;
And 'everything she did, my dear,' was very, very right.
But the mayoral pomp sat lightly on old Felix, sly but sprightly,
And about his civic earnestness shrewd townspeople had their 'doots;'
But not of Mrs Donnett, with the bugles on her bonnet,
And her dolman, and her bustle, and elastic-sided boots.
Oh, a very proper lady with a very proper mind
Was she, like Queen Victoria, and exceedingly refined.
For the good Queen was her model, tho' her ideals were confused;
Still, she and Queen Victoria were not easily amused,
For she lacked all sense of humor; but she had a nose for rumor -
Spicy rumor; and a dragon 'mid the other female 'plutes'
Loomed Mrs Felix Donnett, with bugles on her bonnet,
Her dignity, her dolman, and her Aunt Jemima boots.
And woe betide the romping maid whose ways she counted lax.
One roguish glance, one titter, brought 'the dragon' on her tracks.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 15 - Mrs Felix Donnett
Mrs Felix Donnett was a lady of renown,
For ten years her husband was mayor of the town;
For ten years she queened it as our local social light;
And 'everything she did, my dear,' was very, very right.
But the mayoral pomp sat lightly on old Felix, sly but sprightly,
And about his civic earnestness shrewd townspeople had their 'doots;'
But not of Mrs Donnett, with the bugles on her bonnet,
And her dolman, and her bustle, and elastic-sided boots.
Oh, a very proper lady with a very proper mind
Was she, like Queen Victoria, and exceedingly refined.
For the good Queen was her model, tho' her ideals were confused;
Still, she and Queen Victoria were not easily amused,
For she lacked all sense of humor; but she had a nose for rumour
Spicy rumour; and a dragon 'mid the other female 'plutes'
Loomed Mrs Felix Donnett, with bugles on her bonnet,
Her dignity, her dolman, and her Aunt Jemima boots.
And woe betide the romping maid whose ways she counted lax.
One roguish glance, one titter, brought 'the dragon' on her tracks.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Hymn
Lord, Who, from Thy high position,
See'th the humble politician,
Knoweth all his secret schemes,
Readeth all his inmost dreams,
Hearken, Lord, unto our pleading;
Mark Thou how our hearts are bleeding,
Bleeding for our country's woes,
Caused by our unrighteous foes.
Lord, behold Thy chosen pleading!
Lend Thine aid to frame our laws.
Turn Thou not away unheeding,
Lord, assist the
[Labor]
[Lib'ral]
[Tory]
[Freetra de]
[Dead-fish]
cause.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mutton
In the everlasting summer, when the town is limp with heat,
and the asphalt of the footpath curls your boots and burns your feet:
When you're creased and crabbed and sodden, and can hardly raise a crawl,
And the persperation's drippin' in a constant waterfall;
There's a penetratin' odor gets abroad and fairly roars;
It will creep in through the keyholes and it sneaks beneath the doors;
And it fills your happy home up from the cellar to the roof,
Until ev'ry other odour holds its breath and stands aloof.
That's Mutton! Mutton!
Everlastin' Mutton!
All-pervadin', never-fadin' smell of cookin' sheep.
Into ev'ry room 'twill roam, chasin' you from house and home,
Mutton flaunted, mutton-haunted, even in your sleep.
You can smell it in the parlour, you can feel it in the hall,
you can HEAR it in the kitchen, where it hugs you like a pall,
Hov'ring o'er your couch at midnight, wafting thro' your troubled sleep:
First to greet you in the mornin' when the day begins to peep.
Seek you vainly to evade it in an open-air retreat,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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