The Griefs of Ancient Gosh
I happened in Gosh on an ancient day,
In the land of Glugs far, far away
Where the skies are green and the grass is pink
And the citizens rarely troubl'd to think.
Each had a vote; they were proud of that;
But they left all else to the Bureaucrat.
Still, of course, such folly never could be
In a civilised land this year A.D.
A junior clerk in Department A
Sent a requisition in one day
For a mousetrap to Department B.
This came to the ears of Department C,
Whose head said, 'Just a moment please.
You control the traps, but we the cheese.'
Then Department D chipped in in a trice
And cried, 'Checkmate! We control the mice.'
Then Departments E, F, G, H, I
Became involved, and the talk ran high,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 26 - Dr. Andy Deveraux
Some saw in him a Scottish wreck; some said that he was mad;
A few proclaimed his genius, but all agreed 'twas sad
That Doctor Andy Deveraux had let things slide so far.
'A mighty clever cove,' they said, 'but weak, and - there you are.'
For down at Paddy Clancy's bar you find him night or day,
A silent and sardonic man, who went his bitter way.
'Last night,' some housewife would exclaim, 'I thought I'd seen a ghost;
'Twas that awful Doctor Deveraux, going home by post.'
'Going home by post,' they said. A sorry township jest;
Long since had Clancy tackled him, and had to give him best.
''Tis under this 'Blackfeller's Act' I'll put yeh! Not a sup!'
But the bitter tongue had lashed him till he gladly gave it up.
So Deveraux would drink alone, brooding, till wits grew dense,
Then sought his own home, late at night, along the three-wire fence;
From post to post, in staggering spurts, he made his shameful way.
'Doc's going home by post,' men sneered. 'Broke out again today.'
None knew his story in the town nor, clearly, whence he came;
Nor yet what foul thing rode him - what sorrow or what shame -
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Song of the Sulky Stockman
Come, let us sing with a right good ring
(Sing hey for lifting lay, sing hey!)
Of any old, sunny old, silly old thing.
(Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!)
The sun shone brightly overhead,
And the shearers stood by the shearing shed;
But "The run wants rain," the stockman said
(Sing di-dum, wattle-gum, Narrabori Ned.
For a lifting lay sing hey!)
The colts were clipped and the sheep were shorn
(Sing hey for a lilting lay, sing hey!)
But the stockman stood there all forlorn.
(Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!)
The rails were up and the gate was tied,
And the big black bull was safe inside;
But "The wind's gone West!" the stockman sighed
(Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, rally for a ride.
For a lifting lay sing hey!)
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Knights Of The Never Never
When I rode with young Sid Kidman out across the Yarrowie Plain
In that year the Long Drought ended, and the northlands smiled again
As we took the old Tarcowie track and on to Booleroo,
His keen eye scanned the country, and we yarned of men we knew:
Mal Murray and Jim Spicer, of Jasser and Judell,
Bill Mitchell and old stagers whom I still remember well;
And he told of chance-missed fortunes when the game was in his grasp,
Of life along The Barrier with German Charlie Rasp.
Now, back in Kidman country where the grizzled bushmen are,
In many a stark out-station, o'er many a shanty bar,
The drovers' drawling voices talk about 'Old Sid' today:
'Bushmen like him ain't raised no more,' the grizzled veterans say,
For o'er the furthest saltbush lands his questing mind went out
To glimpse high opportunity where others saw black drought.
Shrewd-eyed, yet greatly daring, laughing he ventured forth
To stake his luck, his judgment 'gainst swift treacheries 'up north.'
'I mind the time I rode with him,' a wizened stockman says.
'He knowed that country like a map, an' all the tricks an' ways.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types
I can not recall his heyday; for I knew him in the day
When his curly hair had thinned a bit, his waxed moustache grown grey.
That he kept the local fruit shop was a trifle in life's plan;
For our Captain Curly Taplin was a military man.
The details of his uniform grow vague now and remote,
All save a pipeclayed helmet and a gaudy scarlet coat.
'Not the Prooshians nor the Rooshians,' Captain Taplin oft averred,
'Shall take this country from us! Harrumph! My Word!'
Our Captain Curly Taplin was the pride of our old town,
Most especially the ladies; for that military frown,
That piercing eye, the gruff command that rumbled in his throat,
The fiercely spiked and waxed moustache, the glowing scarlet coat
Were ideal in the female eye. When our militiamen
Marched out - ah, what a figure was our gallant captain then -
A figure that, in these dull days, might seem a shade absurd,
But - 'My men are drilled and ready, sir! Harrumph! My Word!'
Then came dread news that sent him straight to don his scarlet coat:
Our cables had been severed, and the Russians were afloat!
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 25 - Black Peter Myloh
A man was Peter Myloh, strong-browed and black of face,
Australian Aboriginal, son of a dark doomed race.
And even I, an urchin then, read grief in his soft eye
Deep grief, that came with knowledge for a people who must die,
For he was 'educated.' But he came of no meek race
Whining, 'Gibbit tickpen', mister,' with a shamed averted face.
And he was proud, quick with a blow for some fool's sneering slight,
And how I grinned and hugged myself. For, lordy! Could he fight!
Old Connors took him as a boy from some wild Murray tribe
And thought to educate him as a scholar and a scribe,
First at school, and then at college. 'Twas a venture ill begun,
For Connors soon grew tired of it; and left him on the run,
A sort of favoured hanger-on, whom every breed forsook,
To be the butt of shearers there, less than the Chinese cook.
And after he'd half-killed a man, and seemed hell-bound for doom,
'Twas my father gave him sanctu'ry as handyman and groom.
Black Myloh loved my father; but the service of a slave
Was nought beside the hero-worship I, a stripling, gave
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Roads' End
Old Ben, the pensioner, is going down to die.
Huddled in the mail-car, he turns a wistful eye
On this familiar forest scene, the wooded mountain wall;
And nought could lure him from it save the last stern call.
He has loved it with a fierce love no reason comprehends;
The great gums, the green ways, the rough bush friends.
But doctor says his tough old heart at last has let him down;
So he's off to be 'patched up a bit' in hospital in town.
'Patched up a bit'. . . He'd heard that talk when they took Badger Jack,
And Charlie Clem, and Lame Mick. But none of these came back.
Was it Mick went first? Or Charlie? (Lordy, Lord! How men forget.)
And now they're taking Ben away; and Ben not eighty yet.
The youngest, he, of six old hulks; and three have gone away;
Till now there's only George Jones left, and old Pete Parraday -
His oldest friend, Pete Parraday, who has his dog to mind.
The cruellest break of all, that was - leaving his dog behind.
Old Ben, the pensioner, sits huddled in the car;
And his filmed eyes seek the skyline where the timbered ranges are -
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The High Priest
Nay, why do foolish politicians strive
To win a fleeting popularity?
In vain, in vain, they jealously contrive
To turn the doting Public Eye from Me.
What was this land, this nation, destined for?
For Art, Trade, Politics? All out of place.
Behold, I am the Sporting Editor!
I call the race!
Reviewers, leader writers - what are they?
Subs., poets, novelists? Scribes of a sort
Mere puny scribbling creatures of a day;
While I, the people's idol, stand for Sport!
For mark, when inspiration falls on me,
What recks the public of that nameless band?
I ope' my lips, and wisdom, gushing free,
O'erflows the land.
I lift my voice, and, lo! an army wakes
A mighty host, a hundred thousand strong
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Spotted Heifers
Mr Jeremiah Jeffers
Owned a pair of spotted heifers
These he sold for two pounds ten
To Mr Robert Raymond Wren
Who reared them in the lucerne paddocks
Owned by Mr Martin Maddox,
And sold them, when they grew to cows,
To Mr Donald David Dowse.
A grazier, Mr Egbert Innes,
Bought them then for twenty guineas,
Milked the cows, and sold the milk
To Mr Stephen Evan Silk.
Who rents a butter factory
From Mr Laurence Lampard-Lee.
Here, once a week, come for his butter
The grocer, Mr Roland Rutter,
Who keeps a shop in Sunny Street
Next door to Mr Peter Peat.
He every afternoon at two
Sent his fair daughter, Lucy Loo,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 16 - Mr Tank
'Twice one are two; twice two are four.'
I can still hear it floating thro' the old school door:
Those childish voices falling, rising in rhythmic chant,
In a room where heat is prevalent and ventilation scant.
'Twice nine are eight-teen.' And, presiding o'er the scene,
Like a demon in a 'panto,' blackavised and racked with pain,
Urging on the chorus faster, towers Mr Tank, the master,
With his mutton-chop whiskers and his cane
His cruel, thrice-accursed rattan cane.
Some incurable affliction soured his spirit, it was said;
For, above his brow, an ever-present plaster decked his head.
'Twice one are two; twice two are four -'
And suddenly the master disappeared behind the door.
For 'twas said, too, his affection had instilled a predilection
For too-frequent nips of liquor on the sly now and again.
And they boded fell disaster for gaunt Mr Tank, our master,
With his mutton-chop whiskers and his cane
His ever-swinging, torture-bringing cane.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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