When The Sun's Behind The Hill
There's a soft and peaceful feeling
Comes across the farming hand
As the shadows go a-stealing
Slow along the new-turned land.
The lazy curling smoke above the thatch is showing blue,
And the weary old plough horses wander homeward two 'n' two,
With their chains a'clinkin', clankin', when their daily toil is through,
And the sun's behind the hill.
Then it's slowly homeward plodding
As the night begins to creep,
And the barley grass is nodding
To the daisies, all asleep,
The crows are flying heavily, and cawing overhead;
The sleepy milking cows are lowing sof'ly in the shed,
And above them, in the rafters, all the fowls have gone to bed,
When the sun's behind the hill.
Then it's 'Harry, feed old Roaney!'
And it's 'Bill, put up the rail!'
And it's 'Tom, turn out the pony!'
'Mary, hurry with the pail!'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Langwidge
'The flamin' cows!' 'e ses; 'e did, an' worse;
'Twas 'orrible the langwidge that 'e used.
It made me blood run cold to 'ear 'im curse;
An' me that taken-back-like an' confused;
W'ile them poor beasts 'e belted an' abused.
'They couldn't shift,' 'e ses, 'a blanky 'earse!
The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' You oughter 'eard 'im curse.
You would a bin that shocked. . . . An' the idear!
'Im usin' such remarks about a 'earse;
An' 'is own brother buried not a year.
'Not move a blanky 'earee!' 'e ses. My dear,
You 'ardly could imagine langwidge worse.
'The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' Wot would the parson say?
An' 'im so friendly-like with 'im an' 'er.
I pity 'er; I do, 'cos, in 'er way.
She is respectable. But 'i! It's fur
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Crisis
Be-wigged and gowned, the Speaker frowned,
And his frown was ill to see.
'Oddsfish!' he spake, 'Do I mistake?
Stands 'And' where 'Or' should be?
Be such the case, this land's disgrace
Shall shame our House no more.
Gadzooks, and by my halidame!
Call members hence, so our fair name
Be purged and shriven of ill-fame
And 'And' give place to 'Or'!'
From divers nooks, with guilty looks,
The mumbling members came;
With wimpering wails they gnawed their nails
And slunk in snivelling shame;
From party rooms, as from dank tombs,
From crypt and corridor.
The Speaker boomed, with beetling brow:
Yours was the sin! And, here and now,
I bid ye kneel and make the vow
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Spoilers
Ye are the Great White People, masters and lords of the earth,
Spreading your stern dominion over the world's wide girth.
Here, where my fathers hunted since Time's primordial morn,
To our land's sweet, fecund places, you came with your kine and corn.
Mouthing your creed of Culture to cover a baser creed,
Your talk was of White Man's magic, but your secret god was Greed.
And now that your generations to the second, the third have run,
White Man, what of my country? Answer, what have you done?
Now the God of my Simple People was a simple, kindly God,
Meting his treasure wisely that sprang from this generous sod,
With never a beast too many and never a beast too few,
Thro' the lean years and the fruitful, he held the balance true.
Then the White Lords came in their glory; and their cry was: 'More! Yet more!'
And to make them rich for a season they filched Earth's age-old store,
And they hunted my Simple People - hunters of yester-year -
And they drove us into the desert - while they wrought fresh deserts here.
They ravaged the verdant uplands and spoiled wealth ages old,
Laid waste with their pumps and sluices for a gunny-bag of gold;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Capital Site
'I hear them speak of a Fed'ral site
Where shall arise a city bright
Mother, where is this bonzer spot?
Shall we not seek it and build our cot?
Is it in some mild and temp'rate zone
Where the native of drought is never known?'
'Not theah, not theah, me che-ild.'
'Is it where the mighty ranges rise
And point their white tops to the skies
Where mountain torrents hurry down
Past thriving farm and peaceful town
Where our great city may be planned,
A credit to our native land?'
'Not on yer life, me che-ild.'
'Is it where the noble rivers flow,
And fruit and corn abundant grow;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 13 - Larrikin Luke
Luke Gale, the larrikin lad, dwelt in Larrikin Lane,
A low street, a by-street, right at the edge of the town;
King of the boys and hobbledehoys - a vulgar youth, and vain,
Winning from all respectable folk a very respectable frown.
But, oh, to see him on Saturday nights, dolled in his nobbiest duds,
Doing the weekly Saturday rounds; impudent, out for larks
Eyeing the girls at the Saturday shops
Coming for candy and acidy drops,
While Luke and his henchmen leaned on posts, passing inane remarks.
Larrikin Luke knew how to dress; short, black-braided coat,
Big, black, felt hat, low and broad of brim;
Shirt, white and collarless quite, narrow tie at the throat
Neatly drawn thro' a quandong ring; vest low-cut and trim.
But, pride of his wardrobe, badge of his clan, flapping about his feet,
Black pants - wonderful pants, by a snake-skin belt girt low,
Belled at the bottoms and tight on the thighs;
A curly fringe combed down to his eyes;
Thimble heels to his shiny shoes, laced right down to the toe.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Fust Mate Joe
'E's a tough ole salt,
With a 'ide well tanned,
An' it ain't 'is fault
If the craft is manned
With a motley sort er crew.
Ya-hoo!
An' it is a mixed-up crew.
But 'e's sailed, 'as 'e, on many a sea,
An' e's journeyed nigh an' fur;
'E's a tough ole, rough ole - not to mention gruff ole,
Bluff ole mar-i-ner
Fer 'e sailed among
The Labor Seas
When 'e wus young;
An' since that 'e's
Been on all sorts o' craft
Abaft
And 'fore the mast 'o craft.
Fer ther ain't no boat that's bin afloat
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Aha! Beware
Aha! Beware! I know your guilty past!
I was a witness of that secret crime.
One word! and all your fondest hopes I blast.
I bide me time.
I hold you in me grip, unhappy man,
And I shall cr-r-rush you if you thwart me plan.
Hist! Have a care, lest I divulge the plot.
I saw you forge the will! With these two eyes
I recognised the corpse, and, know the spot
Where it now lies.
I know the hand that sped the fatal blow,
And stole the widder's che-ild. Aha! I know!
Be warned! Seek not to sully my fair fame.
Who stole the papers?. . . Ah!. . . Then have a care
The man that pawned the spoons - I know his name;
And I'm aware
Who lured the girl aboard the lugger. Aye!
All - all is known to me, for I was nigh.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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In The Doldrums
Friends!
Have you, too, noticed that calm which descends
Upon affairs today?
Search as we may,
The papers have few things indeed to say
Of even world affairs, and, as to local,
Why, they are hardly vocal.
They even lack news of diverting crimes.
These be dull times.
Even the seething world of politics
Where factions mix,
And cause, most days, at least some mild commotion,
Seem like a placid ocean -
Like some blue tropic sea, peaceful and calm.
Floored with pink coral, fringed by wavy palm,
Where all is gentleness and holy calm...
Talking of topics, even Mister Hughes
Seems, in these days, steadfastly to refuse
To air his views.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Laura Days
Dreaming to-day in a forest green
Where the great gums rake the sky,
My thoughts turn back to another scene
And to old days, long gone by;
To a land of youth, and a youth's employ,
And - to filch another's phrase -
To the men who were boys, when I was a boy,
In the long gone Laura days.
To a little town that nestles down
By the hills of Beetaloo,
Where a youth dreamed dreams of fair renown,
And a man's ambition grew,
'Twas here his earliest songs were sung
And he won his earliest praise
From men who were young when he was young
In the long gone Laura days.
Spicer, Stockdale, Ballantyne,
Marrie, Mitchell and Braund;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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