Gentlemen!
Gentlemen! a politician,
One who values his position,
Stands, with easy confidence,
Here before you on the fence.
For he knows full well, good friends,
All your aims and all your ends;
And that these you may attain
He will strive with might and main.
Gentlemen! my sole ambition
Is to see that your condition
Shall continue to improve;
Wherefore I shall shortly move
For a special grant to buy
Extra bedding for your sty
Force it from the Government
For the folk I represent.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Invalid
The pale young man he comes to me,
An' chats me good an' fair;
'The langwidge that you use,' ses he,
'Pollutes the good, clean air.
Why don't yeh chuck sich silly rot,
An' line-up with the Clean Lip lot?'
But, square 'n' all, I got no use
For them poor, shrinkin' guys,
Who, at the sound of coves' abuse,
Turn pale, an' rolls their eyes.
To use the fancy swears I hear
Comes natural as sinking beer.
Beef an' blood-gravy's fightin' food,
Not milk; but, all the same,
I come to see there ain't no good
In this crook-landwidge game.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Ingavar
O, the trees grow straight and the trees grow tall,
And the trees grow all around;
And the long limbs sprout the trunks about,
Where the Davlo owl is found.
And the Davlo bird is most absurd
In the early days of June;
For he sings this song the whole day long,
To a strange, fantastic tune.
'O, ink, ink, ink! I sit and think;
I brood on the Wildwood Tree;
But, near or far, on Ingavar,
No ink, no ink I see.
And late or soon the swift cartoon
Must soar to the Utmost Star.
O, ink, ink, ink! I swoon! I sink!
O, inkless, Ingavar!'
O, the trees grow long, and the trees grow strong,
And the tress grow good and green,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Axeman
High on the hills, where the tall trees grow,
There lives an axeman that 1 know.
From his little hut by a ferny creek,
Day after day, week after week,
He goes each morn with his shining axe,
Trudging along by the forest tracks;
And he chops and he chops till the daylight goes
High on the hills, where the blue-gum grows.
(Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!)
There's a log to move and a branch to lop.
Now to the felling! His sharp axe bites
Into a tree on the forest heights,
And scarce for a breath does the axeman stop-
(Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!)
Bell-birds watch him; and in the fern
Wallabies listen awhile, and turn
Back through the bracken, and off they hop.
(Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . -. Chop!)
Patient and tireless, blow on blow
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Hoary Precedent
Mr. Pericles, M.P.,
In four-sixty-nine B.C.,
Outed Cimon at a general election;
Premier Cimon, thuswise ex-ed,
Was quite naturally vexed,
And he made an angry speech in this connection;
He remarked, in peroration, as he grabbed his coat and hat,
'You're a Socialist, you rotter! You'd no precedent for that!'
Mr. Pericles is dead
Thoroughly, I've heard it said
And his words and acts may now be safely quoted
By our statesmen eminent,
Who on mouldy precedent
(If it's old enough and dead enough) have doted.
For precedent, I'd have you note, is most peculiar stuff;
It's absolutely useless if it isn't dead enough.
In my youth I ever held
Grave respect for all the eld,
And I found in history a strong attraction.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Old Town Types No. 18
Johnny Nock, the auctioneer, golden-bearded, ever gay,
Spread about him great good cheer in his prosperous heyday;
Familiar sight on district roads - his buckboard and his pacing roans,
As men, perched high on harvest lands, waved whips and called in cheery tones;
For not a man had ill to speak of open-handed Johnny then,
Since, with its fortune at the peak, the old town valued spending men.
And Johnny spent, come shine, come rain; and earned and spent and carried on
With his prophetic trade-refrain of 'Going - Going - Going - Gone!'
Johnny Nock, the auctioneer, at his more important sales
Always stood the crowd free beer, serving it from bright tin pails. And, as the pannikins passed round, few were too churlish not to quaff,
While Johnny, from his vantage ground, tossed banter back, and laugh for laugh
At some broad jest, then paused to praise this 'splendid beast,' these 'fine fat
sheep';
Then, as the bids began to rise, vowed dolefully they went too cheap.
And sudden optimists would grant that as a rustic wit he shone,
This wag, with his familiar chant of 'Going - Going - Going - Gone!'
So Johnny Nock, the auctioneer, spent and prospered, spent again,
Till 'Progress' brought the railroad here, and out across the Mallee plain.Then puzzled men knew vague unease as prices, too, began to fall;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Fortunes of Grandison Lee
Now Percival Gregory Grandison-Lee
He came of a fine old stock.
His sire was an eminent K.C.B,
But Percival never appeared to be
A chip off that shrewd old block.
In spite of the strain
He was weak of brain,
Though a jolly good fellow was he.
And, to tell the truth,
In his gilded youth
His manner of living was free.
Now Percival's father, the elder Lee,
Aspired to the House of Lords;
So he earnestly sought for the £ s. d.
Becoming a prominent guinea-pig, he
Was chairman of numerous Boards.
But the game was rash,
And there came a smash,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Come Ye Home
Listening (said the old, grey Digger) . . .
With my finger on the trigger
I was listening in the trenches on a dark night long ago,
And a lull came in the fighting,
Save a sudden gun-flash lighting
Some black verge. And I fell thinking of lost mates I used to know.
Listening, waiting, stern watch keeping,
I heard little whispers creeping
In from where, 'mid fair fields tortured, No-man's land loomed out before.
And well I knew good mates were lying
There, grim-faced and death-defying,
In that filth and noisome litter and the horror that was war.
List'ning so, a mood came o'er me;
And 'twas like a vision bore me
To a deeper, lonelier darkness where the souls of dead men roam;
Where they wander, strife unheading;
And I heard a wistful pleading
Down the lanes where lost men journey: 'Come ye home! Ah, come ye home!'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The White Foxglove
Reynard, the fox, was asked to a party.
"Come", they said, in your Sunday best,
For we like good form, tho' the fun be hearty;
So all who dance must be formally dressed:
Black tail-coat and a shirt-front gleaming.
Brushed and burnished each dancing shoe,
Pantaloons with a silk braid seaming,
Clean white gloves of the snowiest hue.
This most especially -
Very especially -
Snow-white gloves of a spotless hue.
Reynard, the fox, as he dressed (says the fable)
Dreamed of the dance and his lady love,
Then he searched and he hunted in dresser and table,
But all he discovered was - one old glove!
A horrible glove, with a broad black stitching
Sorriest match for his stiff white shirt.
Could lover go wooing a maid so bewitching,
Wearing but one glove, grubby with dirt?
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Matter Of Privacy
Ben Bowyang spluttered with rage suppressed, 'Hi, there!' And his brow was black,
As two by two and three by three the tourists left the track,
Climbing the fence to his 'tater' patch, and down thro' his orchard land,
Flannelled or fashioned in strides and shorts - a saucy suburban band -
Giggling gambolling into his yard calling inane 'Cooees'
While Bowyang frothed at the mouth and fumed. But his voice was a futile wheeze,
And, heading the horde, in a blazer bright, monarch of all he surveyed,
Strode little Fitzmickle, the martinet, a Don in the drapery trade.
'You've trampled me taters,' Bowyang roared. 'Pinched bloom from me orchard bough!
You've pelted me poddies an' dished me fence! Look at that nettin' now!
Ain't you no respeck for a privit home, you towerist coots from town?'
But Mr Fitzmickle, he turned on his heel with a very superior frown.
'Come, ladies,' he said, 'come, gentlemen. Unmannerly rustic brute!
My card, with name and address, my man, if you wish to prosecute.'
Then back they trampled thro' the 'tater' patch, back o'er the orchard land,
While Bowyang gaped like a stranded fish, with the pasteboard cluthed in his hand.
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet, sat in his smug retreat -
A very respectable villa set in a very respectable street.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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