A New Damon And Pythias
CHARLES:
So, brother, I am out and yu are in.
Farewell, farewell, to all my splendor bright!
Yet, just to know 'tis you, dear Agar Wynne,
Tinges my melancholy with delight.
Indeed, I find it very hard to go;
Yet pleasure surely mingles with my woe.
Ay, you are in, and I am in - the soup!
For me the shades; for you the favored place.
Yet doth it cheer me when my spirits droop
Just to behold yur ever welcome face.
Aside. (But by the gods, just give me half a show,
The merest chance to kick, and out you go!)
AGAR:
Sweet Frazer, though I ill disguise my joy
In winning thus to fame, despite my foes;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Armistice: To His Dead Cobber From The Sentimental Bloke
I'm sittin' 'ere, Mick - sittin' 'ere today,
Feelin' 'arf glum, 'arf sorter - reverent,
Thinkin' strange, crooked thorts of 'ow they say:
'The 'eads is bowed thro' all a continent';
An' wond'rin - wond'rin 'in a kind of doubt
If other coves is feelin' like I do,
Tryin' to figure wot it's all about,
An' - if it's meanin' anythin' to you.
Silence... The hour strikes soon thro' all the land
An 'eads bend low. Old mate, give me your 'and.
Silence - for you, Mick, an' for blokes like you
To mark the Day - the Day you never knoo.
The Day you never knoo, nor we forget...
I can't tell why I'm sittin' 'ere this way,
Scrawlin' a message that you'll never get -
Or will you? I dunno. It's 'ard to say.
P'raps you'll know all about it, where you are,
An' think, 'Ah, well, they ain't too bad a lot.'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Paw
Haw!
Ai've just obteened a pension for mai Paw.
And you should hev seen the people that were theah.
Re-ally, it was surpraising!
Maind, Ai am not criticaising,
But it was embarrassing, Ai do decleah.
Ai met the Snobson-Smythes and Toady-Browns, and many moah
Belonging to ouah set; and wondahed what they came theah foah.
And, of course, Ai didn't say a word of Paw.
Ai rather think they've nevah heard of Paw.
But Ai thought it well to mention
That Ai came to get the pension
For an aged person who had worked for Maw.
The Snobson-Smythes said, 'Fancy! That is just why we came dahn.'
But Ai've heard they hev a mothah hidden somewheah out of tahn.
Haw!
Ai do deserve some gratitude from Paw.
To think what Ai've gone thro' foah him to-day!
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Silent Member
He lived in Mundaloo, and Bill McClosky was his name,
But folks that knew him well had little knowledge of that same;
For he some'ow lost his surname, and he had so much to say –-
He was called 'The Silent Member' in a mild, sarcastic way.
He could talk on any subject -- from the weather and the crops
To astronomy and Euclid, and he never minded stops;
And the lack of a companion didn't lay him on the shelf,
For he'd stand before a looking-glass and argue with himself.
He would talk for hours on literature, or calves, or art, or wheat;
There was not a bally subject you could say had got him beat;
And when strangers brought up topics that they reckoned he would baulk,
He'd remark, 'I never heard of that.' But all the same -- he'd talk.
He'd talk at christ'nings by the yard; at weddings by the mile;
And he used to pride himself upon his choice of words and style.
In a funeral procession his remarks would never end
On the qualities and virtues of the dear departed friend.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Morning Song
The thrush is in the wattle tree, an', 'O, you pretty dear!'
He's callin' to his little wife for all the bush to hear.
He's wantin' all the bush to know about his charmin' hen;
He sings it over fifty times, an' then begins again.
For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! The world is wet with dew,
With tiny drops a-twinkle where the sun comes shinin' thro'.
The thrush is in the wattle tree, red robin's underneath,
The little blue-cap's dodgin' in an' out amongst the heath;
An' they're singin', boy, they're singin' like they'd bust 'emselves to bits;
While, up above, old Laughin' Jack is having forty fits.
For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! The leaves are all ashine:
There's treasure all about the place; an' all of it is mine.
Oh, it's good to be a wealthy man, it's grand to be a king
With mornin' on the forest-land an' joy in everything.
It's fine to be a healthy man with healthy work to do
In the singin' land, the clean land, washed again with dew.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Bleating of the Sheep
Lo, I listened to the bleating of the sheep
Squatters' sheep
And I sat me down and pondered long and deep.
And a cloud of gloom came o'er me
At the empty leagues before me
Yea, I marked the virgin grass-lands' mighty sweep
Land that called for cultivation;
Cried aloud for population
Land that carried trees and fences, grass and sheep.
0, I listened to their bleating on the plain
Virgin plain
And I spoke to them with epithets profane.
In the valley, on the hill,
Yet were sheep, and more sheep still.
(Which annoyed me very much, I must explain.
For one sheep may he a blessing,
But a million are depressing.)
And I cursed them, but I knew I cursed in vain.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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I Dips me Lid
'Young sir,' 'E sez . . . Like that . . . It made me feel
Romantic like, as if me dream was reel.
'Is dress was fancy, an' 'is style was grave.
An' me ? I 'ope I know 'ow to be'ave
In 'igh-toned company, for ain't I been
Instructed careful by me wife, Doreen ?
' Sing small,' she sez. An' that's iist wot I did.
I sounds me haitches, an' I dips me lid.
'Young sir,' 'e sez . . . O' course you understand
'Twus jist a dream. But, on the other 'and,
E seemed so reel as 'e sat spoutin' there
Beside me on ole Dame Macquarie's Chair,
Lookin' across the 'arbor while 'e talked-
Seemed sumpthink more that jist a ghost 'oo walked
Out o' the past . . . 'Phillip by name,' 'e said.
A queer ole cock, wif lace, an' wig on 'ead.
It 'appened this way: I 'ad jist come down,
After long years, to look at Sydney town.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Pilot Cove
'Young friend,' 'e sez . . . Young friend! Well, spare me days!
Yeh'd think I wus 'is own white 'eaded boy
The queer ole finger, wiv 'is gentle ways.
'Young friend,' 'e sez, 'I wish't yeh bofe great joy.'
The langwidge that them parson blokes imploy
Fair tickles me. The way 'e bleats an' brays!
'Young friend,' 'e sez.
'Young friend,' 'e sez . . . Yes, my Doreen an' me
We're gettin' hitched, all straight an' on the square.
Fer when I torks about the registry
O 'oly wars! yeh should 'a' seen 'er stare;
'The registry?' she sez, 'I wouldn't dare!
I know a clergyman we'll go an' see . . .
'Young friend,' 'e sez.
'Young friend,' 'e sez. An' then 'e chats me straight;
An' spouts o' death, an' 'ell, an' mortal sins.
'You reckernize this step you contemplate
Is grave?' 'e sez. An' I jist stan's an' grins;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Out West
'I've seen so much uv dirt an' grime
I'm mad to 'ave things clean.
I've seen so much uv death,' 'e said
'So many cobbers lyin' dead
You won't know wot I mean;
But, lad, I've 'ad so much uv strife
I want things straightened in my life.
'I've seen so much uv 'ate,' 'e said
'Mad 'ate an' silly rage
I'm yearnin' for clear thoughts,' said 'e.
'Kindness an' love seem good to me.
I want a new, white page
To start all over, clean an' good,
An' live me life as reel men should.'
We're sittin' talkin' by the fence,
The sun's jist going' down,
Paintin' the sky all gold an' pink.
Said 'e, 'When it's like that, I think -'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Age of Reason
Whene'er I read some savage tale
Of punishment devised
By tyrants in an olden day,
When serfs were victimised,
I reverently tell myself:
'Thank God, we're civilised!'
Thank God, those idols, grimmer far
Than gods of wood or stone,
Unthinking Hate and brute Revenge,
With all the seeds they've sown,
Are cast to earth, and Reason sits
With Mercy on the throne.
Calm Reason sits upon the throne
And fashions righteous laws,
And in our blessed Age of Light
It ever bids us pause
And, ere we plan the remedy,
Unearth the Primal Cause.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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