Dennis has done it again, done it with an effort, maybe, but distinctly pulled it off. The Moods of Ginger Mick, by C.J. Dennis (Angus and Robertson, Sydney), is a worthy successor to The Sentimental Bloke; and a sequel to a popular success is always the very devil. In his first book, of which surely a world record in the sale of verse has been achieved, since within 12 months 50,000 copies have been actually sold, Dennis had the advantage of surprise - the thing was so original in matter and in form. But Ginger Mick, who can be as sentimental as his cobber, merely follows the well-worn track of the Sentimental Bloke. He speaks the same language, he has his Rosie as the Bloke had his Doreen; the element of dramatic surprise is lacking. True, Dennis has made good use of the war, and is thus enabled to shift his scene; but there is a perceptible effort thoughout: one feels that Dennis doesn't quite believe in Ginger as he believed in the Bloke. Occasionally Mick becomes wearisome. Yet though Dennis uses the war he uses it well, to show the manhood that lies behind the inarticulateness of our Ginger Micks and to prove that in the trenches Australia, which is made up, more or less, of mere blokes, is finding its soul.

Long ago Henry Lawson prophetically spoke:-

The self-same spirit that drives the man to the depths of drink and crime
Will do the deeds in the heroes' van that live till the end of time.
The living death in the lonely bush, the greed of the selfish town,
And even the creed of the outlawed push is chivalry - upside down.

And this moral, that almost forms the basis of Dennis's philosophy, is neatly personified in the person of Ginger:-

'Is name is on the records at the Melbourne City Court,
Fer doin' things an' sayin' things no reel nice feller ort;
An 'is name is on the records uv the Army, over there,
Fer doin' things - same sort o' things that rose the Bench's 'air....
An' then there came the Call uv Stoush, or jooty - wot's a name?
An' Ginger cocked 'is 'ear to it, an' found 'is flamin' game....


'E's one uv our brave boys, all right, all right.
   'Is early trainin' down in Spadgers Lane
Done 'im no 'arm fer this 'ere orl-in fight:
   'Is loss o' culcher is 'is country's gain....


An' them that shudders at the sight o' gore,
   An' shrinks to 'ear a drunken soljer's oath,
Must 'ide be'ind the man wot 'eaves the bricks,
An' thank their Gawd for all their Ginger Micks....


Lovin' an' fightin' . . . when the tale is told,
   That's all there is to it; an' in their way
Them brave an' noble 'ero blokes uv old
   Wus Ginger Micks - the crook 'uns uv their day.
Jist let the Call uv Stoush give 'im 'is chance
An' Ginger Mick's the 'ero of Romance....


Ev'ry feller is a gold mine if yeh take an' work 'im right:
   It is shinin' on the surface now an' then;
An' there's some is easy sinkin', but there's some wants dynermite,
   Fer they looks a 'opeless prospect - yet they're men.
An' Ginger - 'ard-shell Ginger's showin' signs that 'e will pay;
But it took a flamin' world-war fer to blarst 'is crust away....

And Ginger learns the value of discipline; and pathetically looks back on chances missed by the push:-

We never 'ad no discipline, that's wot we wanted bad,
   It's discipline that gives the push its might.
But wot a tie we could 'ave give the coppers if we 'ad,
   Lord!  We'd 'ave capchered Melbourne in a night.
When I think uv things that might 'ave been I sometimes sit an' grin,
Fer I might be King uv Footscray if we'd 'ad more discipline.

He does his whack, gets his stripe, and bravely dies in action. His mate, Trent, writes of his death:-

'E sez strange things in this 'ere note 'e sends:
"He was a gallant gentleman," it ends.


A gallant gentleman!  Well, I dunno.
I 'ardly think that Mick ud like that name.
But this 'ere Trent's a toff, an' ort to know
The breedin' uv the stock frum which 'e came.
Gallant an' game Mick might 'a' bin; but then -
Lord!  Fancy 'im among the gentlemen!

And this gallant gentleman's last words were, "Look after Rose....Mafeesh!" And his cobber has pardonable doubts whether we will look after his Rose, and all the other Roses. For in a previous epistle Mick had given us the straight griffin about the hero stunt:-

"We ain't got no objections to the cheers;
   We're good an' tough, an' we can stand the noise,
But three 'oorays and five or six long beers
   An' loud remarks about 'Our Gallant Boys'
Sounds kind o' weak - if you'll ixcuse the word
Beside the fightin' sounds we've lately 'eard.


"If you'll fergive our blushes, we can stand
   The 'earty cheerin' an' the songs o' praise.
The loud 'Osannas uv our native land
   Makes us feel good an' glad in many ways.
An' later, when we land back in a mob,
Per'aps we might be arstin' fer a job....


'Eroes. It sounds a bit uv reel orl-right - 
   "Our Gallant 'Eroes uv Gallipoli."
But Ginger, when 'e's thinkin' there at night,
   Uv Rose, an' wot their luck is like to bbe
After the echo dies uv all this praise,
Well - 'e ain't dazzled wiv three loud 'oorays.

The casual lightness of The Sentimental Bloke is hardly to be found in Ginger Mick. Or in Australia. The old days are done:-

The gilt is on the wattle, Mick, young leaves is on the trees,
An' the bush birds in the gullies swap the ole sweet melerdies;
There's a good, green land awaitin' you when you come 'ome again
To swing a pick at Ballarat or ride Yarrowie Plain.
The streets is gay wiv dafferdils - but, haggard in the sun,
A wounded soljer passes; an' we know ole days is done;
Fer somew'ere down inside us, lad, is somethin' you put there
The day yeh swung a dirty left, fer us, at Sari Bair.

So the moods of Ginger Mick are serious moods. Only in "Ginger's Cobber" - 'E wears perjarmer soots an' cleans 'is teeth - does the old joyous humor of Dennis revive, though "Rabbits" embodies a humorous idea. But do we need that old careless humor any more? This is a finely patriotic book, a uniquely Australian book, a book with a dirty left.

The publishers have turned out the book as we expect Angus and Robertson to do. The illustrations by Hal Gye are the daintiest of decorations of the calamitous ugliness of Ginger's chiv.

The Bulletin, 19 October 1916, red page