Far out, far out on memory's plain
   They are under the sands of time;
And this is the dirge of a soul in pain,
   And a base Apostate's rhyme.
I have turned my back on the brave old throng,
  I have buried the vine leaves gay;
For the best of men they will aye go wrong --
   I have shouldered my fate to-day.

Then this is the dirge of a soul to scourge:
   For I've lost the olden creed:
And where they be shall I bend the knee
   To the idols, Stodge and Greed.
This must ye know, as in need ye go,
   Wherever men find lodge:
When all is said, ye must bow the head
   To the twin idols, Greed and Stodge.

Aye, I've turned them out on memory's plain,
   And the sands of time drift o'er;
And my lips are dumb to the old refrain,
  I shall strive for Fame no more.
For I was a fool and my folly spake:
   "Thy brother is kind and brave."
Then I quaffed and toiled for the toiling's sake,
   And woke to find -- a slave.

Lo, I've left the track; I am climbing back,
   Adown Parnassus slope,
With a shame-bowed head, and a need for bread,
   And a soul devoid of hope.
But at the base do I know a place
   Where the haggling traders dwell,
Who will buy the wares of the man who cares
  His soul and slush to sell.

I knew a man in the olden days
   And he was a man to know
He worked for Art, and he walked her ways,
   Till a day we saw him go.
We called him fool, and we called him knave;
   But he'd marked the trader's sign,
He thrived on gold that the huckster's gave,
   And he toiled for the praise of swine.

There was once a time when a freeman's rhyme
   Was the breath of life to me.
But I've fouled my pen in the sight o' men
   I have scrawled rank blasphemy,
But what's the odds!  We have lost our gods,
   Or, if they still abide,
They have ceased to heed when I humbly plead,
   So I've set my gods aside.

Another I knew in the olden days --
   And he was a man to Love --
He never turned from a true man's ways,
  And he wrote for the gods above.
He lived the life that the lowly live,
   And he hungered oft for bread;
He gave of the best that he had to give,
   And died on a truckle bed.

Then, know ye this -- there is nought of bliss,
   And the world is a market place.
There is praise in heaps when you play "for keeps;"
   But the man that gives is base --
Then hold ye tight, by wrong or right,
   To the gold when once 'tis won;
For worth and gold are one all told,
   And trust to the smile of none.

Lo, I've waved my hand to the gay old throng,
   I have set the goblet down,
For the best of men will aye go wrong,
   And I've lost my verdant crown.
Far out, old memory's plain beneath,
   Where the sands of time e'er glide,
The gay green leaves and a ghostly wreath
   Are resting side by side.

In the olden days, to strive for bays
   Was a game the godlike played;
All that is past -- it has sunk at last
   To a haggling huckster's trade.
In a bitter school have I learnt the rule --
   And I've learnt it over late --
"There is praise in heaps, when you play for keeps,"
   And I'm playing for the gate.

"C.J. Dennis"
The Gadfly, 24 December 1907, p1577