A writer whose work cheers the soldiers in the trenches deserves well of his country. Tennyson has placed it on record that he had copies of "The Charge of the Light Brigade" printed at his own expense and sent to the warriors in the Crimea. Nobly as he versified the wild gallop that was "magnificent, but not war," it is improbable that his lines were read with anything like the delight that was inspired among the Diggers by C. J. Dennis's "Sentimental Bloke" verses.

Dennis began writing them for THE BULLETIN the year before the war, and they were published at irregular intervals until April 15, 1915, when the Sentimental Bloke became a father. It has always been THE BULLETIN's practice to grant its contributors the right of republication, and "The Sentimental Bloke" reappeared in a book issued by Angus and Robertson. An instant success, it went into many editions, and brought Dennis a steady income, which was increased when "The Sentimental Bloke" film was made - a very good film, it should be said.

When he had got the Sentimental Bloke married and settled, Dennis began writing "The Glugs of Gosh" for THE BULLETIN. Though a capital satire in easy verse, it was not so popular as "The Sentimental Bloke"; in fact he never repeated his first success, though as writer of other books and as a contributor to Melbourne "Herald" he had a public till the end.

A native of South Australia, which has given many good writers to the Commonwealth, he died in Victoria last week at 62.

While multitudes of BULLETIN readers were wondering who "Den" was, and following with ever-increasing interest the fortunes of the Bloke, Doreen and Mar, these lines appeared over the looked-for signature:

   Oh, praise me now if you would please
   My soul with soothing flatteries.
   Praise with my living clay agrees:
      'Tis sweet, I vow.
   Give me kind words while I can feel
   The modest blishes gently steal,
   What time my virtues you reveal.
      Oh, praise me now.


   For, when the vital spark is fled,
   No matter what kind words are said,
   I'll simply go on being dead
      And take no heed.
   Or if, perchance, beneath the clay,
   I hear some kindly critic say,
   "He was a boshter in his day!"
      'Twere hard indeed.


   'Twere bitter hard to be confined,
   Gagged by grim Death, while fellows kind
   Call my good qualities to mind,
     And softly sigh.
   I vow I'd writhe within my bier,
   And strive to croak at least "Hear, Hear!"
   For I have ever prized that dear
      Right to reply.


   Then, if you're keen on praising me
   I'd rather be alive to see
   And hear and fell the flatery,
      And know 'tis true.
   And when I rise to make reply
   I fain would drop a modest eye
   And by my halting speech imply
      It is my due.


   I do not want a monument.
   Why should good money so be spent?
   Nay, put it out at ten per cent,
      And when you save
   Enough to purchase goodly fare,
   Then spread me out a banquet rare.
   No gift's appreciated there,
      Within the grave.


   Oh, praise me now while I am here:
   In my attentive living ear
   Pour adulation; never fear
      I mind the row.
   I love to haer you harp upon
   Those dulcet strings.  Play on, play on!
   Do not delay until I'm gone,
      But praise me now.

He never had to write in that serio-comic strain again. A good craftsman and a good Australian, he was admired for the rest of his days, and his verses will remain part of the history of a stirring time.

Bulletin, 29 June 1938, p13