Admirers of his brilliant and typical Australian work will learn with pleasure that Mr. C. J. Dennis, famous as the creator of "The Sentimental Bloke", has been specially engaged to conduct a daily column for the Melbourne HERALD.
'Struth! me faith in me creator, 'im as also made Doreen,
Has dissolved an' left me weepin', like the snows I never seen --
Them virgin snows of yester-year, whereof the poets tell:
There's nothin' I believe in now unless it's blimy 'ell!
For Dennis -- strike me, Dennis! -- 'im wot dreamed me into life,
Ordained me, as yer may say, to a clean and tidy life,
Wif a treasure of a wife,
Has sold hisself for lucre (for a gilty lump, I guess)
Into bitter, blanky bondage wif the gory evenin' press.
Melbourne 'ERALD, wot goes barmy w'en the latest murder's on,
'As signed a legal contrack wif the bloke wot calls me "son,"
Which will keep 'im workin', workin', like a weary galley-slave,
While he envies poor old Ginger, as lies dossin' in the grave,
An' will want to 'ave 'is froat cut w'en he goes to get a shave.
Cripes! the orful daily vampire will be boozin' on 'is blud
Till his airy fancy sickens, and the Muse's name is Mud;
There'll be suicides an' murders for the topics of his verse:
Comic songs abowt the motor wot collided wif an 'earse;
Tricky r'ymes to make yer shudder 'e will orfen 'ave to spin
On the kid that lived a fortnight ere its muvver done it in;
An' w'en of luv an' wedlock Den is itchin' to discourse,
He'll be preachin' spicy lessons on an actress's divorce.
Gawd! 'e'll perish in 'is prime of wot the parson calls Remorse.
I can picture dear old Dennis drinkin' bitterness's cup,
W'en the golden sun is sinkin', and 'is number's goin' up;
W'en he feels hisself collapsin' 'neath the burden of 'is cross,
Just because he sold 'is birfright to the journalistic joss.
I can picture 'im a-askin' for the Bloke as made 'is name,
The Bloke wit 'ad the honor of conductin' 'im to Fame:
I can almost 'ear 'im sayin' "Bill, I 'aven't long ter live -
This job 'as corspsed me proper, so I beg yer to forgive."
An' I shall answer "Ryebuck: though you've got it in the neck,
You're the aufor of me bein', an' I owes yer deep respeck."
An' I'll squeeze 'is clammy fingers wot no more carn't 'old a pen,
In a way wot's meant to tell 'im "Ginger's waitin' for yer, Den."
Then Den will smile an' peter out, all quiet an' serene --
An' the closin' of 'is eyelids -- I -- shall -- leave -- it -- to -- Dor-e-en.
First published in The Bulletin, 25 May 1922
