September 2013 Archives

A city clerk was Henry Brown,
Whose suburb knew nor tram nor train;
And ev'ry morn he walked to town.
 
From nine till five, with busy brain,
He labored in an office dim.
Each eve he walked out home again.
 
And all this tramping seemed to him
A waste of time, for, 'mid the strife,
He could not keep his lawn in trim.
 
It clouded his domestic life --
This going early, coming late --
And much distressed his little wife.
 
Then some wise man declared the State
Should put in trams, and for this scheme
Brown was a red-hot advocate.
 
At last he realised his dream;
And daily in and out of town
He trammed it with content supreme.
 
For, though it cost him half-a-crown
A week in fares, the time he saved
Meant much to him and Mrs. Brown.
 
And so they lived and pinched and slaved
And their suburban happiness
Seemed all that they had ever craved.
 
The little wife began to bless
The trams; nor grieved their meagre dole
Was weekly two and sixpence less.
 
Then Brown's employer, kindly soul,
Learned of this tram-car luxury,
And promptly rose to take his toll.
 
He sent for Brown and said that he
Should now contrive to come at eight
Since trams blessed his vicinity.
 
He also deemed it wise to state
That idleness begat much ill,
And it was wrong to sleep in late.
 
Yet Brown contrived to tram it still,
And trim his lawn with tender care,
And pay his rent and baker's bill.
 
His little wife vowed it unfair;
But bowed to stern, relentless fate,
And smiled and sewed and worked her share.
 
Just here, the landlord wrote to state,
Since trams improved his property,
He'd raise the rent as from that date.
 
"Three shillings weekly will not be
Too much - an equitable rise,
Considering the trams," wrote he.
 
What profit oaths or women's sighs?
His "sacred rights," of wealth the fount,
A landlord has to recognise.
 
To what do poor clerks' lives amount?
An extra hour of slavery
Swells an employer's bank account.
 
The wealthy boss thanks God that he
Has saved some money out of Brown.
The landlord smiles contentedly.
 
The trams run gaily up and down,
A sight Brown sadly notes as he
Plods daily in and out of town.

First published in The Bulletin, 30 September 1909;
and later in
Backblock Ballads and Other Verses by C.J. Dennis, 1913.

Old Pete Parraday is back from the Show.
"Wastin' of a man's time," he says, "it was, to go.
New things, an' strange things, an' funny things they've planned:
Muddled-up machinery a man can't understand,
With doo-dads an' dinky-doos an' gadgets fancy-faked;
I stared at 'em an' studied till me poor head ached.
A man to be a farmer now, with them coniptions queer,
Has got to go to college first an' be a ingineer.

"I s'pose they calls it progress, but it fair makes me sick,
This buildin' somethink cute an' queer for doin' somethink quick:
Savin' time an' savin' space they've sweated an' they've slaved;
An' don't do nothink with it much when once they've got it saved,
Ixcep' to slaughter honest folk, in peace-time an' war,
With motey cars an' airyplanes much quicker than afore.
A man is scarcely born today afore he's dead an' done.
(A-crossin' of them city streets ain't no man's fun.)

"I s'pose I'm of an old age, a age that's nigh on past.
'Good riddance, too,' they'll say of us when all is gone at last:
The safe men, the slow men, who done nowt big or new --
'Cep' pioneerin' continents, an' that ain't much to do.
But they can have their sky-scrapers towerin' to the skies.
These wise, old hills o' mine is quite a tidy size!
An' they have taught me many a thing of mankind an' his ways
That's like to send these modrin folk fair dumbstruck with amaze.

"Oh, I dessay I had me fun. But what pained most in town;
I never seen an old friend the whole time I was down --
Them old mates out o' Gippsland an' back o' Bungaree,
With long beards an' carpet bags, they've stole a march on me.
They've gone an' stole a march on me, since thirty year ago,
An' I'm a stranger in the world that men don't know.
So back I comes to my old hills to hid me silly face --
A stranger in a new world; scrap-iron out o' place."

First published in The Herald, 28 September 1936

The Ministry had effected one act of restoration - it had restored, with all its signs and portents, the mace, that sign and portent of the Government of ancient days, the Government of the fourteenth century.  (Laughter.) - Anstey, M.H.R.

I don't mind kings and dukes and things;
   I don't mind wigs or maces;
I don't mind crowns or robes or gowns
   Or ruffles, swords or laces -
But what I do object to, and some others more than I,
Are the mad old, bad old practices these baubles signify.

Good friends, brother Australians and fellow voters;
I think that you will agree with me that few of us are doters
Upon the customs, practices, fooleries and tommyrotics of the mouldy past;
Nor are we apt to cast
A reverent eye behindward upon ancient precedent:
Nor do we consent
To let the cold, clammy and unusually muddling Dead Hand
Control the destinies of this our native land.
Nay, rather do we stand
Tiptoe upon the summit of the Present, peering out,
With faces eager and expectant eyes, into the mystic Future.  Have you a doubt
That in Progress, Business-like Procedure, Common-sense Habit, and Up-to-Date Method we are all earnest believers?
Is it not so?....
Well, I don't know
So much about it.  'Twere easy to prove, good friends, that we are, in the lump, followers of Make-Believe, triflers with Humbug and inane self-deceivers.
'Twere easy to prove that our ass-like attribute indeed surpasses
That of innumerable and intensely asinine asses.
And here, good friends, I extend to all of you my blessin',
And conclude, amidst great applause, the first lesson.

Secondly, my brothers -
Right-thinking persons, men-in-the-street, common-sense individuals, and people who call a spade a spade, and others -
There are full many of us who deeply deplore
The use or display of these gauds, decorations, baubles and trappings that belong to the unpractical, superstitious and quite unfashionable days of yore.
We deride, for instance, the notion that the caudal appendage of a deceased horse
Perched upon the cranium of an erudite justice can add to his dignity or give to his remarks more force.
In short, we class as mere bunkum, bosh, flapdoodle and other sludge
The contention that the hind end of a horse can in any way assist the fore end of a judge.
The wig, the gown, the staff, the rod, the mace,
We regard as obsolete, and entirely out of place.
If there is one thing more than another upon which we pride ourselves it is, I suppose,
The fact that we scorn to wear grandpa's old-fashioned clothes.
The poor old gentleman's pantaloons, his shirts, his cravat, his fob-chain, his frill-whiskers are all anathema to us.
Good friends, why all this fuss?
Why waste all this precious energy in denouncing the wig, the gown, the mace?
They may be, in a sense, out of place;
Yet, why should these things shock you?
Believe me, they are perfectly innocu-
Ous, and furthermore, dear friends,
They serve their ends;
For why deny these toys
To that large, mentally-bogged, and much misunderstood class of elderly girls and boys
Whose state demands some sign or symbol
To push an idea or a principle into their heads, even as the thimble
Thrusts the needle into the cloth?
Then why so wrath?
Heed ye, good friends, the parable of the beam and the mote.
Nay, I crave your pardon, but I have known a not particularly intelligent goat
To view materially essential matters with a more discerning eye; to possess, so to speak, more innate perspicacity
Than you - that is to say, us.  Nay, grasp not at the seeming audacity
Of these few remarks; for perfect perspicuity
Attends them, and I like not ambiguity.
As thinking machines the ass, the goat, good people are preferable; at least, so it appears.
And here, the ending of my second lesson is attended by your deafening and appreciative cheers.

My worthy friends, ye who scorn to wear my poor grandpa's clothes
Get down from your pedestals, O ye modern intellectual giants; let each decline his scornful and uptilted nose.
Deride, would ye, grandpa's ancient mace?
Abolish it, would ye, and hunt it off the place?
What's the matter with it?  It's not eating anything, is it?
And it might prove handy if a masked burglar, or a Trust or a mad dog paid the House a visit.
Gird, would ye, at grandpa's wig, at his gown trimmed with the overcoats of late lamented rabbits?
But, Oh! my up-to-date brothers, what have ye to say about grandpa's and great-grandpa's and great-great-grandpa's ridiculous customs, absurd precedents, inane systems and obsolete habits?
What about that musty, dusty, mouldy, mildewed, hoary, Tory, injurious, time-wasting, insane, inane, self-ridiculed, unwieldy and utterly unprofitable system of Party Government?  Great-great-great-great-grandpa's cherished System, good friends?
Does it serve our modern ends?
Or is it, think you, obsolete and absurd?
I pause for a reply....What!  Not a word?
Do I hear you raving to have it abolished?
Yearn ye to see this thing demolished?
Go to the ass, ye dullards!  He doesn't eat mouldy sawdust when there's good hay about.
And here, kind friends, I pass to "fourthly," flattered by your encouraging shout.

Friends, countrymen and fellow-voters of this fair land,
All ye smart, up-to-date people who scorn dear grandpa's raiment, are you feeling his dead hand?
Think ye that ancient fist should interfere so in the vital affairs of to-day?
Or are ye so apathetic that you don't care a tuppenny curse either way?
'Tis cheap and easy to scoff at granpa's gauds and trappings and to the Devil send 'em;
But have ye ever seriously considered such things as elected Ministries or the Initiative and Referendum?
Not you!  You shirk, good friend, you shirk.
That means Work!

Friends, I am done....I know not what ye intend to do about it, and I haven't much hope; but, for my part,
I say unto ye, in a spirit of true brotherly love, and with my hand upon my heart,
That I have enjoyed the acquaintance of asses who were never fooled by musty precedent.  Aye, and intelligent goats
Who scorned the jam-tin diet of their forebears when there was good grass about - but they had no votes.
And what is a goat without a vote?  

First published in The Bulletin, 25 September 1913

I suppose you sometimes dream, Bill, in between the scraps out there,
Of the land you left behind you when you sailed to do your share:
Of Collins-street, or Rundle-street, or Pitt, or George, or Hay,
Of the land beyond the Murray, or "along the Castlereagh."
And I guess you dream of old days and the things you used to do,
And you wonder how 'twill strike you when you've seen this business through,
And you try to count your chances when you've finished with the Turk,
And swap the gaudy war game for a spell of plain, drab work.

Well, Bill, you know just how it is these early days of Spring,
When the gilding of the wattle throws a glow on everything.
The olden days, the golden days that you remember well,
In spite o' war and worry, Bill, are with us for a spell.
For the green is on the paddocks, and the sap is in the trees.
And the bush birds in the gullies sing the ole, sweet melodies;
And we're hoping, as we hearken, that when next the Springtime comes
You'll be with us here to listen to that bird-talk in the gums.

It's much the same old Springtime, Bill, you recollect of yore;
Boronia and daffodils and wattle blooms once more
Sling sweetness over city streets, and seem to put to shame
The cult of greed and butchery that got you on this game.
The same old,sweet September days, and much the same old place;
Yet, there's a subtle something, Bill, upon each passing face:
A thing that cannot be defined; a look that you put there
The day you lobbed upon the beach and charged at Sari Bair.

It isn't that we're boasting, lad; we've done with most of that -
The froth, the cheers, the flapping flags, the wildly waving hat.
Such things are childish memories; we blush to have them told;
For we have seen our wounded, Bill, and it has made us old.
Nor with a weary child's regret, not with a braggard's pride,
But with a grown youth's calm resolve we've laid our toys aside.
And it wus you that taught us, Bill, upon that fateful day,
That we at last had grown too old for everlasting play.

And, as a grown man dreams at times of boyhood days gone by,
So shall we, when the mood is here, for carefree childhood sigh.
But, as a clean youth looks out on life, clear-visioned and serene,
So may we gaze, and ever strive to make our manhood clean.
When all the strife is over, Bill, there yet is work to do;
And in the bloodless fights to come we shall be needing you.
We will be needing you the more for what you've seen and done,
For you were born a Builder, lad, and we have just begun.

There's been a deal of talk, old mate, of what we owe to you,
of what you've braved and done for us, and what we mean to do.
We've hailed you as a hero, Bill, and talked Of just reward,
When you have done the job you're at, and laid aside the sword.
I guess it makes you think a bit, and weigh this gaudy praise;
For even heroes have to eat, and - there are other days:
The days to come when we no more need stalwart sons to fight,
When the wild excitement's over, and the Leeuwin looms in sight.

Then there's another fight to fight, and you will find it tough
To doff the khaki for a suit of plain civilian stuff.
When all the cheering dies away and hero-worship wanes,
You'll have to face the old drab life and fight for other gains;
For still your land will need you, as she needs each sturdy son.
To fight the fight that never knows the firing of a gun -
The quiet fight, the steady fight, when you shall prove your worth,
And milk a cow on Yarra Flats or drive a quill in Perth.

The gold is on the wattle, Bill; the sap is on the trees,
And the bush-birds in the gullies sing the old, sweet melodies;
There's a good, green land awaiting you when you come home again
To swing a pick at Broken Hill or ride Yarrowie Plain.
The streets are gay with daffodils, but, haggard in the sun.
A wounded soldier passes; and we know old days are done.
For down, deep down inside our hearts, is something you put there
The day you landed on the beach and charged at Sari Bair.

First published in The Bulletin, 23 September 1915;
and later in
The Moods of Ginger Mick by C.J. Dennis, 1916.

Note: This poem was later published in The Moods of Ginger Mick with the same title but a different emphasis - basically this version shows the letter as being written by
Ginger Mick, whereas the book version has it written to Ginger Mick by Bill (the Sentimental Bloke).  In addition an entirely new first verse has been added in the book version.

It was an actor, seedy, sad,
   Who stood within the gate;
Long weary marches he had had -
   He had not dined of late.

He sighed: "I hope I don't intrude.
   Believe me or I die:
For days I have not tasted food.
   A stranded player I."

"An actor man?" the lady said.
   "What is your favourite role?"
"Hot, madam, and with butter spread,"
   He answered from his soul.

First published in The Bulletin, 22 September 1910

I wish I hadn't sold my sheep.
   Now wool's gone up
I sit here, sipping -- as I weep --
   A bitter cup.
In '31, when none sought wool,
   I bought them cheap;
And now I feel I was a fool
   To sell my sheep.

I used to watch them graze about
   On my estate.
I'd made the fences safe and stout
   And barred the gate.
And often, when the skies were blue
   And kind the sun,
I used to count them two by two
   And one by one.

I'd count them over; then I'd take
   To dreaming there
Of what vast fortunes men might make
   If, by some rare
Good chance, wool should go up. Alas!
   Oh, smiling skies!
Oh, patient sheep and gleaming grass!
   Wool wouldn't rise.

A neighbour, counting them one day,
   Asked would I sell.
I haggled in my poor, weak way
   Then said, "Aw, well,
   I might." Wool still, was very cheap.
So, nothing loth --
   Alas my profitable sheep! --
I sold them -- both.

First published in The Herald, 21 September 1933;
and later in
The Courier-Mail, 7 October 193.