The Seeker by C.J. Dennis

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A seventy-year old mining prospector, an early pioneer of Westralian gold fields, last week-end "dropped in" on his family, in New South Wales, after sixteen years absence in New Zealand.  He is on his way to try his luck once more in the West.

There's country I ain't work yet (said he),
   An' supposin' me health went wrong,
Why, I'd hate to be missin' a bet (said he)
   So I got to be pushin' along.
For seventy year ain't old (said he)
   When you're just on the edge of a find;
An' there's like to be lashin's o' gold (said he)
   At a spot that I got in mind.
 
From Southern Cross to the Marble Bar,
   From the Bar to the Golden Mile,
I tramped in the old days, hard an' far,
   For a glimmer of fortune's smile,
But the lass weren't free with her smiles them days,
   So I knocks 'round Maoriland
This sixteen year, an' I've trod strange ways,
   But I ain't struck payin' sand.
 
Still, a man can't break with his own home folk;
   So I best look in as I pass,
For a bit of a yarn an' a bit of a smoke,
   An' maybe a friendly glass.
Then off again for the game's own sake,
   While I still feels hale an' strong;
For a man can't tell when his luck will break;
   So I got to be pushin' along.
 
To be lingerin' here ain't right (said he),
   For they'll bury me deep some day;
An' I'd not be astonished a sight (said he)
   If the color showed up in the clay
When they're givin' me grave a pat (said he)
   An' I'm singin' me glory song.
Me?  missin' a strike like that! (said he)
   No; I'd best be pushin' along.

First published in The Herald, 20 June 1935

K'Shoo by C.J. Dennis

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A Seasodable Rhybe

When your dose is code as barble,
   Ad you sduffle all the day,
Ad your head id is behavig
   Id a bost unbleased way;
When your ev'ry joid is achig
   With a very paidful cramb,
When your throat is dry ad tiglish,
   Ad your feed are code and damb;
Whed your eyes are red ad rudding
   With the dears that will cub oud;
You cad safely bake your bind ub
   There is very liddle doubd.

You've got a code -- a code --
   Ad idfluedzal code;
You cahd tell how you coughd id,
   But id's a got a good firb hode.
Your face is whide, your eyes are pigk,
   Your doe is red ad blue;
Ad you wish that you were -
   Ah --
      Ah --
         Ah -- h --
               Kish -- SHOO-O-O!!

I dode wad to be a boed,
  Ad I do nod log for fabe,
But I have to wride to get by bread
   Ad budder, all the sabe.
id is very aggravadig,
   Ad this world is very hard
Whed the idfluenza fasteds
   Od a sendibendal bard.
Oh, I caddod sig of subber skies!
   I caddod twag by lyre!
For all the buses id the world
   Are powerless to idspire.

I've got a code -- a code --
   A bost udpleased code;
I caddod sig a sog ob sprig,
   I caddod bake ad ode.
For inspirashud will nod cub:
   I'b feelig very blue;
Oh, would thad I was -- 
   Ah --
      Ah --
         Ah -- h --
               Kish -- SHOO-O-O!!

I have to wride adother verse,
   Ad dode doe whad to say;
But I've got to buy some bedicid
   To drive this code away;
Oh, the boed's is a hard, hard life,
   His lod is very sore;
Ad if mbsfortude cubs to hib,
   He has to toil the bore.
And dow, I thig I've bade enough,
   By wridig this last verse,
To go ad buy byself sub stuff
   Before by code gets worse.

I've got a code -- a code --
   Ad agravatig code!
If I was well I'd wride you such
   A charbig liddle ode.
I'd sig of labkins od the sward,
   Bedeath the skies so blue,
If it wasn'd for the --
   Ah --
      Ah --
         Ah -- h --
               Kish -- SHOO-O-O!!

First published in The Gadfly, 19 June 1907;
and later in
Backblock Ballads and Later Verses by C.J. Dennis, 1918.

The Great God Guff by C.J. Dennis

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The majority of Parliamentarians were accustomed to put party interests first, and those of the State second. They would continue even under the Elective Ministry system to give spoils to the victorious. Majorities would still rule; not in the interest of Australia but in the interests of the party alone. The thing could not be carried out. - From the statements of Senator BLAKEY, at a recent A.N.A. conference in Victoria.

There was once a Simple People - (you, of course, will understand
This is just a little fable of a non-existent land) -
There was once a Simple People, and they had a Simple King,
And his name - well, SMITH the First will do as well as anything -
And they lived upon an island by a pleasant southern sea,
Which they boastfully referred to as the "Country of the Free."
This King SMITH was quite a model.  He was kind and he was wise.
But, alas! a higher sovereign he was forced to recognise.

As in ev'ry age and nation, since the tale of man was known,
Superstition here existed as the power behind the throne.
It was vague and unsubstantial but its sway was plain enough,
And 'twas known upon the island, simply, as the Great God GUFF.
They made sacrifices to it, treasure, corn and slaughtered beasts,
Good King SMITH cringed to the idol where upon his throne he sat;
And the People feared it greatly; and the priests grew very fat.

Now, the welfare of the priestcraft did not always coincide
With the welfare of the People, hence the wily priests relied
On the hoary superstition that had stood the test of years;
Thus they led both king and people by their rather ass-like ears;
Crying: "GUFF was ever with us!  GUFF the Great must be obeyed!
GUFF the god must be consulted ere a single law be made!"
And the very simple People with their very simple King
Bowed their heads and said, "So be it.  GUFF be served in ev'rything."

So the nation muddled somehow on its island by the sea -
Simple superstitious people in their "Country of the Free."
And whene'er they yearned for Progress, as things drifted to the worst,
SMITH replied, "Have patience, people.  GUFF must be consulted first.
Other lands and other nations may progress without his aid;
But upon our native island never rule or law is made
Till his priests have pondered o'er it, seeking to divine his will.
So it was with our forefathers, so with us it must be still."

Came a time when folk grew restive, murmuring amongst themselves,
While the nation's schemes and projects lay neglected on the shelves.
Then arose amid the people one of singular renown --
Since his name the eld refuses, let us call him, simply, BROWN.
BROWN was something of a student, strong on things like common-sense;
He was plain and blunt and forceful; and he hated smug pretence.
And before the priests and people, in a manner rude and gruff,
He arose and put this question, briefly: "Who and what is GUFF?"

Loud the People shrieked in terror; and the High-Priest threw a fit;
And the king rose from his dais as his eye with anger lit.
"He blasphemes!" declared the monarch. "Seize the sacrilegious brute!
Great God GUFF may not be questioned! He is mighty! absolute!"
But BROWN stood his ground and answered, "Oh, I'm sick of all that stuff!
Give me one clear definition: What's the bloomin' use of GUFF?
He's a silly superstition! and I'll prove to you, King SMITH,
If you'll give me just five minutes, that your idol is a myth."

Well, to bring a simple story to a sudden, simple end,
BROWN beat down all opposition, and affairs began to mend.
Good King SMITH, with seemly wisdom, on his idol turned his back;
And, without much fuss, the People simply gave old GUFF the sack.
And the priests?  Well, some took service with the king, and so reformed;
Some adopted Christian Science; some in vain still raved and stormed;
Others strove to mend their fortunes with an Independent Kirk;
Some became mere weather prophets; some - a paltry few - got work.

So they thrived, the simple People, on their island by the sea;
And their schemes and projects prospered, for the land, at last, was free.
SMITH the First, emancipated, o'er a happy country ruled.
And he smiled when he reflected how the nation had been fooled;
How the simple King and People, by a superstition cursed.
Ever cried in foolish terror: "GUFF must be consulted first!"
And the last words of that monarch long were treasured in the land . . .
But, of course, it's all a fable, as you'll clearly understand.

Yet - there lives a simple People on an island by the sea,
And a simple Monarch rules them called the King DEMOCRACY.
Rather, does he seek to rule them, but his will is warped and bent
By a childish superstition known as "Party Government."
And the idol has its priestcraft that pretends to lead the race;
Though they call them "Politicians" in this later year of grace.
And whene'er the folk grow restive, as things drift from worse to worst,
Cry the priests, "Behold the Party! It must be considered first!"

And the simple, simple People bend their heads and murmur, "Yes,
We respect the claims of Party . . . But who is to mend this Mess!
Schemes go wrong and projects languish, and the Big Things of the State
Lie neglected while this Party bids us wait and ever wait!"
Oh, for some plain, forceful person with a plain, drab name like BROWN,
And a wholesome hate for humbug, and a stern, determined frown,
To arouse the simple People and their king, DEMOCRACY,
Cringing to their fool-god Party on their island by the sea!

First published in The Bulletin, 18 June 1914

The Stern Road by C.J. Dennis

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Increasing pressure is being brought to bear on Australia's seven Governments to practise more economics in order to impose less taxation; but until that pressure grows stronger there seems small hope of any adequate action.

If I'd the right (said old George Jones)
To tax a country till it groans,
   An' take an' levy tribute when I shouldn't;
You think that I'd be toilin' here,
Pinchin' an' savin' year on year?
   Well, p'raps I would; an' p'raps again I wouldn't.
 
For human nature's awful weak,
And men were ever prone to seek
   The easy way; an' it ain't so surprisin'
That men, or Gover'ments, should dash
Along the easy path to cash
   Before the hard road to economisin'.
 
There's few will take the uphill road
Unless there be the whip an' goad
   Of need, of stern necessity to twist 'em.
But where the downhill track runs straight
All are inclined to gravitate.
   An' there's the rub with all our social system.
 
If I'd the pow'r (said old George Jones)
To tax, an' live on easy loans,
   Well, p'raps I would be stern an' labor lovin',
And p'raps I might be strong an' brave
An' eager all the time to save,
   But not, I think, till someone done some shovin'.

First published in The Herald, 17 June 1933

Roosevelt by C.J. Dennis

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The statesmanlike courage of President Roosevelt in acting over the heads of Congress and accepting Britain's token payment on account of war debts has awakened a world-wide sense of relief and an immense admiration for the man.

There comes a time in world affairs
   When care and troubles press,
When every forlorn aspect wears
   A guise of dire distress
And when the darkest hour seems near
   And hope a thing forlorn --
A Roosevelt!  A Roosevelt!
   Comes like the light of morn.
 
There is a limit to men's schemes
   Of avarice and greed,
When some one mind to higher themes --
   Forced by his brother's need --
Conceives some altruistic plan
   Of high and noble aim --
A Roosevelt!  A Roosevelt!
   To save the nation shame.
 
When all seems smashing to its doom
   Earth wins the priceless dower --
The mind to pierce the deepest gloom,
   The man to fit the hour.
We know not how.  We know not why;
   But for the nations' ease --
A Roosevelt!  A Roosevelt!
   Shall sway men's destinies.

First published in The Herald, 16 June 1933

The Royal Hat by C.J. Dennis

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Now a hat is a hat, and a head is a head,
And there's "reason in most things," as someone has said,
And a joke is a joke; but, I give you a word,
This roofing of kings is becoming absurd.

In days neolithic, when clothing was rare,
And a troglodyte's wardrobe comprised mainly hair
When a nose-bone and anklet were reckoned "the thing,"
The cave-men elected a kind of a king.

Then trouble arose; for the bloke in the street
Didn't bow to the king when they happened to meet;
For when a king's hairiness sums up his clobber,
A loyalist hardly knows when he should slobber.

This king set to work, with a serious frown,
And in few than six months he'd invented the crown --
A mere wreath of rushes, not much of a thing,
But it published the fact that the wearer was king.

Now, I put it to you, as a man to a man
There was reason and sense in that troglodyte's plan;
For as he remarked, "'Tisn't much of a fit,
But 'twill help to proclaim to the crowd I am It."

But he didn't call round him his dukes and his lords,
His cousins and aunts, and relations in hordes,
His troglodyte bishops to blither and rave;
No, he just shoved it on in his own private cave.

But the king who came next was a vain sort of man
(And this is just where all the trouble began).
He was fond of a "function" and eager for show;
And he sowed all the seeds of the nonsense we know.

It started like that; and the foolishness grew
From inviting a friendly and intimate few,
Till the time when the whole blinded nation was bid on
The day when the king had to get his new lid on.

With a babble the rabble goes forth to the Fog,
Forgetting the rent, and forsaking the dog;
They are rushing to London and all because -- Why?
To see a crown cocked o'er the boss-prince's eye!

From its innermost heart to its outermost spot
The whole bloomin' Empire has gone off its dot.
For to count "any class" you must be in the swim,
And shout with the crowd at the hatting, "That's 'im!

"That's 'is 'ighness the King with the large golden hat --
It's worth twice the money to see 'im like that!"
And every old person "of note" will be there,
Who can dodge the collector and rake up the fare.

Barons and bishops and boodlers in hordes,
The earliest earls and the lordliest lords,
Nabobs and niggers from India's strand
And the juiciest Jews that they raise on the Rand.

Marshals and marquises, brewers in sheaves,
Admirals, aldermen, stock-exchange thieves,
And the duckiest duchesses, gorgeously gowned,
Will flock into London to see the King crowned.

Princes and premiers from over the seas
Will jostle the Rajahs and Labor M.P.'s;
The peerage and beerage will crowd in the Stand,
With squatters and rotters who libel their land.

And, when you consider the crowd and the time,
You expect them to burst into babyish rhyme:
"With a rumpity-bump, and a pit-a-pit-pat.
To see an archbishop put on the king's hat."

But I put it to you, as a friend to a friend:
What the deuce is the use of it all in the end?
For you'd think, once he's under his gorgeous cover,
There ought to be something to show when it's over.

But, save you! he don't wear the thing in the street,
To signify something to coves he may meet;
He wraps it in wadding and puts it away,
And wears a plain billycock tile every day!

And when all the blither and blather is o'er,
The rustle and bustle, the rush and the roar,
Then, this is what calls for hilarious laughter:
He's just as much monarch before it as after!

The bills and the bailiffs come round as before,
And buzz-flies will buzz in the springtime once more,
It doesn't make milkers or mining shares rise,
Or cure indigestion or specks 'fore the eyes.

The welkin may ring with the national glee,
(You'll know, though I don't, what the welkin may be).
And the "thin crimson thread of our kinship" may twang;
But that ain't improvin' the birthrate a hang.

So, I put it to you, as a cobber to cobber;
Do you see the sense of this silly old slobber?
Take any old head, and take any old hat,
Shove one on the other -- what's there in that?

For a hat is a hat, and a head is a head,
And a joke is a joke, as I've previously said;
But a farce is a farce, and, I give you my word,
This roofing of kings is becoming absurd.

First published in The Bulletin, 15 June 1911;
and later in
Backblock Ballads and Other Verses by C.J. Dennis, 1913.

My Scenario by C.J. Dennis

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Amongst other prizes, the Commonwealth Government is offering two of £500 each for film scenarios.

Oh, I've got a lovely story that I've thought out all myself.
   It will make a gorgeous picture, I am sure.
(Mind, it isn't for the money, for I am not keen on pelf,
   And my attitude to Art is very pure.)
It is full of real heart-int'rest, mother-love and passion rare,
   And gun-fights and a bad, bold man (who dies),
And a big, strong he-man hero with divinely marcelled hair;
   And I really think it ought to win the prize.

The hero falls on evil days and sinks and sinks quite low
   (This is where the villain comes upon the scene),
But the mother writes a letter pointing out the way to go
   (We will show the letter, close-up, on the screen);
Then Augustus (that's the hero) meets a lovely girl by chance,
   With great, big, soulful, golf-ball, baby eyes,
And undying love comes to them at the very first brief glance.
   Oh, I really think it ought to win the prize.

But ways of true love ne'er run smooth, and lots of dreadful things
   Occur, and all their plans turn out amiss.
But thro' the fights and flights and frights she clings and clings and clings
   To win him with the last, long, luscious kiss.
I don't know much of writing things -- scenarios and such;
   Still, one never really knows what one can do.
But the theme is so original and has so quaint a touch
   That I think it ought to win the prize.  Don't you?

First published in The Herald, 14 June 1929;
and later in
Random Verse: A Collection of Verse and Prose edited by Margaret Herron, 1952;
The C.J. Dennis Collection edited by Garrie Hutchinson, 1987; and
More Than a Sentimental Bloke: A Performance, 1990.

Victory by C.J. Dennis

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"Peace hath her victories" .... Not where the reek --
   Of battle rises and, in blind, brute hate,    
Men for the lives of men insanely seek: 
   Not here do nations earn an honored fate;         
But where men, striving with a mightier foe,                  
   Win on to nobler, mightier victories, 
Blessing the nations that in peace may know  
   Such sons as these.  

Peace hath her victories; yet knows defeat    
   When, fat with ease and drugged by tranquil days,  
Australia's sons stray upon errant feet
   Led by false prophets into devious ways.
Then the heart sickens and the nation quails
   To learn the measure of man's vanities;  
Till hope again glows to the glorious tales    
   Of men like these.

Now come the conquerors! Not in the guise      
   Of slayers but life-givers to the earth; 
For in their valiant battles with the skies                
   Has man's ambition come to newer birth,     
To wider vision till he understands --
   Forgetting petty spites and jealousies --     
Australia's greatness lies there in the hands             
   Of men like these.

They come in triumph wheeling from on high,    
   Kings of the air and conquerors of space          
Who found, twixt angry sea and angrier sky,          
   A vision and an ideal for their race;
Until, inspired, a wakened nation feels
   New vigor; and a contrite nation sees 
Folly and sloth bound to the chariot wheels
   Of men like these.  

Peace may not last; clear skies may yet grow grey.   
   Anzacs and seed of Anzacs! Carry on!          
Who be there else to guard against the day               
   We, or our children, yet may look upon --
That fateful day when, stricken to the sod,    
   Yet rising still unconquered to her knees       
Australia shall know cause to thank her God
   For men like these.    

First published in The Herald, 13 June 1928;
and later in
The Cairns Post, 6 July 1928.

Arch Criminal by C.J. Dennis

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A forthright and outspoken Sydney clergyman recently took to task certain Church leaders who thunder against the alleged sins of flappers (such as the use of lip-stick, face-powder and cigarettes) while they utterly neglect to attack man's avarice, selfishness, injustice and jealousy.

When muddled mentors take the stage
   To gird against our erring,
They simulate an awful rage,
They funk the task and straight engage
   A palpable red-herring.
Fearing at higher marks to aim,
   The futile knuckle-rapper,
With flaming words of bitter blame,
Plays at the rather outworn game
   Of "Flagellate the Flapper."
 
Altho', my sweet, you may be neat
And winsome, too, from head to feet,
In face and form a nymph complete,
   In manner softly winning;
One touch of powder Number Two,
And heaven's gates are closed to you;
Tho' still ajar for those who do
   This sad world's heavy sinning.
 
The man whose greed outstrips his need
   (While lesser folk deplore it)
Is due for stern rebukes indeed.
Yet, gently, brother; Why give heed
   To this?  Be wise; ignore it.
For, lo, this fellow may be rich --
   Of social rank delectable.
For better curb the urgent itch
To censure, lest you hurt him; which
   Would hardly be respectable.
 
So, precious pet, they'd fain forget
Sins of the mighty, while they fret
O'er lip-stick, rouge and cigarette,
   And graver sinning palliate.
As Public Enemy you rank
Now No. 1 for those who shrank
Ever from bigger game, and thank
   Their stars you can't retaliate.

First published in The Herald, 12 June 1935

The Gum Tree by C.J. Dennis

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By the side of the track the gnarled old gum 
   Lifts strong arms to the sky; 
He marks the rare bush toilers come, 
   And the tourists trooping by. 
So has he stood thro' many a year 
   And watched them come and go; 
They change, says he, who pass by here, 
Yet forms are straight and eyes are clear, 
   As in the long ago. 

From bullock drays to motor cars, 
From gloom to lights that shame the stars, 
   Change comes indeed; from garb they wore, 
   From moleskin pants to the wide plus four, 
From tall bush wives of sterling grit,   
To laughing girls in riding kit; 
   An outward change, says the old gum tree, 
   But the race seems much the same to me. 

By the side of the back the old gum stands, 
   Last of his giant race, 
Who saw these men from distant lands 
   Change all a country's face. 
From his mountain side where the old gum grows 
   He has watched the fathers press 
Who came not back; but well he knows 
Today's strong men are sons of those   
   Who tamed the wilderness.

First published in The Herald, 11 June 1931;
and later in
The Advertiser and Register, 22 August 1931.

The New Bigot by C.J. Dennis

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Commenting on the concern expressed recently by certain churchmen over the modern growth of a cheap atheism and religious indifference, a leader writer remarks that, while the great scientists are never amongst the scoffers, the tendency of the shallow thinkers always is to win others over to his own easy unbelief.

He knows it all.  He makes no truce with doubt,
   No compromise with "Mayhap" or "Perchance";
Doctor and saint he is prepared to flout
   With all the dull-wit's easy arrogance.
Because some stray breeze struck his fragile barque,
It drifts, uncaptained, to the outer dark.

Some single book he read, some talk he heard
   Moves him to fling "old-fashioned" faiths behind,
To deem age-old philosophies absurd
   In the deep prescience of his "modern" mind,
He knows it all.  Not thro' long, labored thought;
But that his pansophy is cheaply bought.

So, knowing all and being deeply wise,
   Snatched, thro' his sapience, from an ancient "blight,"
His urge is ever to proselytise
   And bring his poor, blind brother to the light.
And ne'er did bigotry of long ago
Hurl bitterer taunts at that it would not know.

He is his own queer god, untrammelled, free,
   And on old "slaveries," with curious hate,
He heaps the mock-heroic blasphemy
   Of every twopenny sophisticate;
Failing, for all his prescience, to perceive
Blasphemy stultified lest one believe.

He knows it all . . . So, knowing all, speaks loud,
   He owns no fettering fears, no faith, no soul;
Before no altar is his proud head bowed;
   But, as about him universes roll --
Vast universes, infinite, remote,
   Heedless of this poor atom of the sod --
The challenge dying in his puny throat,
He gibbers, impotent: "There is no God!"

First published in The Herald, 10 June 1933

Futility by C.J. Dennis

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Following a meeting of seamen at the wharf laborers' rooms in Melbourne today, there is a possibility of the colliers from Newcastle being declared black when they arrive in Melbourne.

To gild refined gold, or to paint the lily,
   Or seek by other means to overstress,
As Shakespeare has it, is not merely silly,
   But "wasteful and ridiculous excess."

Yes, men still try it, for no other reason
   Than that man ever would and ever will
Strive fatuously, in and out of season,
   To paint perfection's cheek more perfect still.

Yet of all futile tasks, of all the foolish,
   Absurd attempts that show of wit a lack,
The worst is his who, obstinate and mulish,
   Insists that he should paint a collier black.

First published in The Sun-News Pictorial, 9 June 1927

The Apricot's Apology by C.J. Dennis

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Victoria's Agent-General, Mr McWhae, says that if ever we are to win our way in the fruit markets of the world we must stop the exportation of inferior fruit.

I'm only a speckled apricot,
   But they passed me at the docks.
And they said, "He'll do -- he ain't too new,
   But he'll help to fill the box."
So they sent me out on the bounding sea,
   Food for the friend, and alien --
And they said, "Look here, you make it clear
   You're dinkum, and Australian."

Well, I did my best to pass the test.
   Me! that was just a runt.
And a Turkey fig says to me, "Dig,
   You goin' to the front?"
And I answered, "Yes; I must confess
   My figure ain't allurin',
But I'm an Aussie apricot,
   And, lad, we're all endurin' --

And when I came to a British dame
   In a poor fruit pedlar's basket.
She said: "What!  That!"  And he raised his hat,
   And he said, "How can you ask it?
It comes from far Australia, mum,
   Where fruits is pretty rotten."
So I went in to a rubbish tin,
   And, henceforth, was forgotten.

But I sends a wave from me lonely grave,
   And I asks you is it fair
That blokes like me should have to be
   Advertisements out there?
No!  Send the best!  For that's the test:
   I've done what I could do. 
But can't you send some better friend
   As representing YOU?"

First published in The Herald, 8 June 1922

Shees by C.J. Dennis

| No TrackBacks
With the coming of winter sports, the controversy has been revived over the pronunciation of the work "ski."

Of these queer skates we seldom heard,
   When I was young and not too wise;
And, when I came across the word,
   I usually called them "skys."

And it was quite a shock to me,
   When some kind friend from overseas,
Corrected my philology,
   And told me to pronounce it "skees."

But here again, I understand,
   Precisians I'd failed to appease;
For one who'd been in Switzerland,
   Informed me that the word was "shees."

But, whether "skee," or "sky," or "shee,"
   Makes little difference to me;
For since I do not see the need,
   I've never "skeed" or "skied," or "sheed."

First published in The Sun-News Pictorial, 7 June 1927

The Automatic Umpire by C.J. Dennis

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A selenium cell installed at Lords, by switching on a bulb as visibility declines, is intended to relieve umpires of much responsibility in deciding when light is too poor for play.  The device suggests possibilities in the football field.

Now, Plugger Palook was a man in a thousand --
   (Said Horace the Howler) not one of yer fools.
But his barrackers vowed that he wasn't allowed
   Full scope for his talents account o' the rools.
For Plugger Palook was a footballer.  Get me?
   An' one of the old-school.  A wonder!  A wow!
He was no lily-handed gazook to be branded
   No sort of weaklin'.  Not Plugger; no how.
 
Not much of a kicker -- not so you would notice --
   His handball an' passin' left much to desire;
A dub at high-markin', his business was narkin'
   An' knocking out umpires wot rose up his ire.
He'd done in a dozen first half of the season,
   But the depth of officials you never can tell.
Now, a shortage they're fearin'; so, Plugger, not hearin',
   They goes an puts in a serlenium cell!
 
The dawgs!  Plugger starts in the very first quarter
   An' gets a bit rough'ouse in makin' things hot
When the cells says, "Now, Plugger!  You ain't playin' rugger
   Let up on them larrups."  An' Plugger says, WOT!!"
'Twas the first time in years than an umpire had cheeked him;
   So Plugger lets out a sockdollager crack.
There's a flash an' a sizzle; then he does a mizzle
   And lands out-o'-bounds on the broad of his back.
 
Well I'll say he was game, tho' a good bit bewildered,
   For he comes back again when he finds he is whole.
Then he tries for to tackle, but soars with a crackle,
   Up, clean thro' the posts; an' the crowd it roars, "Goal!"...
An' the heads calls that football! (said Horace the Howler)
   Deep pity for him in me proud heart it wells.
A champion world-beater!  A reel umpire eater!
   Done in an' disgraced by serlenium cells!

First published in The Herald, 6 June 1935

A Song About Feet by C.J. Dennis

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Although Larwood is out of the first Test team, and is said to be suffering from various foot and knee ailments, he continues to bowl in County matches.

I sing of feet.
Feet!
Hearken to the rhythmic beat
Of my metre.  For completer
Tidings now we sit and yearn,
We would learn
Specific'ly of the position.
Definitely the condition
Of one pair of sporting feet.
Feet!!
Why does rumor see to cheat --
Why does news still refuse
Details, duly amplified?
Why are fuller facts denied?
It's utter rot!
Will he play or will he not?
Can you blame our rising heat?

FEET!!
Consider all the tales we meet.
Think of this scant news we get,
Fraught with mystery and fret:
First of hints and hopes a parcel,
Tales of troubles metatarsal,
Now a blister to affright us
Underneath a toe,
Now a sign of synovitis.
Still the rumors grow.
What's gone wrong?
We yearn, we long
To have the story made complete;
We madly bleat,

FEET!!!!
Pray forgive the way we greet
Tales like these;
And tell us, please,
Does he gallop to the wicket?
Can he face it? Can he stick it?
Shades of Spofforth, Jones and Cotter!
Does he tremble?  Does he totter?
All this vague, uncertain rumor
Hardly suits our present humor.
Speed the truth by urgent cable.
Is he active? Is he able?
Does he crawl
To bowl the ball
On feet unstable?
Waft the facts by wireless wave.
Tell us how those hoofs behave.
Some say this and some say that,
Tell us, are the arches flat?
Some declare he won't be picked.
Is this the truth, or are we tricked?
If the story is official
We'll abandon this initial
Fuss and fret . . . .
You say it is? O.K. by us . . . .
Pardon then indiscreet
Song of those no longer fleet,
Agonised and incomplete
Feet. 

First published in The Herald, 5 June 1934

To the Alarmist by C.J. Dennis

| No TrackBacks
Despite the number of robberies, burglaries, murder trials, abductions, assaults and other crimes recently, the authorities insist that there are no indications of a "crime wave."

When the burglars go a-burgling every evening in the week,
   And the daylight robber plies a busy trade,
When the prowler goes a-prowling, his unhappy prey to seek,
   And nightfall finds all citizens afraid:
Do not loosely talk of "crime waves," tho' brute violence be rife;
   These are merely indications of a normal social life.

It is well to speak discreetly; choose your words at such a time.
   You may call the thing a hurricane, an avalanche of crime;
But when crackmen crack the record and the crooks will not behanve
   It makes the "heads" quite angry if you call the thing a "wave."

When you seize your daily paper, and discover ev'ry morn
   That another shop or household has been cracked,
   'Tis absurd to grow indignant and to raise a howl forlorn,
   And marvel why authorities don't act.
They are acting. You will notice that quite nearly every day
   They detect unlicensed motors, or the walker known as "jay."

But to talk about a "crime wave" is quite palpably absurd,
   And it hurts official feelings when that foolish phrase is heard.
   When to trifling depradations such outlandish names you give,
   Pray remember, crooks are human and a burglar has to live.

When the Minister says firmly that "such things should never be,"
   When he says he's "shocked," why, surely that's enough
To indicate quite clearly that he has no sympathy
   With criminals who make the game too rough.
And, if these solemn warnings to malefactors fail,
   Well, I, for one, won't be surprised if he should mention jail.

But to talk about a "crime wave!" Oh, my friend! do have some sense!
Have you thought how such wild talk may harm the business of a "fence?"
You are surely courting trouble when such vain remarks are made.
Serve you right if he should sue you for unjust restraint of trade.

First published in The Herald, 4 June 1923

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