Recently in Fantastic Creatures Category

Junket-Time in Fairyland by Zora Cross

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It's junket-time in Fairyland. Who's coming to the feast?   
Here's Puck with all his pixie band and fifty gnomes at least     
Tugging a million flower-cups of dainty morning dew.     
Where every little fairy sups I'm going. Oh, aren't you?     

A petal for an aeroplane -- be quick, now, Lazy Ned!     
The moonlight falls like silver rain, the peach blooms out of bed.     
It's Springtime on the old brown earth, and that's the time to climb  
To Fairyland by Light of Mirth in jolly junket-time.     

Tie up the 'plane with moonbeams three to any waiting star.     
Now, here we go. Ho! merrily, in Mab's own blossom-car.     
My lips can taste the dainty fare. Fast, fast the minutes spin.       
Tip-tippety-toe upon the stair, for this is Goblin Inn.       

The feast is ready -- bring your plates of plum and apple bloom.       
There's merry Mab and all her mates dancing about the room.       
The witches wait upon us here, and every child may change         
For sixty smiles a single tear, and not one soul is strange.     

Oh, ho! What music, music blows! Oh, ho! What minstrels play!       
Each blade of grass that greenly grows is here a pipe all gay;       
And piping, piping, piping up the floor and back again,       
As lightly as the fairies sup, Titania leads her train.       

Oh, brightly, lightly, off they go, with a trip, trip, trip, trip, trip!     
Who'll dance with me once heel and toe before we pause to sip     
Of syrup sweet and honeys fine and cakes of elfin spice,     
Served up with honeysuckle wine and bread as white as rice?    

First published in The Sydney Mail, 9 December 1925

The Pale Queen of Elfland by Myra Morris

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The Pale Queen of Elfland
   Came to my dwelling bare.
Dewdrops were on her fingers
   And stars within her hair.

The Pale Queen of Elfland
   Came riding on the wind:
"Ride with me to World's Ending!"
   I rode, and rode behind.

We passed by hill and moorland,
   We passed by pencilled steep.
"All of the world's white magic
   I shall give to you to keep! 

"All of the world's white magic
   I shall give you, dear, my dear,
If your heart has known no sorrow,
   If your eyes have shed no tear!"

If my heart had known no sorrow!
   I laughed and fell behind,
And the Pale Queen of Elfland
   Was gone upon the wind!

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 2 November 1926

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Lazyvale by Zora Cross

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Along the road to Lazyvale,
   Half way to Half Past Nine, 
I found a little daisy dale,
   And sat down there to dine; 
With 20,000 fairy men
From Nowadays till Then.
We each one had a crazy pall
   Of such a wondrous wine,
The bees make in that daisy dale
   Half way to Half Past Nine. 
It tasted like brook water clear 
To lips of Just One Year.
A pedlar out from Lazyvale
   Cried, "Buy! Come, buy my wares!" 
And at that little mazy sale
   I bought me joys for cares. 
With 20,000 fairy men
From Nowadays till Then. 
This really is a hazy tale,
   But would it not be fine 
To loiter back to Lazyvale,
   Half way to Half Past Nine, 
And in a dainty daisy dale 
Find fairy wares for sale?

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 13 October 1934

Goblin Time by Zora Cross

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There were goblins selling a star, a gem, 
And a lady walked in a diadem
Of phlox and lilies and meadowy flowers 
And a bright little string of April hours.

A bell went "Ting" And I bought a charm. 
I'm sure as sure that it was no harm
For Margot was playing "I see" with me,   
And Margot is not quite half past three.  

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 6 April 1935

Something Cried by Myra Morris

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There came a gentle tapping at the door.
   I rose, and in the darkness threw it wide,
The silver rain swept in across the floor --
   But no one stood outside!
There only was a sodden leaf upon there step ...
   But something cried!

I stood, and felt a berth upon my face,
   And called aloud in fear, "Oh, who is there?"
No answer came from the dark garden-place,
   Yet I was still aware
Of someone waiting where there elm-boughs gleamed and bloomed,
   Twisted and bare!

What was it came last night from out the rain?
   Some wondering soul, some tortured spirit-gnome,
Adrift upon the dark, in grief and pain,
   Destined to roam and roam,
Until it found some friendly roo? I like to think
   It was MY home!

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 6 March 1928

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Fairies by Zora Cross

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Betty knew, of course, that there were fairies everywhere,
Round about the garden paths, and in the pleasant air;
So, when she was running homeward through the bush from school,
And picked up a shilling by the bracken gully cool,
Betty clutched it tightly and ran fast along, 
Singing to herself a very little fairy song.
Betty met Depression near a giant old red gum --
Mum and Dad and children three, all looking rather glum.
Betting gave the shilling to the littlest of the three,
Who was trying lo be good, as good as child could be.
Then she knew the fairies really had been out that day.
What the fairies give to you you always give away.  

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 16 February 1935 

Grimbles and the Gnad by C.J. Dennis

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It was told me by a bushman, bald and bent, and very old,
Upon the road to Poolyerleg; and here's the tale he told.
'Twould seem absurd to doubt his word, so honest he appeared --
And, as he spoke, the sou'-west wind toyed gently with his beard.

   "First it was the Grimble Grubs,
      Which they et his ''taters;
   An' all we buried in the end 
      Was Martin's boots and gaiters."

With this cryptic observation he began his anecdote;
And, when I sought particulars, he smiled and cleared his throat;
Then sat him down, and with his brown, rough hands about his knees
He told it all. And, as he spoke, his beard waved in the breeze.

   "First it was the Grimble Grubs --
      As I sez at startin',
   Which they et his tater crops,
      Which it troubled Martin."

Now, this Martin was a farmer with a scientific mind --
(It was thus the bushman started, as his beard blew out behind) --
He farmed the land and, understand, his luck was all tip-top,
Till them there little Grimble Grubs got in his tater crop.

P'raps you have heard of Grimble Grubs; more likely p'raps you've not;
When once they taste your 'taters you can look to lose the lot.
An' poor Martin, he was worried till he met a feller who 
Had read a book about the Swook, the which lives in Peru.

Now the Swook it is a beetle that inhabits Wuzzle Shrubs,
An' it makes a steady diet of the little Grimble Grubs;
So Martin he imported some, at very great expense,
An' turned 'em loose to play the dooce and teach the Grimbles sense.

   Then he swore by Wuzzle Swooks --
      Friends of cultivators --
   Which they et the Grimble Grubs,
      Which they et his 'taters.

But when the Wuzzle Swooks had et the Grimble Grubs right up,
Then they had to change their habits for to find a bit an' sup;
So they started on his turnips, which was summat to their taste,
Till Mister Martin's turnip patch became a howling' waste.

Then he natural grew peevish, till one afternoon he heard,
From a Feller in the poultry line, about the Guffer Bird
Which is native of Mauritius and the woods of Tennessee,
An' preys upon the Wuzzle Swooks for breakfast, lunch and tea.

   So he got some Guffer Birds
      Over from Mauritius,
   Which the same by nature are
      Very, very vicious:
   Which they et the Wuzzle Swooks --
      Plague of cultivators --
   Which they et the Grimble Grubs,
      Which they et the 'taters.

Then Martin swore by Guffer Birds, until one day he found
They'd et up all the Wuzzle Swooks for miles an' miles around,
An', havin' still some appetite, an' being' mighty mean,
They perched upon his apple trees and stripped his orchard clean.

Here's where Martin got excited; he was in an awful funk,
Until one day he read about the little Warty Swunk,
Which has his home in Mexico, an' lives on Guffer Birds;
An' Martin, being' desperate, imported him in herds.

   Then he praised the Warty Swunks,
      Beady-eyed and vicious,
   Which they et the Guffer Birds,
      Native of Mauritius,
   Which they et the Wuzzle Swooks --
      Plague of cultivators --
   Which they et the Grimble Grubs,
      Which they et the 'taters.

Now them Swunks were simply wonders, an' old Martin stopped his growls,
Till they et up all the Guffer Birds, an' started on his fowls.
An' the riots in his hen-house that occurred near every night 
They robbed him of his beauty sleep an' turned his whiskers white.

He was wearin' to a shadder, till by accident he seen 
A picture of the Bogggle Dog in some old magazine.
And the same he was notorious for huntin' Swunks an' such,
And for living' on their livers which he fancied very much.

Now the Boggle Dog of Boffin's Land is most extremely rare,
But Martin mortgaged house an' home just to import a pair.
They was most ferocious animals; but Martin he was mad;
An' he sooled 'em on the Warty Swunks with all the breath he had.

   Oh, he loved the Boggle Dogs,
      Called 'em "Dear" an' "Darlin'" --
   Fierce, ferocious Boggle Dogs,
      With their savage snarlin';
   Which they et the Warty Swunks,
      Beady-eyed and vicious,
   Which they et the Guffer Birds,
      Native of Mauritius,
   Which they et the Wuzzle Swooks --
      Plague of cultivators --
   Which they et the Grimble Grubs,
      Which they et the 'taters.

Then Martin he picked up a bit, an' got his proper sleep,
Until he found the Boggle Dogs had taken to his sheep;
For Warty Swunks is hard to catch, and nimble on their feet,
An' livers of merino lambs is just as nice to eat.

Now, I'm thinkin' here that Martin must have gone a trifle mad,
Else he'd never have imported such a creature as the Gnad;
For the Gnad, though few folks know it, roams about the Boffin bogs 
An' he has a passin' fancy for the flesh of Boggle Dogs.

But Martin he imported one with his last bit of cash,
An' loosed him on the Boggle Dogs -- an action worse than rash;
But the Boggles stayed in hidin', for the Boggles were discreet,
And the Gnad he cast his eye around for something he could eat.

"Sool 'em, Towser!" shouted Martin dancin' 'mid his ravaged crops;
But the Gnad regarded Martin as he slowly licked his chops.
An' the last we seen of Martin, far as I can call to mind,
He was tearin' round his paddock with the Gnad just close behind.

   First it was the Grimble Grubs,
      Which they et his 'taters,
   Then it was the Wuzzle Swooks --
      Plague of cultivators --
   Then it was the Guffer Birds,
      Native of Mauritius,
   Then it was the Warty Swunks,
      Beady-eyed an' vicious,
   Then it was the Boggle Dogs,
      With their snarls and snortin',
   Till the bad ferocious Gnad
      Finished his importin'.
   An' all because the Grimble Grubs
      They got into his 'taters,
   We never found a stitch of him
      But blucher boots and gaiters.

Thus the bushman closed his story with a sympathetic sigh;
Then wrung my hand most heartily, and sadly said "Good-bye."
And, as he went, 'twas evident he mourned his friend's decease.
He bowed his head, and, as I've said, his beard waved in the breeze.

First published in The Weekly Times Annual, 4 November 1915;
and later in
Backblock Ballads and Later Verses by C.J. Dennis, 1918; and
The Bible of the Bush, 1869-1994: 125 Years of the Weekly Times edited by Hugh Jones, 1994. 

The Stones of Gosh by C.J. Dennis

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Now, here is a tale of the Glugs of Gosh,
   In the end of the year umteen;
Of the Glugs of Gosh and their great King Splosh,
   And Tush, his virtuous Queen.
And here is a tale of the Oglike Ogs,
   In their neighbouring land of Podge;
Of their sayings and doings and plottings and brewings,
   And something about Sir Stodge.
      Wise to profundity,
      Stout to rotundity,
   That was the Knight Sir Stodge.

Oh, the King was rich, and the Queen was fair,
And they made a very respectable pair.
And whenever a Glug in that peaceful land,
Did anything no one could understand
The Knight, Sir Stodge, he looked in a book,
And charged that Glug with a crime called Crook.
And the great Judge Fudge, who wore for a hat
The skin of a female tortoise-shell cat,
He fined that Glug for his actions rash,
And frequently asked to be paid in cash.
Then every Glug went home to rest
With his head in a bag and his toes to the west;
For they knew it was best,
Since their grandpas slept with their toes to the west. 

But all of the tale that is so far told
   Has nothing whatever to do
With the Ogs of Podge, and their crafty dodge,
   And the trade in pickles and glue.
To trade with the Glugs came the Ogs to Gosh,
   And they said in the mildest of tones,
"We'll sell you pianers and pickels and spanners
   For seventeen shiploads of stones -
      Smooth 'uns or nobbly 'uns,
      Firm 'uns or wobbly 'uns,
   All that we ask is stones."

And the King said, "What?" and the Queen said, "Why,
That is awfully cheap to the things I buy!
That grocer of ours in the light brown hat
Asks two-and-eleven for pickles like that!"
But a Glug stood up with a wart on his nose,
And he cried, "Your Majesties! Ogs is foes!"
But the Glugs cried, "Peace! Will you hold your jaw!
How did our grandpas fashion the law?"
Said the Knight, Sir Stodge, as he opened a book,
"If the goods were cheap then the goods they took."
So they fined the Glug with the wart on his nose
For wearing a wart with his everyday clothes.
And the goods were brought home through a Glug named Jones;
And the Ogs went home with their loads of stones,
Which they landed with glee in the land of Podge.
Do you notice the dodge?
Not yet?  Well, no more did the Knight, Sir Stodge.

In the following Summer the Ogs came back
   With a cargo of eight-day clocks,
And hand-painted screens, and sewing machines,
   And mangles, and scissors, and socks.
And they said, "For these excellent things we bring
   We are ready to take more stones;
And in bricks or road-metal for goods you will settle
   Indented by your Mister Jones."
      Cried the Glugs praisingly:
      "Why, how amazingly
   Smart of industrious Jones!"

And the King said, "Hum," and the Queen said, "Oo!
That curtain!  What a bee-ootiful blue!"
But a Glug stood up with some very large ears,
And said, "There is more in this thing than appears!
So we ought to be taxing these goods of the Ogs,
Or our industry soon will be gone to the dogs."
And the King said, "Bosh!  You're un-Gluggish and rude!"
And the Queen said, "What an absurd attitude!"
Then the Glugs cried, "Down with political quacks!
How did our grandpas look at a tax?"
So the Knight, Sir Stodge, he opened his Book.
"No tax," said he, "wherever I look."
Then they fined the Glug with the prominent ears
For being old-fashioned by several years;
And the Ogs went home with the stones, full-steam.
Do you notice the scheme?
Not yet? Nor did the Glugs in their dreamiest dreams.  

Then every month to the land of the Gosh
   The Ogs they continued to come,
With buttons and hooks and medical books
   And rotary engines and rum,
Large cases with labels, occasional tables,
   Hair tonic and fiddles and 'phones;
And the Glugs, while concealing their joy in the dealing,
   Paid promptly in nothing but stones.
      Why, it was screamingly
      Laughable, seemingly --
   Asking for nothing but stones!

And the King said, "Haw!" and the Queen said, "Oh!
Our drawing-room now is a heavenly show
Of large overmantels and whatnots and chairs,
And a statue of Splosh at the head of the stairs."
But a Glug stood up with a cast in his eye,
And he said, "Far too many baubles we buy;
With all the Gosh factories closing their doors,
And importers' warehouses lining our shores."
But the Glugs cried, "Down with such meddlesome fools!
What did our grandpas lay down in their rules?"
And the Knight, Sir Stodge, he opened his Book:
"To cheapness," he said, "was the road they took."
Then every Glug who was not too fat
Turned seventeen handsprings, and jumped on his hat.
And they fined the Glug with the cast in his eye
For looking two ways at the tenth of July,
And for having no visible Precedent, which
Is a crime in the poor and a fault in the rich.
And the Glugs cried "Strooth!" which is Gluggish, you know,
For a phrase that, in English, is charmingly low.
Are you grasping it?  No?
Well, we haven't got very much farther to go.

Now it chanced one day, in the middle of May,
   There came to the great King Splosh
A policeman who said, while scratching his head:
   "There isn't a stone in Gosh
To throw at a dog; for the crafty Og,
   Last Saturday week, at one,
Took our last blue-metal in order to settle
   A bill for a toy pop-gun."
      Said the King, jokingly:
      "Why, how provokingly
   Weird!  But we have the gun."

And the King said: "Well, we are stony broke!"
But the Queen couldn't see it was much of a joke.
And she said: "If the metal's all used up,
Pray what of the costume I want for the Cup?
It all seems so dreadfully simple to me.
The stones?  Why import them from over the sea!"
But a Glug stood up with a mole on his chin,
And he said, with a most diabolical grin:
"Your Majesties, down in the country of Podge
A spy has unravelled a very cute dodge;
And the Ogs are determined to wage a war
On the Glugs next Friday, at half-past four!"
Then the Glugs all cried in a terrible fright:
"How did our grandpas manage a fight?"
And the Knight, Sir Stodge, he opened a book,
And he read: "Some very large stones they took
And flung at the foe with exceeding force;
Which was very effective, though rude, of course."
And, lo, with sorrowful wails and moans,
The Glugs cried: "Where, oh, where are the stones?"
And some rushed north, and a few ran west,
Seeking the substitutes seeming best.
And they gathered the pillows and cushions and rugs
From the homes of the rich and the middle-class Glugs.
And a hasty message they managed to send
Craving the loan of some bricks from a friend.
Do you now comprehend?
Well, hold on at the curve, for we're nearing the end.

On Friday exactly at half-past four
   Came the Ogs with a warlike glee;
And the first of their stones hit poor Mr. Jones,
   The Captain of Industry.
Then a pebble of Podge took the Knight, Sir Stodge,
   In the pit of his convex vest.
He muttered "Un-Gluggish!"  His heart grew sluggish,
   He solemnly sank to rest,
      'Tis inconceivable -
      Hardly believable -
   Yet he was sent to rest.

And the King said "Ouch!" and the Queen said "Oo!
My bee-ootiful drawing-room!  What shall I do?"
But the Oglike Ogs they hurled great rocks
Through the works of the wonderful eight-day clocks
They had sold to the Glugs but a month before -
Which is very absurd, but, of course, it's war.
And the Glugs cried: "What would our grandpas do
If they hadn't the stones that they one time threw?"
But the Knight, Sir Stodge, and his mystic book
Oblivious slept in a graveyard nook.

First published in The Bulletin, 8 July 1915;
and later in
The Glugs of Gosh by C.J. Dennis, 1917;
The Penguin Book of Australian Humorous Verse edited by Bill Scott, 1984;
Selected Works of C.J. Dennis, 1988;
The Sting in the Wattle: Australian Satirical Verse edited by Philip Neilsen, 1993; and
Bugger the Music, Give Us a Poem! edited by Keith McKenry, 1998.

The Glug Quest by C. J. Dennis

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Follow the river and cross the ford,
   Follow again to the wobbly bridge,
Turn to the left at the notice board,
   Climbing the cow-track over the ridge;
Tip-toe soft by the little red house,
   Hold your breath if they touch the latch,
Creep to the slip-rails, still as a mouse,
   Then . . . run like mad for the bracken patch.
Worm your way where the fern fronds tall
   Fashion a lace-work over your head,
Hemming you in with a high, green wall;
   Then, when the thrush calls once, stop dead.
Ask of the old grey wallaby there --
   Him prick-eared by the woollybutt tree --
How to encounter a Glug, and where
   The country of Gosh, famed Gosh may be.
But, if he is scornful, if he is dumb,
Hush! There's another way left. Then come.
On a white, still night, where the dead tree bends
   Over the track, like a waiting ghost,
Travel the winding road that wends
   Down to the shore on an Eastern coast.
Follow it down where the wake of the moon
   Kisses the ripples of silver sand;
Follow it on where the night seas croon
   A traveller's tale to the listening land.
Step not jauntily, not too grave,
   Till the lip of the languorous sea you greet;
Wait till the wash of the thirteenth wave
   Tumbles a jellyfish out at your feet.
Not too hopefully, not forlorn,
   Whisper a word of your earnest quest;
Shed not a tear if he turns in scorn
   And sneers in your face like a fish possessed.
Hist! Hope on! There is yet a way.
Brooding jellyfish won't be gay.
Wait till the clock in the tower booms three,
   And the big bank opposite gnashes its doors,
Then glide with a gait that is carefully free
   By the great brick building of seventeen floors;
Haste by the draper who smirks at his door,
   Straining to lure you with sinister force,
Turn up the lane by the second-hand store,
   And halt by the light bay carrier's horse.
By the carrier's horse with the long, sad face
   And the wisdom of years in his mournful eye;
Bow to him thrice with a courtier's grace,
   Proffer your query, and pause for reply.
Eagerly ask for a hint of the Glug,
   Pause for reply with your hat in your hand;
If he responds with a snort and a shrug
   Strive to interpret and understand.
Rare will a carrier's horse condescend.
Yet there's another way. On to the end!
Catch the four-thirty; your ticket in hand,
   Punched by the porter who broods in his box;
Journey afar to the sad, soggy land,
   Wearing your shot-silk lavender socks.
Wait at the creek by the moss-grown log
   Till the blood of a slain day reddens the West.
Hark for the croak of a gentleman frog,
   Of a corpulent frog with a white satin vest.
Go as he guides you, over the marsh,
   Treading with care on the slithery stones,
Heedless of night winds moaning and harsh
   That seize you and freeze you and search for your bones.
On to the edge of a still, dark pool,
   Banishing thoughts of your warm wool rug;
Gaze in the depths of it, placid and cool,
   And long in your heart for one glimpse of a Glug.
"Krock!" Was he mocking you? "Krock! Kor-r-rock!"
Well, you bought a return, and it's past ten o'clock.
Choose you a night when the intimate stars
   Carelessly prattle of cosmic affairs.
Flat on your back, with your nose pointing Mars,
   Search for the star who fled South from the Bears.
Gaze for an hour at that little blue star,
   Giving him, cheerfully, wink for his wink;
Shrink to the size of the being you are;
   Sneeze if you have to, but softly; then think.
Throw wide the portals and let your thoughts run
   Over the earth like a galloping herd.
Bounds to profundity let there be none,
   Let there be nothing too madly absurd.
Ponder on pebbles or stock exchange shares,
   On the mission of man or the life of a bug, 
On planets or billiards, policemen or bears,
   Alert all the time for the sight of a Glug.
Meditate deeply on softgoods or sex,
   On carraway seeds or the causes of bills, 
Biology, art, or mysterious wrecks,
   Or the tattered white fleeces of clouds on blue hills. 
Muse upon ologies, freckles and fog,
   Why hermits live lonely and grapes in a bunch, 
On the ways of a child or the mind of a dog,
   Or the oyster you bolted last Friday at lunch.
Heard you no sound like a shuddering sigh! 
Or the great shout of laughter that swept down the sky? 
Saw you no sign on the wide Milky Way? 
Then there's naught left to you now but to pray.
Sit you at eve when the Shepherd in Blue
   Calls from the West to his clustering sheep. 
Then pray for the moods that old mariners woo,
   For the thoughts of young mothers who watch their babes sleep.
Pray for the heart of an innocent child,
   For the tolerant scorn of a weary old man, 
For the petulant grief of a prophet reviled,
   For the wisdom you lost when your whiskers began.
Pray for the pleasures that he who was you
   Found in the mud of a shower-fed pool, 
For the fears that he felt and the joys that he knew
   When a little green lizard crept into the school. 
Pray as they pray who are maddened by wine:
   For distraction from self and a spirit at rest.
Now, deep in the heart of you search for a sign --
   If there be naught of it, vain is your quest.
Lay down the book, for to follow the tale 
Were to trade in false blame, as all mortals who fail. 
And may the gods salve you on life's dreary round; 
For 'tis whispered: "Who finds not, 'tis he shall be found!"

First published in The Bulletin, 22 February 1917;
and later in
The Glugs of Gosh by C.J. Dennis, 1917; and
Selected Works of C.J. Dennis, 1988.

Joi the Glug by C. J. Dennis

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The Glugs abide in a far, far land
That is partly pebbles and stones and sand,
   But mainly earth of a chocolate hue,
   When it isn't purple or slightly blue.
And the Glugs live there with their aunts and their wives,
In draughty tenements built like hives.
   And they climb the trees when the weather is wet,
   To see how high they can really get.
   Pray, don't forget,
   This is chiefly done when the weather is wet.

And every shadow that flits and hides,
And every stream that glistens and glides
   And laughs its way from a highland height,
   All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
And they say, "Our test is the best by far;
For a Glug is a Glug; so there you are!
   And they climb the trees when it drizzles or hails
   To get electricity into their nails;
   And the Glug that fails
   Is a luckless Glug, if it drizzles or hails."

Now, the Glugs abide in the Land of Gosh;
And they work all day for the sake of Splosh.
   For Splosh the First is the Nation's pride,
   And King of the Glugs, on his uncle's side.
And they sleep at night, for the sake of rest;
For their doctors say this suits them best.
   And they climb the trees, as a general rule,
   For exercise, when the weather is cool.
   They're taught at school
   To climb the trees when the weather is cool.

And the whispering grass on the gay, green hills
And every cricket that skirls and shrills,
   And every moonbeam, gleaming white,
   All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
And they say, "It is safe, the text we bring;
For a Glug is an awfully Glug-like thng.
   And they climb the trees when there's sign of fog,
   To scan the land for a feasible dog.
   They love to jog
   Through dells in quest of the feasible dog."

Now the Glugs eat meals three times a day
Because their fathers ate that way.
   And their grandpas said the scheme was good
   To help the Glugs digest their food.
And it's wholesome food the Glugs have got,
For it says so plain on the tin and pot.
   And they climb the trees when the weather is dry
   To get a glimpse of the pale green sky.
   We don't know why,
   But they love to gaze on the pale green sky.

And every cloud that sails aloft,
And every breeze that blows so soft,
   And every star that shines at night,
   All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
For they say, "Our text is safe and true;
What one Glug does, the other Glugs do;
   And they climb the trees when the weather is hot,
   For a birds'-eye view of the garden plot.
   Of course, it's rot,
   But they love that view of the garden plot."

At half-past two on a Wednesday morn
A most peculiar Glug was born;
   And later on, when he grew a man,
   He scoffed and sneered at the Chosen Plan.
"It's wrong!" said this Glug, whose name was Joi.
"Bah!" said the Glugs.  "He's a crazy boy!"
   And they climbed the trees, as the West wind stirred,
   To hark to the note of the guffer bird.
   It seems absurd,
   But they're awfully fond of the guffer bird.

And every reed that rustles and sways
By the gurgling river that plashes and plays,
   And the beasts of the dread, neurotic night,
   All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
And, "Why," say they; "it is easily done;
For a dexter Glug's like a sinister one!
   And they climb the trees when the thunder rolls,
   To soddenly salve their small, pale souls,
   For they fear the coals
   That threaten to frizzle their pale, pink souls."

Said the Glug called Joi: "This climbing trees
Is a foolish art, and things like these
   Cause much distress in the land of Gosh.
   Let's stay on the ground and kill King Splosh!"
But Splosh, the King, he smiled a smile,
And beckoned once to his hangman, Guile,
   Who climbed a tree when the weather was calm;
   And they hanged poor Joi on a snufflebust palm:
   Then sang a psalm.
Did those pious Glugs 'neath the sufflebust palm.

And every bee that kisses a flower,
And every blossom, born for an hour,
   And ever bird on its gladsome flight,
   All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
For they say: "'Tis a simple text we've got:
If you know one Glug, why you know the lot!
   So they climbed a tree in the burgeoning Spring,
   And they hanged poor Joi with some second-hand string.
   It's a horrible thing
   To be hanged by Glugs with second-hand string.

Then Splosh, the king, rose up and said:
"It's not polite; but he safer dead.
   And there's not much room in th eland of Gosh
   For a Glug named Joi and a king named Splosh!"
And ever Glug flung high his hat,
And cried, "We're Glugs!  And you can't change that!"
   So they climbed the trees, since the weather was cold,
   As their great-grandmothers climbed of old.
   We are not told
   Why Grandma climbed when the weather was cold.

And every cloud that sails the blue,
And every dancing sunbeam too,
   And every spakling dewdrop bright,
   All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
"We tell," say they, "by a simple test;
For any old Glug is like the rest.
   And they climb the trees when there's weather about,
   In a general way, as a cure for gout.
   Though some folk doubt
   If the climbing of trees is good for gout."

First published in The Bulletin, 3 June 1915;
and later in
The Glugs of Gosh by C. J. Dennis, 1917; and
The Selected Works of C. J. Dennis by C. J. Dennis, 1988.

Author reference sites: C.J. Dennis, Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

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