Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis: Verses about City

'He's blind,' we say. Then turn aside
Upon our way, again to view
Familiar things - some prospect wide,
Some olden scene for ever new.
Heedless we pass along, and soon
The groping figure's out of mind,
Lost in the sunlit afternoon.
'Poor chap, he's blind.'


Slowly he taps along the street,
Pitch black beneath our smiling skies:
While ours the boon again to greet
New scenes with ever thoughtless eyes.
Thoughtless indeed if, passing, we
Grudge thanks for this most precious sense.
He asks of us - not sympathy
But recompence.

(I'm not trying to make this thing rhyme
But, at the same time,
A little interlude like this
Is not amiss).
We interviewed a Mayor and asked gently, 'Dost
Think, my lord, that thy great city is a pleasant place wherein to dwell? For, if
not, why not?' And he answered, 'Dust!'
Just,
'Dust!'
He seemed perturbed. Something was on his mind. He could not talk. He could not
say one word excepting
Just
'Dust!'
We fear that the interview was a bit of a frost. We wanted to ask him all sort of
things about markets, and the letting of the Town Hall, and jay-walking
regulations; but all he would answer was just
'DUST!!!'
And when outside into the street we went
We knew just
What he meant.

In our street, the main street
Running thro' the town,
You see a lot of busy folk
Going up and down:

Bag men and basket men,
Men with loads of hay,
Buying things and selling things
And carting things away.

The butcher is a funny man,
He calls me Dandy Dick;
The baker is a cross man,
I think he's often sick;

The fruiterer's a nice man,
He gives me apples, too;
The grocer says, "Good morning, boy,
What can I do for you?"

Of all the men in our street
I like the cobbler best,
Tapping, tapping at his last
Without a minute's rest;

Talking all the time he taps,
Driving in the nails,
Smiling with his old grey eyes -
(Hush) ... telling fairy tales.

Hard by the gate-way of the East
She dips within her market square
With provender for man and beast,
And goods and chattels round her there.
A cheery, buxom market dame,
A well-filled basket on her arm,
She calls her wares and makes due claim
Alike on factory and farm.

The neutral ground of her domain
Is loud with talk of crops and herds,
Where hucksters bargain for their gain
With judgment keen and weighted words;
Where sunburnt farmers, slow of speech,
Match wits with dapper city men
While she impartially from each
Takes toll and bids them come again.

With talk of rise and fall in stock,
With keen eyes for a horse's points,
The shrewd-eyed dealers hither flock
To peer in mouths and handle joints.
And shake their heads and turn away,
Then back again to name the price;
And jokes are mixed on market day
With loud-mouthed praise and sage advice.

Hard by the Western gate she sits,
Between the farmland and the town,
To gather all the scraps and bits
Of gossip that fly up and down;
And these she turns to her own good
A comfortable dame and keen,
Who earns an honest livelihood
As town and country go-between.

Anzac! And war's grim storm . . .
The scream of a pass'ng shell
Torn earth, and - a quiet form . . .
'Pass, comrades. All is well.'

Nay, but his spirit lives; be very sure.
Year follows year, and earthly things depart;
But what he dying, gave us shall endure
Now and for ever in the nation's heart.
Now and for ever; tho' the flesh be gone,
Still shall that Spirit bid us, 'Carry on!'

Anzac! The mounds increase;
Marking where soldiers fell . . . .
Earth's healing scars; and peace.
'Sleep, comrades. All is well.'

And be full certain that they do but sleep,
Who, falling, yet were well content to find
Fit sanctuary in the hearts that keep
That spirit and that memory enshrined.
High on Gallipoli, lights that once shone,
Again flame o'er the ocean: 'Carry on!'

Anzac! The tramp of marching feet . . . .
The toll of a passing-bell.
Bowed heads along a city street . . . .
'Pass, soldier. All is well.'

Pass, soldier. When your dwindling ranks grow small;
When, one by one, old comrades you shall greet;
When the last, lonely veteran's footfall
Goes echoing adown this city street,
Still may that Spirit, tho' all else be gone,
Cry to our sons: 'Australia! Carry on!'

Within the wooded avenue I stood,
And I was proud.
I looked upon the scene and found it good;
For here, I vowed,
Reigned Beauty rare. Sweet praises filled my mouth
For this, the loveliest city of the south;
Yet not a soul could hear,
Altho' my lyric praise with fervor flowed;
For, as I spoke, there rumbled down the road
A lorry-load of beer.

I tried again. I spoke of civic pride,
Aesthetic joy.
With those rare phrases, culled from far and wide,
Poets employ.
I waxed in aphoristic ecstasy,
Hymning the loveliness of sky and tree;
Yet not a single soul
Gave heed to me; for sudden thunders grew
As round the bend there lumbered into view
A waggon piled with coal.

'Goths!' I exclaimed. 'Did you raise Beauty here
In this green place
But for the sport of flinging coal and beer
In her sweet face?'
A large truck missed me by a hair's-breadth then
Manned by a crew of large, unlovely men
Who jeered and darned my eyes.
'Vandals!' I shouted. 'Nay, repent your sins!'
Then leapt again to dodge a load of skins
That smelled unto the skies.

Still on they came, truck, waggon, rank on rank,
I dodged, I leapt;
The threw myself upon a grassy bank
And there I wept,
Wept for the city . . . A park-keeper came,
A mean, ungracious man, who took my name.
'O man!' I cried. 'Alas,
See how I weep. Must beauty disappear?'
Said he: 'Buzz orf! You can't do that there 'ere.
Spoilin' our nice noo grass!'

Girls!
You with the bobbed hair or Mary Pickford curls,
Likewise you others
Who still adopt the hair-dressing style,
That makes the moderns smile.
But was undoubtedly the dearest attribute of your mothers.
And, by the by,
You with the glad-eye -
We've seen you in the street
Looking particularly sweet.
And we ask you
Do you think that those girls in the city that is reputed to possess a harbor
can overtask you?
In the matter of looking nice -
We do not seek to give advice;
And, frankly, we don't know.
We have seen both types and so,
Being diplomatic,
We refrain from expressing an opinion that is too emphatic.
We'll leave it to the vote,
Yet hasten to remark that we simply dote
Upon the maiden who
Is just like you,
Fair reader!
We seek not to assume the office or prerogative of a special pleader.
And we own that this question of State Rights
Gives us uneasy dreams o' nights.
Take no notice of those churls
Who tell you that the Sydney girls
Can put it all over you in regard to female beauty.
My dears, you have a duty
At any rate,
Toward your State.
Go in
And Win!
Among you are undoubtedly quite a number of perfect peaches
And the sirens of the Sydney beaches
May yet be proved to be not exactly the pick of the basket.
Girls!
With or without curls,
The honor of your State and the noble men therein ask it.
Here I conclude.
And I trust that these few well-chosen remarks have not been in bad taste or
over-rude.

Six o'clock. From the railway yard
The engine toots; careering hard,
A milk-cart rattles by and stops;
A magpie calls from the gum-tree tops;
The pub 'boots', sweeping out the bar,
Waves to the early service-car,
While the town's chief toper waits outside,
Woe-begone and bleary-eyed;
Two cows go lowing down the way;
A rooster crows. It's another day.

Eight o'clock. The tradesmen come
Shop-boys whistling, masters glum,
To stand at doors and stretch and yawn;
Fronts are swept and blinds are drawn;
The washerwoman, Mrs Dubbs,
Slip-slops off to her taps and tubs,
Washing clothes for other folk;
The cheery barber cracks a joke,
But the day's first client fails to laugh -
Fresh from a tiff from his better half.

Nine o'clock. Precise and neat,
Miss Miggs comes mincing down the street,
The town's dressmaker, pert and prim,
Sly eyes, from under her hat's brim,
Gathering gossip by the way:
The same old goings-on today -
That grocer off for his morning nip;
The chemist, too, that married rip,
Flirting again with the girl next door.
Miss Miggs gleans twenty tales to store.

Ten o'clock. The town grows brisk;
Down the main street motors whisk;
Jinkers, carts and farmers' drays
Stop at shops and go their ways;
In soleman talk with the town surveyor
Comes Mr Mullinger, our mayor,
Pausing at doors for a friendly chat;
He bows, he smiles, he lifts his hat…
Now a brisker rush and a sudden din:
'That's her!' And the city train comes in.

Spring is a flirt. Unexpectedly gleaming
Over the shoulder of some far blue hill.
We glimpse the blue eyes of her, smiling and beaming,
We hold out our hands to her, all of a thrill.
A bloom in her lips, for a moment she lingers
Pouf! And she's gone with a flick of her skirt.
And Winter once more, with his icy-cold fingers,
Seizes us, freezes us. Spring is a flirt.

Spring is a minx. On the far forest ranges
Tip-toe one morning, all winsomely coy,
Her lover beholds her, and straightaway he changes
His dolerous drone to a paean of joy:
'Come to me sweetheart! - so long have I waited.'
She blows him a kiss as she shamelessly winks;
Then - Pouf! She is off. And the storm, unaabated,
Rocks him and mocks him. Ah, Spring is a minx.

Spring is a prude. On the city man reckoning
Profits and prices in some chill retreat.
She peeps thro' the window with scandalous beckoning
Luring him out to the sun-spangled street.
He smiles. Then she falls to a frowning and pouting:
'We're not introduced, sir! You dare be so rude?'
Then sudden around him the rough winds are shouting
Reproofs, and she vanishes. Spring is a prude.

Spring is a lade. For we knows every trick of it,
Every artifice, every wile:
Advancing, refusing, until we fall sick of it
Sick with the longing, athirst for her smile.
Coyly she calls us from out or a cover
Aglow with her promise. Delectable maid!
'Not yet!' - She evades us - 'Ah, not yet, my lover!
Love thrives with languishing.' Spring is a lade.

We curse our lot; we gird at fate;
Like peevish children we complain;
Hope dies, and life grows desperate
Because of ease and pleasures salin.
Because bright fortune fails to smile
And pamper us, as once she used,
But frowns a little for the while,
To bleak despair we are reduced.


Yet, o'er a narrow stretch of sea,
Where lately smiled a city fair,
Falls cataclysmic agony,
And death in horrid shapes is there.
All in an instant men are hurled -
Who knew no foe, who earned no blame -
Out of a peaceful, sunlit world
'Mid shattered homes and seething flame.


Crazed women roam the littered street
Seeking their babes; with sobbing breath
They search grim ruins, there to meet
Fresh, ghastly evidence of death -
Death, creeping death, where men have lain
Trapped 'neath the press of heavy beams
Waiting thro' hours of nameless pain
Such as men know in frightful dreams.


And we complain! . . . Poor timid fools.
Because our luxuries grow less,
Each beats his breast and drones and drools
Of gloom and shattered happiness.
While there, by very earth betrayed,
Forsaken, doomed, men still are men;
And heroism there displayed
Preserves the name of Man again.


There, where the elements conspire
To end a world at one swift stroke.
Stirred by the flame of that grim pyre,
Divinity in Man awoke. . . .
Here, petulant, with tears and blame,
We gird against Fate's mild decree
Who should bow down our heads in shame
And thank our gods for sanctuary.

Chuff! Chuff! Chuff! With a rumble and a rattle,
Waking every echo on the old bush road;
Waking, too, the wonder of the wayside cattle
With the clatter of his engine and his strange, mixed load;
With his front wheels a-wobble and his back brake squealing,
Skirting here the table-drain, grazing there a tree,
His hand upon the steering, but his mind upon his dealing,
Comes Bottle-o Benny in his old Model T.

'Any ole iron, sir? Fat, sir? Bottles, sir?
Cast-off clobber, or any ole rags?
(Pretty sticky patch that, down by the wattles, sir.)
Any ole machinery or secon'-and bags?
Charf bags, bran bags? Taken 'em orf yer 'an's, sir
Best city prices, spot cash. That's me!
This 'ere dealin' life's as 'ard as any man's, sir.'
Says Bottle-o Benny from his old Model T.

He pokes about the rubbish heap; he roots around the stable there;
He loiters in the lumber-shed and says, 'Times is lean.
Give you 'arf-a-dollar, now, for that ole table there.
Square an' all an' honest, sir, I'd 'ardly make a bean!
Yes; I've counted up the bottles; two dozen's wot I make 'em, sir.
Wot? Them sauce an' pickle 'uns?
But, jist for ole acquaintance like, I'll rid yer 'an's an' take 'em, sir.'
And he magically packs them in his old Model T.

Chuff! Chuff! Chuff! With a rattle and a rumble,
Off goes Benny by the Burnt Stump Bend.
His echoes scarce have died away ere Mum begins to grumble:
Where's that copper kettle that I put out to mend?'
And Lil says, 'Last year - (I've always had a feeling)
Last year a clothes-line went when Benny went,' says she.
But Benny won't be back again for twelve months, dealing
For unconsidered trifles in his old Model T.

It was the schooner Desperate
That sailed the southern sea,
And the skipper had brought his little daughter
To our centenary.
Blue were her eyes and plucked her brow,
Where she wore a golden curl.
Yet, 'spite her looks, she was somehow
A shrewd, observant girl.

But and spake an old sailor
Who had been that way before
'I pray don't land at yonder port
Lest your girl count it a bore.
Last year the town had a handsome street,
This year no street we see.'
'Why?' asked the skipper. 'Poles,' said the tar.
And a sneering laugh laughed he.

For an alderman had spoken,
Who had known the ropes long since,
And he said, 'Where are them sticks an' rag
We had for that other Prince.
Let's stick 'em up in the street again.'
Said the mayor, 'Don't be a quince.
We'll have some new bright painted ones;
And let the aesthetes wince.'

'Father,' the skipper's daughter cried
'No fair city I see.'
'It is behind them decorations, lass
Them candy sticks you see.'
'But, father, why do they stand there,
All orange smeared and red,
Like garish clowns in a stately street?'
'Search me,' the skipper said.

'Oh, father! What are those nightmare things,
Those gadgets brightly lit?
Let us away on urgent wings,
Or I fear I'll have a fit.'
'Courage, my child,' the skipper said.
Curb your aesthetic sense,
And close your eyes and cover your head,
And I shall bear you hence.

'Come hither, come hither, my little daughter,
And do not tremble so.'
He wrapped her up in his seaman's coat.
'Come,' said he, 'let us go
Out where no poles or pylons are,
And no centenary,
To a scene that no man's hand may mar.'
And he steered for the open sea.

Said the Digger: 'Soon forgot! Soon forgot, the deeds of war.
Better so, may be. . . Why not?
Beauty fades and laurels rot;
Last year's roses are no more.
Fame?' the one-armed Digger said,
'What of glory when you're dead?'

'Stone and brass,' the Digger said. 'Stone and brass: tho' these endure,
Marble flaunting o'er my head
Would be dead, as I'd be dead.
How may any man be sure
That the hearts of men shall hold
Memories of tales once told?

This alone I surely know: earth I am, and earth shall be,
Only Mother Earth can show,
When I go where all men go,
Aught of this that had been me.
Mother Earth, once stained so red,
She must know,' the Digger said.

'Would you raise, in braggart heaps, stone, cold stone, to mark the fame
Of full many a man who sleeps
Where the earth of Anzac keeps
Guard o'er legions lacking name
Plinth and pillar reared to show
Pomp and pride they cannot know?

'They ask no portentous pile, boasting to a heedless sky,
Stirring men a little while,
Subject, then, for sigh or smile,
Not for this do soldiers die,
With our passing let Pride be,
All we ask is Memory:

'Memory of such fair worth as a fighting man may claim,
And a plot of hallowed earth
In the city of our birth:
Earth that bears a hallowed name.
Let it be envisioned there:
Anzac worth in Anzac Square.


'Memory,' the Digger said. 'If so be the city judge
Soldiers worthy, who have bled.
Worthy of her love, the dead,
Shall the city, then, begrudge
One wide acre of her soil
For who saved the whole from spoil?

'Here, it may be, by God's grace, our son's sons may sit at last,
In the People's market place,
Knowing truly, as they trace
Memory of me long past,
'Tis enshrined forever there:
Anzac worth in Anzac Square.'

Oh, we might have a marvellous city
Were we only less keen on cash
Less avid for things - more's the pity
That fade and are gone in a flash,
A city where duffers in my line
In wrapt adoration fall flat
To behold its superlative skyline
But there isn't much money in that.

Oh, we might have a city most splendid
Were sordid self-seeking denied.
Were good taste and culture attended
By pride that transcends money-pride.
Then, urged by more glorious dreaming
Than moved beneath Pericles' hat,
We would out-Athens Athens in scheming
But - there isn't much money in that.

So let's build our city according
To canons commercial and sane.
Where every house is a hoarding
And every 'palace' a pain.
Let us mingle the Gothic and Moorish
In the nice neo-Georgian flat.
What odds, tho' they blither it's boorish?
Who cares? For there's money in that.

Oh, let's have a conglomeration
Of all architectural ills.
We build for ouselves, not th enation,
And to advertise somebody's pills
With piles that are proud and pretentious
And styles that are 'pretty' and fat.
And a fig for their strictures sententious!
There's not a brass farthing in that.

And so we'll grow richer and richer
While curleywigs crawl the facade
Of the home of the sur-super-picture
Or pubs where the profits are made.
Yet - We might have a marvellous city
If we only knew how to grow fat
At the game. But we don't - more's the pity.
So there isn't much money in that.

And when we have piled up the riches,
And pass, and leave never a trace,
A grave-digger, with clay on his breeches,
Will come and pitch dirt on our face.
And our passing may serve to remind him,
As he gives the grave-mound a last pat:
'Well, he's gone; and he's left nought behind him,
And there isn't much honor in that.'

Not guilty, yer Honers! I talks to yer straight!
An' I calls it a pretty crook game
An' an 'og of a thing, if the coppers should bring
Such dishonor as this on me name
On me name that 'as stood fer up'oldin' the good!
It's enough to make any bloke weep!
An' the goods as they says I received - spare me days!
Don't I tell yer I bought 'em dirt cheap!


Yes, I bought 'em dirt cheap; an' I says to the Bench,
As a man 'oo acts honest an' square,
That me solid defence is poun's, shillin's an' pence,
An' I arsts yer to deal with me fair.
Fer it's more than a joke when a square-livin' bloke
Is 'ad up fer committin' a crime;
Fer the JOHN, 'ere, 'e swears to the goods, an' declares
As I knoo they was pinched at the time.


But, gentlemen, listen, I bought 'em dirt cheap!
As the bloke 'ere, who sold 'em kin swear.
But they say 'e was crook, an' the goods that 'e took
Wasn't got, so to speak, on the square.
Well, per'aps that's all true, an' they ses that I knoo
They wus pinched when I made 'im the bid.
It 'ud be a fair sin fer to miss that chuck in;
So I arsts: Wot's the odds if I did?


'Ere's the Cop ses I'm charged with receivin' the goods,
As I bloomin' well knoo to be stole;
But then that isn't stealin' meself, an' I feel
As I orn't to be in this 'ole.
Fer I never stole things in me life, an' I brings
Twenty witnesses 'ere fer to say
That in all er me days I 'ave allus earned praise
Fer up'oldin' the straight, honest way.


Yus, I allus 'ave preached that to steal wus a sin,
An' I never pinched things in me life;
An' I brings up me kids as strict honesty bids,
An' I gotter respectable wife.
I am known in our street as a man 'ard to beat
At comdemnin' all thievin' an' crime;
An' there's clergymen 'ere as is ready to clear
Up me character every time.


So, yer Honers, I arsts to be cleared o' the charge;
An' I think yet should say, at the time,
Me respectable name is quite free frum all blame
In connection with thievin' an' crime.
Fer me great repitation's at stake, in a way;
It's a thing as I'm anxious ter keep;
Fer I never been once in the - Wot's that?
SIX MUNCE!
But, yer Honers, I got them things cheap!

He was obviously English, in his Harris tweeds and stockings.
And his accent was of Oxford, and his swagger and his style
Seemed to hint at halls baronial. He despised the 'demned Colonial';
But he praised the things of England with a large and toothful smile.

He'd discourse for hours together on old England's splendid weather;
On her flowers and fruits and fashions, and her wild-fowl and her game.
At all Austral things he snorted; pinned his faith to the imported.
And he said the land was rotten. But he stayed here just the same.

Why, he came or why he lingered he was never keen to mention;
But he hinted at connections 'mid old England's nobly grand.
Seems he drew a vague remittance - some folk said a meagre pittance
And he sought to supplement it by a venture on the land.

So he journeyed to Toolangi, where the mountain ash yearns skyward,
And the messmate and the blue-gum grow to quite abnormal size.
'Spite the 'stately homes' he vaunted, 'twas the simple life he wanted;
And he got it, good and plenty, at Toolangi on the rise.

It appears he had a notion that his 'breeding' and his 'culture'
Would assure him some position as a sort of country squire;
And he built a little chalet in a pretty, fern-clad valley,
And prepared to squire it nobly in imported farm attire.

But the 'breeding' is in bullocks that they prize upon Toolangi.
Where the forelock-touching habit hasn't grown to any size.
And he found, as on he plodded, and the natives curtly nodded,
That their 'culture's' agriculture at Toolangi on the rise.

First he started poultry farming, as a mild, genteel employment;
For the business promised profit, and the labor wasn't hard;
But he wondered what the dickens was becoming of his chickens,
Till he found some English foxes prowling round his poultry yard.

So he cursed at things Australian, and invested in an orchard
That adjoined his little holding: and foresaw a life of ease.
But a flock of English starlings - pretty, 'harmless' little darlings -
Ate his apples and his peaches as they ripened on the trees.

Once again he cursed the country, and fell back on cabbage-growing
He had heard of fortunes gathered while the price was at the top
So he started, quite forgetting to erect the needful netting,
And some cheerful English rabbits finished off his cabbage crop.

Then his language grew tremendous, and he cursed at all the country;
Cursed its flora and its fauna north and south, from coast to coast:
Sat and cursed for hours together, at the 'demned colonial weather';
Till an English snow-storm bit him just as he was cursing most.

When the snow falls on Toolangi wise folk look to beam and rafter.
For the fall is ofttimes heavy as upon the roof it lies;
And it crushed the dainty chalet nestling in the pretty valley,
In the little fern-clad valley at Toolangi on the rise.

He was cursing yet, and loudly, as he crawled from out the wreckage:
Cursing as he packed his baggage and departed for his club,
For his club down in the city. Vulgar folk - it seems a pity
Hinted meanly that his club-house was a little back-street pub.

Now, away in far Toolangi, where the mountain peaks yearn skyward,
Folk will dropp the dexter eyelid and the case epitomise;
'Yes, 'the Duke' has gone for ever. British pests are far too clever.
And the English climate crushed him at Toolangi on the rise.'

'Dreamin'?' I sez to Digger Smith.
'Buck up, ole sport, an' smile.
Ain't there enough uv joy to-day
To drive the bogey man away
An' make reel things worth while?
A bloke would think, to see you stare,
There's visions on the 'ill-tops there.'

'Dreamin',' sez Digger Smith. 'Why not?
An' there is visions too.
An' when I get 'em sorted out,
An' strafe that little bogey, Doubt,
I'll start me life all new.
Oh, I ain't crook; but packed in 'ere
Is thoughts enough to last a year.

'I'm thinkin' things,' sez Digger Smith.
'I'm thinkin' big an' fine
Uv Life an' Love an' all the rest,
An' wot is right an' wot is best,
An' 'ow much will be mine.
Not that I'm wantin' overmuch:
Some work, some play, an' food an' such.'

'See 'ere,' I sez. 'You 'ark to me.
I've done some thinkin' too.
An' this 'ere land, for wot yeh did,
Owes some few million solid quid
To fightin' blokes like you.
So don't be too damn modest or
Yeh'll get less than yeh're lookin' for.'

'Money?' sez Digger. 'Loot?' sez 'e.
'Aw, give that talk a rest!
I'm sick uv it. I didn't say
That I was thinkin' all uv pay
But wot was right an' best.
An' that ain't in the crazy game
Uv grabbin' wealth an' chasin' fame.

'Do you think us blokes Over There,
When things was goin' strong,
Was keepin' ledgers day be day
An' reck'nin' wot the crowd would pay?
Pull off! Yeh got it wrong.
Do you think all the boys gone West
Wants great swank 'eadstones on their chest?

'You coots at 'ome 'as small ideer
Uv wot we think an' feel.
We done our bit an' seen it thro',
An' all that we are askin' you
Is jist a fair, square deal.
We want this land we battled for
To settle up - an' somethin' more.

'We want the land we battled for
To be a land worth while.
We're sick uv greed, an' 'ate, an' strife,
An' all the mess that's made uv life.'...
'E stopped a bit to smile.
'I got these thoughts Out There becos
We learned wot mateship reely was.'

. . . . . .

The 'ills be'ind the orchard trees
Was showin' misty blue.
The ev'nin' light was growin' dim;
An' down I sat 'longside uv 'im,
An' done some dreamin' too.
I dreams uv war; an' wot is paid
By blokes that went an' blokes that stayed.

I dreams uv honour an' reward,
An' 'ow to pay a debt.
For partin' cash, an' buyin' farms,
An' fitting chaps with legs an' arms
Ain't all - there's somethin' yet.
There's still a solid balance due;
An' now it's up to me an' you.

There's men I know ain't yet woke up,
Or reckernized that debt
Proud men 'oo wouldn't take yeh down
Or owe their grocer 'arf-a-crown-
They ain't considered, yet,
There's somethin' owin' - to the dead,
An' Diggers live for more than bread.

The 'ills be'ind the orchard trees
Jist caught the settin' sun.
A bloke might easy think that there,
'Way back be'ind the range somewhere,
Where streaks uv sunlight run,
There was a land, swep' clear uv doubt,
Where men finds wot they dreams about.


'Beauty,' sez Digger, sudden-like,
'An' love, an' kindliness;
The chance to live a clean, straight life,
A dinkum deal for kids an' wife:
A man needs nothin' less...
Maybe they'll get it when I go
To push up daisies. I dunno.'

'Dreamin',' sez Digger Smith. 'Why not?
There's visions on the hill.'...
Then I gets up an' steals away,
An' leaves 'im with the dyin' day,
Dreamin' an' doubtin' still...
Cobber, it's up to me an' you
To see that 'arf 'is dream comes true.

I 'ave written Mick a letter in reply to one uv 'is,
Where 'e arsts 'ow things is goin' where the gums an' wattles is -
So I tries to buck 'im up a bit; to go fer Abdul's fez;
An' I ain't no nob at litrachure; but this is wot I sez:


I suppose you fellers dream, Mick, in between the scraps out them
Uv the land yeh left be'ind yeh when yeh sailed to do yer share:
Uv Collins Street, or Rundle Street, or Pitt, or George, or Hay,
Uv the land beyond the Murray or along the Castlereagh.
An' I guess yeh dream of old days an' the things yeh used to do,
An' yeh wonder 'ow 'twill strike yeh when yeh've seen this business thro';
An' yeh try to count yer chances when yeh've finished wiv the Turk
An' swap the gaudy war game fer a spell o' plain, drab work.


Well, Mick, yeh know jist 'ow it is these early days o' Spring,
When the gildin' o' the wattle chucks a glow on everything.
Them olden days, the golden days that you remember well,
In spite o' war an' worry, Mick, are wiv us fer a spell.
Fer the green is on the paddicks, an' the sap is in the trees,
An' the bush birds in the gullies sing the ole, sweet melerdies;
An' we're 'opin', as we 'ear 'em, that, when next the Springtime comes,
You'll be wiv us 'ere to listen to that bird tork in the gums.


It's much the same ole Springtime, Mick, yeh reckerlect uv yore;
Boronier an' dafferdils and wattle blooms once more
Sling sweetness over city streets, an' seem to put to shame
The rotten greed an' butchery that got you on this game -
The same ole sweet September days, an' much the same ole place;
Yet, there's a sort o' somethin', Mick, upon each passin' face,
A sort o' look that's got me beat; a look that you put there,
The day yeh lobbed upon the beach an' charged at Sari Bair.


It isn't that we're boastin', lad; we've done wiv most o' that -
The froth, the cheers, the flappin' flags, the giddy wavin' 'at.
Sich things is childish memories; we blush to 'ave 'em told,
Fer we 'ave seen our wounded, Mick, an' it 'as made us old.
We ain't growed soggy wiv regret, we ain't swelled out wiv pride;
But we 'ave seen it's up to us to lay our toys aside.
An' it wus you that taught us, Mick, we've growed too old fer play,
An' everlastin' picter shows, an' going' down the Bay.


An', as grown man dreams at times uv boy'ood days gone by,
So, when we're feelin' crook, I s'pose, we'll sometimes sit an' sigh.
But as a clean lad takes the ring wiv mind an' 'eart serene,
So I am 'opin' we will fight to make our man'ood clean.
When orl the stoushin's over, Mick, there's 'eaps o' work to do:
An' in the peaceful scraps to come we'll still be needin' you.
We will be needin' you the more fer wot yeh've seen an' done;
Fer you were born a Builder, lad, an' we 'ave jist begun.


There's bin a lot o' tork, ole mate, uv wot we owe to you,
An' wot yeh've braved an' done fer us, an' wot we mean to do.
We've 'ailed you boys as 'eroes, Mick, an' torked uv just reward
When you 'ave done the job yer at an' slung aside the sword.
I guess it makes yeh think a bit, an' weigh this gaudy praise;
Fer even 'eroes 'ave to eat, an' - there is other days:
The days to come when we don't need no bonzer boys to fight:
When the flamin' picnic's over an' the Leeuwin looms in sight.


Then there's another fight to fight, an' you will find it tough
To sling the Kharki clobber fer the plain civilian stuff.
When orl the cheerin' dies away, an' 'ero-worship flops,
Yeh'll 'ave to face the ole tame life - 'ard yakker or 'ard cops.
But, lad, yer land is wantin' yeh, an' wantin' each strong son
To fight the fight that never knows the firin' uv a gun:
The steady fight, when orl you boys will show wot you are worth,
An' punch a cow on Yarra Flats or drive a quill in Perth.


The gilt is on the wattle, Mick, young leaves is on the trees,
An' the bush birds in the gullies swap the ole sweet melerdies;
There's a good, green land awaitin' you when you come 'ome again
To swing a pick at Ballarat or ride Yarrowie Plain.
The streets is gay wiv dafferdils - but, haggard in the sun,
A wounded soljer passes; an' we know ole days is done;
Fer somew'ere down inside us, lad, is somethin' you put there
The day yeh swung a dirty left, fer us, at Sari Bair.

'Er name's Doreen…Well spare me bloomin' days!
You could er knocked me down wiv 'arf a brick!
Yes, me, that kids meself I know their ways,
An' 'as a name for smoogin' in our click!
I just lines up an' tips the saucy wink.
But strike! The way she piled on dawg! Yer'd think
A bloke was givin' back-chat to the Queen….
'Er name's Doreen.

I seen 'er in the markit first uv all,
Inspectin' brums at Steeny Isaacs' stall.
I backs me barrer in—the same ole way
An' sez, 'Wot O! It's been a bonzer day.
'Ow is it fer a walk?'…Oh, 'oly wars!
The sorter look she gimme! Jest becors
I tried to chat 'er, like you'd make a start
Wiv ANY tart.

An' I kin take me oaf I wus perlite.
An' never said no word that wasn't right,
An' never tried to maul 'er, or to do
A thing yeh might call crook. Ter tell yeh true,
I didn't seem to 'ave the nerve—wiv 'er.
I felt as if I couldn't go that fur,
An' start to sling off chiack like I used…
Not INTRAJUICED!

Nex' time I sighted 'er in Little Bourke,
Where she was in a job. I found'er lurk
Wus pastin' labels in a pickle joint,
A game that—any'ow, that ain't the point.
Once more I tried ter chat 'er in the street,
But, bli'me! Did she turn me down a treat!
The way she tossed 'er 'cad an' swished 'er skirt!
Oh, it wus dirt!

A squarer tom, I swear, I never seen,
In all me natchril, than this 'ere Doreen.
It wer'n't no guyver neither; fer I knoo
That any other bloke 'ad Buckley's 'oo
Tried fer to pick 'er up. Yes, she was square.
She jist sailed by an' lef' me standin' there
Like any mug. Thinks I, 'I'm out er luck,'
An' done a duck

Well, I dunno. It's that way wiv a bloke.
If she'd ha' breasted up ter me an' spoke,
I'd thort 'er jist a commin bit er fluff,
An' then fergot about 'er, like enough.
It's jest like this. The tarts that's 'ard ter get
Makes you all 'ot to chase 'em, an' to let
The cove called Cupid get an 'ammer-lock;
An' lose yer block.

I know a bloke 'oo knows a bloke 'oo toils
In that same pickle found-ery. ('E boils
The cabbitch storks or somethink.) Anyway,
I gives me pal the orfis fer to say
'E 'as a sister in the trade 'oo's been
Out uv a jorb, an' wants ter meet Doreen;
Then we kin get an intro, if we've luck.
'E sez, 'Ribuck.'

O' course we worked the oricle; you bet!
But, 'struth, I ain't recovered frum it yet!
'Twas on a Saturdee, in Colluns Street,
An'—quite by accident, o' course—we meet.
Me pal 'e trots 'er up an' does the toff
'E allus wus a bloke fer showin' off.
'This 'ere's Doreen,' 'e sez. 'This 'ere's the Kid.'
I dips me lid.

'This 'ere's Doreen,' 'e sez. I sez 'Good day.'
An', bli'me, I 'ad nothin' more ter say!
I couldn't speak a word, or meet 'er eye.
Clean done me block! I never been so shy.
Not since I was a tiny little cub,
An' run the rabbit to the corner pub
Wot time the Summer days wus dry an' 'ot
Fer me ole pot.

Me! that 'as barracked tarts, an' torked an' larft,
An' chucked orf at 'em like a phonergraft!
Gorstrooth! I seemed to lose me pow'r o' speech.
But, 'er! Oh, strike me pink! She is a peach!
The sweetest in the barrer! Spare me days,
I carn't describe that cliner's winnin' ways.
The way she torks! 'Er lips! 'Er eyes! 'Er hair!…
Oh, gimme air!

I dunno 'ow I done it in the end.
I reckerlect I arst ter be 'er friend;
An' tried ter play at 'andies in the park,
A thing she wouldn't sight. Aw, it's a nark!
I gotter swear when I think wot a mug
I must 'a' seemed to 'er. But still I 'ug
That promise that she give me fer the beach.
The bonzer peach!

Now, as the poit sez, the days drag by
On ledding feet. I wish't they'd do a guy.
I dunno'ow I 'ad the nerve ter speak,
An' make that meet wiv 'er fer Sundee week!
But strike! It's funny wot a bloke'll do
When 'e's all out…She's gorn, when I come-to.
I'm yappin' to me cobber uv me mash….
I've done me dash!

'Er name's Doreen….An' me-that thort I knoo
The ways uv tarts, an' all that smoogin' game!
An' so I ort; fer ain't I known a few?
Yet some'ow…I dunno. It ain't the same.
I carn't tell WOT it is; but, all I know,
I've dropped me bundle—an' I'm glad it's so.
Fer when I come ter think uv wot I been….
'Er name's Doreen.

'Sowin' things an' growin' things, an' watchin' of 'em grow;
That's the game,' my father said, an' father ought to know.
'Settin' things an' gettin' things to grow for folks to eat:
That's the life,' my father said, 'that's very hard to beat.'
For my father was a farmer, as his father was before,
Just sowin' things an' growin' things in far-off days of yore,
In the far-off land of England, till my father found his feet
In the new land, in the true land, where he took to growin' wheat.

Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Oh, the sound of it is sweet!
I've been praisin' it an' raisin' it in rain an' wind an' heat
Since the time I learned to toddle, till it's beatin' in my noddle,
Is the little song I'm singin' you of Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

Plantin' things —- an' grantin' things is goin' as they should,
An' the weather altogether is behavin' pretty good —-
Is a pleasure in a measure for a man that likes the game,
An' my father he would rather raise a crop than make a name.
For my father was a farmer, an' 'All fame,' he said, 'ain't reel;
An' the same it isn't fillin' when you're wantin' for a meal.'
So I'm followin' his footsteps, an' a-keepin' of my feet,
While I cater for the nation with my Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! When the poets all are beat
By the reason that the season for the verse crop is a cheat,
Then I comes up bright an' grinnin' with the knowledge that I'm winnin',
With the rhythm of my harvester an' Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

Readin' things an' heedin' things that clever fellers give,
An' ponderin' an' wonderin' why we was meant to live —-
Muddlin' through an' fuddlin' through philosophy an' such
Is a game I never took to, an' it doesn't matter much.
For my father was a farmer, as I might 'a' said before,
An' the sum of his philosophy was, 'Grow a little more.
For growin' things,' my father said, 'it makes life sort o' sweet
An' your conscience never swats you if your game is growin' wheat.'

Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Oh, the people have to eat!
An' you're servin', an' deservin' of a velvet-cushion seat
In the cocky-farmers' heaven when you come to throw a seven;
An' your password at the portal will be, 'Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.'

Now, the preacher an' the teacher have a callin' that is high
While they're spoutin' to the doubtin' of the happy by an' by;
But I'm sayin' that the prayin' it is better for their souls
When they've plenty wheat inside 'em in the shape of penny rolls.
For my father was a farmer, an' he used to sit an' grieve
When he thought about the apple that old Adam got from Eve.
It was foolin' with an orchard where the serpent got 'em beat,
An' they might 'a' kept the homestead if they'd simply stuck to wheat.

Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! If you're seekin' to defeat
Care an' worry in the hurry of the crowded city street,
Leave the hustle all behind you; come an' let contentment find you
In a cosy little cabin lyin' snug among the wheat.

In the city, more's the pity, thousands live an' thousands die
Never carin', never sparin' pains that fruits may multiply;
Breathin', livin', never givin'; greedy but to have an' take,
Dyin' with no day behind 'em lived for fellow-mortals' sake.
Now my father was a farmer, an' he used to sit and laugh
At the 'fools o' life,' he called 'em, livin' on the other half.
Dyin' lonely, missin' only that one joy that makes life sweet —-
Just the joy of useful labour, such as comes of growin' wheat.

Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Let the foolish scheme an' cheat;
But I'd rather, like my father, when viv span o' life's complete,
Feel I'd lived by helpid others; earned the right to call 'em brothers
Who had gained while I was gainin' from God's earth His gift of wheat.

When the settin' sun is gettin' low above the western hills,
When the creepin' shadows deepen, and a peace the whole land fills,
Then I often sort o' soften with a feelin' like content,
An' I feel like thankin' Heaven for a day in labour spent.
For my father was a farmer, an' he used to sit an' smile,
Realizin' he was wealthy in what makes a life worth while.
Smilin', he has told me often, 'After all the toil an' heat,
Lad, he's paid in more than silver who has grown one field of wheat.'

Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! When it comes my turn to meet
Death the Reaper, an' the Keeper of the Judgment Book I greet,
Then I'll face 'em sort o' calmer with the solace of the farmer
That he's fed a million brothers with his Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

'Er name's Doreen ...Well, spare me bloomin' days!
You could er knocked me down wiv 'arf a brick!
Yes, me, that kids meself I know their ways,
An' 'as a name for smoogin' in our click!
I just lines up 'an tips the saucy wink.
But strike! The way she piled on dawg! Yer'd think
A bloke was givin' back-chat to the Queen....
'Er name's Doreen.

I seen 'er in the markit first uv all,
Inspectin' brums at Steeny Isaacs' stall.
I backs me barrer in - the same ole way --
An' sez, 'Wot O! It's been a bonzer day.
'Ow is it fer a walk?' ... Oh, 'oly wars!
The sorta look she gimme! Jest becors
I tried to chat 'er, like you'd make a start
Wiv any tart.

An' I kin take me oaf I wus perlite.
An' never said no word that wasn't right,
An' never tried to maul 'er, or to do
A thing yeh might call croook. Ter tell yeh true,
I didn't seem to 'ave the nerve -- wiv 'er.
I felt as if I couldn't go that fur,
An' start to sling of chiack like I used...
Not intrajuiced!

Nex' time I sighted 'er in Little Bourke,
Where she was in a job. I found 'er lurk
Wus pastin' labels in a pickle joint,
A game that -- any'ow, that ain't the point.
Once more I tried to chat 'er in the street,
But, bli'me! Did she turn me down a treat!
The way she tossed 'er head an' swished 'er skirt!
Oh, it wus dirt!

A squarer tom, I swear, I never seen,
In all me natchril, than this 'ere Doreen.
It wer'n't no guyver neither; fer I knoo
That any other bloke 'ad Buckley's 'oo
Tried fer to pick 'er up. Yes, she was square.
She jest sailed by an' lef me standin' there
Like any mug. Thinks I, 'I'm out er luck,'
And done a duck.

Well, I dunno. It's that way wiv a bloke.
If she'd ha' breasted up ter me an' spoke.
I'd thort 'er jist a common bit er fluff,
An' then fergot about 'er, like enough.
It's jest like this. The tarts that's 'ard ter get
Makes you all 'ot to chase 'em, an' to let
The cove called Cupid get a 'ammer-lock;
An' lose yer block.

I know a bloke 'oo knows a bloke 'oo toils
In that same pickle found-ery. ('E boils
The cabbitch storks or somethink.) Anyway,
I gives me pal the orfis fer to say
'E 'as a sister in the trade 'oo's been
Out uv a jorb, an' wants ter meet Doreen;
Then we kin get an into, if we've luck.
'E sez, 'Ribuck.'

O' course we worked the oricle; you bet!
But, 'struth, I ain't recovered frum it yet!
'Twas on a Saturdee, in Colluns Street,
An' - quite by accident, o' course -- we meet.
Me pal 'e trots 'er up an' does the toff --
'E allus wus a bloke fer showin' off.
'This ere's Doreen,' 'e sez. 'This 'ere's the Kid.'
I dips me lid.

'This 'ere's Doreen,' 'e sez. I sez 'Good day.'
An' bli'me, I 'ad nothin' more ter say!
I couldn't speak a word, or meet 'er eye.
Clean done me block! I never been so shy,
Not since I was a tiny little cub,
An' run the rabbit to the corner pub --
Wot time the Summer days wus dry and 'ot --
Fer me ole pot.

Me! that 'as barracked tarts, an' torked an' larft,
An' chucked orf at 'em like a phonergraft!
Gorstrooth! I seemed to lose me pow'r o' speech.
But 'er! Oh, strike me pink! She is a peach!
The sweetest in the barrer! Spare me days,
I carn't describe that cliner's winnin' ways.
The way she torks! 'Er lips! 'Er eyes! 'Er hair! ...
Oh, gimme air!

I dunno 'ow I done it in the end.
I reckerlect I arst ter be 'er friend;
An' tried to play at 'andies in the park,
A thing she wouldn't sight. Aw, it's a nark!
I gotter swear when I think wot a mug
I must 'a' seemed to 'er. But still I 'ug
That promise she give me fer the beach.
The bonzer peach!

Now, as the poit sez, the days drag by
On ledding feet. I wish't they'd do a guy.
I dunno 'ow I 'ad the nerve ter speak,
An' make that meet wiv 'er fer Sundee week!
But strike! It's funny wot a bloke'll do
When 'e's all out ... She's gorn, when I come-to.
I'm yappin' to me cobber uv me mash....
I've done me dash!

'Er name's Doreen....An' me -- that thort I knoo
The ways uv tarts, an' all that smoogin' game!
An' so I ort; fer ain't I known a few?
Yet some'ow ... I dunno. It ain't the same.
I carn't tell wot it is; but all I know,
I've dropped me bundle -- an' I'm glad it's so.
Fer when I come ter think uv wot I been....
'Er name's Doreen.

Jist to intraj'uice me cobber, an 'is name is Ginger Mick
A rorty boy, a naughty boy, wiv rude impressions thick
In 'is casu'l conversation, an' the wicked sort o' face
That gives the sudden shudders to the lor-abidin' race.

'Is name is on the records at the Melbourne City Court,
Fer doin' things an' sayin' things no reel nice feller ort;
An 'is name is on the records uv the Army, over there,
Fer doin' things - same sort o' things that rose the Bench's 'air.

They never rung no joy-bells when 'e made 'is first de- boo;
But 'e got free edjication, w'ich they fondly shoved 'im thro';
Then turned 'im loose in Spadger's Lane to 'ang around the street
An' 'elp the cop to re-erlize the 'ardness uv 'is beat.

Then 'e quickly dropped 'is aitches, so as not to be mistook
Fer an edjicated person, 'oo 'is cobbers reckoned crook;
But 'e 'ad a trick wiv figgers that ud make a clerk look sick;
So 'e pencilled fer a bookie; an' 'e 'awked a bit, did Mick.

A bloke can't be partic'lar 'oo must battle fer a crust;
An' some, they pinch fer preference, an' some, becos they must.
When times is 'ard, an' some swell coves is richer than they ort;
Well, it's jist a little gamble fer a rise, agin the Court.

Now, Mick wus never in it as a reel perfeshnal crook,
But sometimes cops 'as slabs uv luck, so sometimes 'e wus took,
An' 'e got a repitation, thro' 'im bein' twice interned;
But 'e didn't skite about it, 'cos 'e felt it wasn't earned.

I reckerlect one time a Beak slings Mick a slab uv guff,
Wiv 'Thirty days or forty bob' (Mick couldn't raise the stuff) -
An' arsts 'im where 'is conshuns is, an' w'y 'e can't be good,
An' Mick jist grins, an' takes it out, an' never understood.

An' that is orl there wus to Mick, wiv orl 'is leery ways.
If I wus up among the 'eads, wiv right to blame or praise,
Whenever some sich bloke as 'im wus tucked away fer good
I'd chalk them words above 'is 'ead: ''E never understood.'

If I wus up among the 'eads, wiv right to judge the game,
I'd look around fer chance to praise, an' sling the flamin' blame;
Fer findin' things in blokes to praise pays divvies either way;
An' wot they're blamed fer yesterd'y brings 'earty cheers to-day.

Yes, 'earty cheers frum thortless coots 'oo feel dead sure their God
Would never 'ave no time fer crooks 'oo does a stretch in quod;
'Oo reckon 'eaven is a place where orl folk tork correck,
An' judgment, where the 'vulgar' gits it solid in the neck.

An' Ginger Mick wus vulgar. 'Struth! When things wus gettin' slow
'E took to 'awkin' rabbits, wich is very, very low-
'E wus the sort o' bloke to watch when 'e come in yer gate:
'E 'ad a narsty fightin' face that orl nice people 'ate.

'E 'ad that narsty fightin' face that peacefulfolk call grim;
But I 'ave seen it grow reel soft when kiddies spoke to 'im.
'E 'ad them narsty sullen eyes that nice folk can't enjure;
But I 'ave seen a smile in 'em that made our frien'ship sure.

There's men 'oo never knoo ole Mick, an' passed 'im in the street,
An' looks away an' sez, 'See 'im? A narsty chap to meet!
'E'd be an ugly customer alone an' after dark!'
An' Mick, 'e'd twitch 's jor at 'em, 'arf earnest, 'arf a lark.

That wus the sort o' character that Mick earned be 'is looks.
The talk uv 'im, the walk uv 'im, put 'im among the crooks.
An' Mick, 'e looks on swank an' style as jist a lot o' flam,
An' snouted them that snouted 'im, an' never give a dam.

But spite uv orl 'is 'ulkin' frame, an' langwidge flowin' free
I seen the thing inside uv Mick that made 'im good to me.
An' spite uv orl the sneerin' ways that leery blokes imploy,
I knoo 'im jist fer wot 'e wus - a big, soft-'earted boy.

Fer when a bloke 'as come to be reel cobbers wiv a bloke,
They sorter swap good fellership wivout words bein' spoke.
I never slung no guff to Mick, 'e never smooged to me,
But we could smoke, an' 'old our jor, an' be reel company.

There 'as bin times that 'e would curse to 'ave recalled by me,
When I 'ave seen 'im doin' things that coves calls charity;
An' there's been times, an' frequent times, in spite uv orl 'is looks,
When I 'ave 'eard 'im sayin' things that blokes shoves inter books.

But Ginger Mick was Ginger Mick - a leery boy, fer keeps,
'Oo 'owled 'Wile Rabbee!' in the streets, in tones that gave yeh creeps.
'E never planned 'is mode uv life, nor chose the Lane fer lair,
No more than 'e designed 'is chiv or colour uv 'is 'air.

So Ginger 'awked, an' Ginger pinched, an' Ginger went to quod,
An' never thort to waste 'is time in blamin' man or God -
An' then there came the Call uv Stoush, or jooty - wot's a name?
An' Ginger cocked 'is 'ear to it, an' found 'is flamin' game.

I intrajuice me cobber 'ere; an' don't make no ixcuse
To any culchered click that it's a peb I intrajuice.
I dunno wot 'is ratin' wus in this 'ere soshul plan;
I only know, inside o' me, I intrajuice a man.

Ow! Wow! Wow!
(Funeral note sustained by flutes, suggesting a long-bodied,
short-legged, large-headed dog in anguish.)
Ow! Wow!
We are the people who make the row;
We are the nation that skites and brags;
Marching the goose-step; waving the falgs.
Hoch!
We talk too much, and we lose our block,
We scheme and spy; we plot, we lie
To blow the whoe world into the sky.
The Kaiser spouts, and the Junkers rave.
Hoch! for the Superman, strong and brave!
But what is the use of a Superman,
With 'frightfulness' for his darling plan,
If he has no cities to burn and loot,
No women to ravish, no babies to shoot?
Shall treaties bind us against our wish?
Rip! Swish!
(Violins: Tearing noise as of scraps of paper being destroyed.)
Now at last shall the whole world learn
Of the cult of the Teuton, strong and stern!
Ho! for the Superman running amok!
Hoch!


Um - ta, um - ta, tiddley - um - tum!
(Uncertain note, as of a German band that has been told to move on.)
Pompety - pom pom - tiddeley - um - tum!
Way for the 'blond beasts!' Here they come!
While big guns thunder the nations' doom.
Boom!
Room! Room!
Room for the German! A place in the sun!
He'll play the Devil now he's begun!
Ker-r-r-rump!....Bump!...
(Drums: Noise of an exploding cathedral.)
Ho, the gaping wound and the bleeding stump!
Watch the little ones how they jump!
While we shoot and stab, and plunder and grab,
Spurred by a Kaiser's arrogant gab;
While the Glorious Junker
Grows drunker,
And drunker, on blood.
Blood! Blood!
Sword or cannon or fire or flood,
Never shall stay our conquering feet -
On through city and village street -
Feet that savagely, madly tread,
Over the living; over the dead.
Shoot! Shoot!
Burn and pillage and slay and loot!
To the sound of our guns shall the whole world rock!
Hoch!


Shrieks!
(Flutes, piccolos and trombones render, respectively, the cries of
children, shrieks of women and groans of tortured non-cambatants.
Violins wail mournfully.)
Shrieks! Shrieks!
Hoch der Kaiser! The whole land reeks
With tales of torture and savage rape,
Of fiends and satyrs in human shape;
Fat hands grabbing where white flesh shrinks;
And murdered age to the red earth sinks.
Kill! Kill!
Now at length shall we gorge our fill,
And all shall bow to the German will!
By the maids we ravish our lust to slake,
By the smoking ruin that mark our wake,
By the blood we spill,and the hearths we blast....
This is The Day! The Day at last!....
Praise to God! On our bended knees,
We render thaks for boons like these.
For God and the Kaiser our cohorts flock!
Hoch!
(Scrap of German hymn-tune interpolated here.)


Ach! Donnerwelter! Himmel! Ach!
(Medley of indescribable noises rendered by full orchestra, symbolic,
partly of a German band that is being severely kicked by an irate householder,
and partly innumerable blutwursts suddenly arrested in mid-career.)
Ach! Ach!
'Dot vos not fair to shoot in der back!'
Who is this that as dared to face
Our hosts unconquered, and, pace by pace,
Presses us backward, and ever back.
Over the blasted, desolate rack?
What of the plans we planned so well?
We looked for victory - this is Hell!
Hold! Hold!
Mark the heaps of our comrades bold;
Look on the corpses of Culture's sons -
Martyrs slain by a savage's guns.
Respite now, in this feast of death!
Time! An Armistice! Give us breath!
Nay? Then we cry to the whole wide world,
Shame on our foe for a plea denied!
Savages! Brutes! Barbarians all!
Here shall we fight with our backs to the wall!


Boom! Boom! Boom!
(Ten more thousands gone to their doom.)
Boom!
(Bass drums only, for 679,358 bars, symbolising a prolonged artillery war.
Into this there breaks suddenly the frenzied howl of the long-bodied,
short-legged, large-deaded dog already mentioned.)
Hate! Hate! Hate! Hate!
We spit on the British here at our gate!
Foe of humanity! Curst of the world!
On him alone let our hate be hurled!
For his smiling sneers at the Junkers' creed,
For his cold rebuke to a Kaiser's greed;
For his calm disdain of our noble race,
We fling our spite in his scornful face.
Under the sea and high in the air,
Death shall seek for him everywhere;
The lurking death in the submarine,
The swooping death in the air machine,
Alone of them all he had sealed our fate!
Hate! Hate! HATE!
(Prolonged discord, followed by deep, mysterious silence - imposed by censor -
for 793 bars.)


Bang!
(Deep staccato note as of a bursting blutwurst.)
Ow! Wow! Wow!
(Dying howl of a stricken hound. Silence again for an indefinite number of
bars. Then, in countless bars, saloons, tea-shops, coffee-houses, cafes and
restaurants throughout the British Empire and most of Europe, a sudden, loud,
triumphant chorus, toned by a note of relief, and dominated by 'The Marseillaise'
and 'Tipperary.' A somewhat uncertain but distinctly nasal cheer is heard from
the direction of New York.)


Peace! Peace!
At last the sounds of the big guns cease;
At last the beast is chased to his lair,
And we breathe again of the good, clean air.
The gates have fallen! The Allies win!
And the boys are macrhing about Berlin!
The Kaiser's down; and the story goes
A British Tommy has pulled his nose.
The German eagle has got the pip:
Vive les Allies!...Hooroo!...Hip! Hip!...

Somewhere or other, 'tis doubtful where,
In the archives of Gosh is a volume rare,
A precious old classic that nobody reads,
And nobody asks for, and nobody heeds;
Which makes it a classic, and famed thro' the land,
As well-informed persons will quite understand.

'Tis a ponderous work, and 'tis written in prose,
For some mystical reason that nobody knows;
And it tells in a style that is terse and correct
Of the rule of the Swanks and its baneful effect
On the commerce of Gosh, on its morals and trade;
And it quotes a grave prophecy somebody made.

And this is the prophecy, written right bold
On a parchment all tattered and yellow and old;
So old and so tattered that nobody knows
How far into foretime its origin goes.
But this is the writing that set Glugs agog
When 'twas called to their minds by the Mayor of Quog:


When Gosh groaneth bastlie thro Greed and bys plannes
Ye rimer shall mende ye who mendes pottes and pans.


Now, the Mayor of Quog, a small suburb of Gosh,
Was intensely annoyed at the act of King Splosh
In asking the Mayor of Piphel to tea
With himself and the Queen on a Thursday at three;
When the King must have known that the sorriest dog,
If a native of Piphel, was hated in Quog.

An act without precedent! Quog was ignored!
The Mayor and Council and Charity Board,
They met and considered this insult to Quog;
And they said, ' 'Tis the work of the treacherous Og!
'Tis plain the Og influence threatens the Throne;
And the Swanks are all crazed with this trading in stone.'

Said the Mayor of Quog: 'This has long been foretold
In a prophecy penned by the Seer of old.
We must search, if we'd banish the curse of our time,
For a mender of pots who's a maker of rhyme.
'Tis to him we must look when our luck goes amiss.
But, Oh, where in all Gosh is a Glug such as this?'

Then the Mayor and Council and Charity Board
O'er the archival prophecy zealously pored,
With a pursing of lips and a shaking of heads,
With a searching and prying for possible threads
That would lead to discover this versatile Glug
Who modelled a rhyme while he mended a mug.

With a pursing of lips and a shaking of heads,
They gave up the task and went home to their beds,
Where each lay awake while he tortured his brain
For a key to the riddle, but ever in vain . . .
Then, lo, at the Mayor's front door in the morn
A tinker called out, and a Movement was born.


'Kettles and pans! Kettles and pans!
Oh, the stars are the god; but the earth, it is man's.
But a fool is the man who has wants without end,
While the tinker's content with a kettle to mend.
For a tinker owns naught but the earth, which is man's.
Then, bring out your kettles! Ho, kettles and pans!'


From the mayoral bed with unmayoral cries
The magistrate sprang ere he'd opened his eyes.
'Hold him!' he yelled, as he bounced on the floor.
'Oh, who is this tinker that rhymes at my door?
Go get me the name and the title of him 1'
They answered. 'Be calm, sir. 'Tis no one but Sym.

'Tis Sym, the mad tinker, the son of old Joi,
Who ran from his home when a bit of a boy.
He went for a tramp, tho' 'tis common belief,
When folk were not looking he went for a thief;
Then went for a tinker, and rhymes as he goes.
Some say he's crazy, but nobody knows.'

'Twas thus it began, the exalting of Sym,
And the mad Gluggish struggle that raged around him.
For the good Mayor seized him, and clothed him in silk,
And fed him on pumpkins and pasteurised milk,
And praised him in public, and coupled his name
With Gosh's vague prophet of archival fame.

The Press interviewed him a great many times,
And printed his portrait, and published his rhymes;
Till the King and Sir Stodge and the Swanks grew afraid
Of his fame 'mid the Glugs and the trouble it made.
For, wherever Sym went in the city of Gosh,
There were cheers for the tinker, and hoots for King Splosh.

His goings and comings were watched for and cheered;
And a crowd quickly gathered where'er he appeared.
All the folk flocked around him and shouted his praise;
For the Glugs followed fashion, and Sym was a craze.
They sued him for words, which they greeted with cheers,
For the way with a Glug is to tickle his ears.

'0, speak to us, Tinker! Your wisdom we crave!'
They'd cry when they saw him; then Sym would look grave,
And remark, with an air, ''Tis a very fine day.'
'Now ain't he a marvel?' they'd shout. 'Hip, Hooray!'
'To live,' would Sym answer, 'To live is to feel!'
'And ain't he a poet?' a fat Glug would squeal.

Sym had a quaint fancy in phrase and in text;
When he'd fed them with one they would howl for the next.
Thus he'd cry, 'Love is love 1' and the welkin they'd lift
With their shouts of surprise at his wonderful gift.
He would say 'After life, then a Glug must meet death!'
And they'd clamour for more ere he took the next breath.

But Sym grew aweary of this sort of praise,
And he longed to be back with his out-o'-door days,
With his feet in the grass and his back to a tree,
Rhyming and tinkering, fameless and free.
He said so one day to the Mayor of Quog,
And declared he'd as lief live the life of a dog.

But the Mayor was vexed; for the Movement had grown,
And his dreams had of late soared as high as a throne.
'Have a care! What is written is written,' said he.
'And the dullest Glug knows what is written must be.
'Tis the prophet of Gosh who has prophesied it;
And 'tis thus that 'tis written by him who so writ:

''Lo, the Tinker of Gosh he shall make him three rhymes:
One on the errors and aims of his times,
One on the symptoms of sin that he sees,
And the third and the last on whatever he please.
And when the Glugs hear them and mark what they mean
The land shall be purged and the nation made clean.''

So Sym gave a promise to write then and there
Three rhymes to be read in the Great Market Square
To all Glugs assembled on Saturday week.
'And then,' said the Mayor, 'if still you must seek
To return to your tramping, well, just have your fling;
But I'll make you a marquis, or any old thing . . .'
Said Sym, 'I shall tinker, and still be a king.'

I've crawled; I've eaten dirt; I've lied a treat;
I've dodged the cops an' led a double life;
I've readied up wild tales to tell me wife,
W'ich afterwards I've 'ad to take an' eat
Red raw. Aw, I been goin' it to beat
A big massed band: mixin' with sin an' strife,
Gettin' me bellers punchered with a knife
An' all but endin' up in Russell Street.

I've mixed it - with the blessin' uv the church -
Down there in Spadgers, fightin' mad, an' blind
With 'oly rage. I've 'ad full leaf to smirch
Me tongue with sich rude words as come to mind,
Becos I 'ated leavin' in the lurch
Wot Ginger Mick, me cobber, left be'ind.

Don't git me wrong. I never went an' planned
No gory all-in scraps or double deals.
But one thing follered on another 'eels,
Jist like they do in life, until I land
Flop in the soup - surprised, you understand,
But not averse; jist like a feller feels
'Oo reaches fer the water-jug at meals
An' finds a dinkum gargle in 'is 'and.

Su'prised but not averse. That puts it right
An', if Fate 'as these things all fixed before,
Well, wot's a bloke to do, to 'oo a fight
Was not unwelkim in the days of yore?
Pertickler when 'e knows 'is cause is right
An' 'as a gorspil spritiker to ongcore.

Regardin' morils, I was on a cert;
Fer if I'd missed the step an' fell frum grace
By rudely pushin' in me brother's face
Without no just ixcuse, it might uv 'urt.
But this Spike Wegg - the narsty little squirt! -
Collected 'is becos ther' was no trace
Uv virchoo in the cow. 'Is aims was base
When 'e laid out to tempt a honest skirt.

An' so me arm was strong becoz me cause
Was on the square, an' I don't 'esitate.
The parson bloke, 'e sez all moril laws
They justified me act . . . . But, anyrate,
Before I crools this yarn we better pause
Till I gives you the dope an' git it straight.

Now, Ginger Mick, me cobber, went to war,
An' on Gallipoli, 'e wandered West.
Per'aps, less said about 'is life the best;
It was 'is death that shoved along 'is score.
But that tale's old; an' Ginger ain't no more.
'E done 'is bit an' faded, like the rest
'Oo fought an' fell an' left wot they loved best
In 'opes they'd be dealt fair by pals of yore.

An' all Mick left was Rose. 'Look after Rose.
Mafeesh!' 'e sez when 'e was on the brink.
An' there was thousan's like 'im, I suppose.
I ain't no moralizer fer to think
Wot others ort to do; I only knows
I 'ad me job, frum w'ich I durstn't shrink.

Unless you 'ave a beat down Spadgers way
I don't ixpect you ever met with Rose.
She don't move in yer circle, I suppose,
Or call to bite a bun upon yer Day.
An' if yeh got a intro, I dare say
Yeh'd take it snifty an' turn up yer nose.
Now that we don't need Micks to fight our foes
Them an' their Roses 'as to fade away.

They 'ave to simmer down an' not ubtrude,
Now we are safe an' finished with the war.
We don't intend to be unkind or rude
Or crayfish on the things we said before
Uv our brave boys. An', as fer gratichood,
Well, there's a Guv'mint, ain't there? Wot's it for?

But Mick buzzed orf too quick to wed a bride
An' leave a widder doo fer Guv'mint aid.
Spite uv ole Spadgers, Rose was still a maid;
An' spite uv Spadgers, she still 'as 'er pride
That wouldn't let 'er whimper if she tried,
Or profit by 'er misery, an' trade
On Mick's departin' an' the noise it made.
I know 'er. An' I know she'd sooner died.

I know 'er. But to them that never knows,
An' never tries to know the 'earts an' ways
Uv common folk, there wus n't much to Rose
That called fer any speshul loud 'Oorays -
Nothin' 'eroic. She's jist 'one uv those' -
One uv the ruck that don't attract our gaze.

I guess you was n't born down Spadgers way,
Or spent yer child'ood in the gutter there
Jist runnin' wild, or dragged up be the 'air
Till you was fit to earn a bit of pay
By honest toil or - any other way.
You never 'ad to battle to keep square,
Or learn, first 'and, uv every trap an' snare
That life 'as waitin' for yeh day by day.

But I 'ave read about a flower that grows
Once in a while upon a 'eap uv muck.
It ain't the flower's own choosin', I suppose,
An' bein' sweet an' pure is jist its luck.
There's 'uman blooms I've knowed the like uv those,
Strugglin' in weeds; an' 'struth! I like their pluck.

Don't make no error. I ain't givin' Rose
The 'igh-bred manners uv some soshul queen.
She were n't no shrinkin', simperin', girleen,
With modest glances droopin' to 'er toes.
She'd smash a prowlin' male acrost the nose
As quick as any tart I ever seen.
But, bli'me, she was straight an' she was clean,
As more than one mauled lady-killer knows.

Straight as a die! An' jist as clean an' sweet
An' thorny as the bloom 'oose name she bears.
To cling on to 'er virchoo weren't no feat
With 'er; she simply kep' it unawares
An' natchril, like people trust their feet,
An' don't turn silly 'and-springs on the stairs.

That's 'ow Mick found, an' left 'er - straight an' clean.
She seen the good in 'im long years before
'E proved it good an' plenty at the war.
She loved an' mothered 'im becos she seen
The big, softhearted boy 'e'd alwiz been
Be'ind 'is leery ways an' fightin' jor,
An' all 'is little mix-ups with the Lor.
She knoo 'e weren't the man to treat 'er mean.

They was a proper match. But Mick, 'e goes
An' slips 'is wind, there, on Gallipoli;
Jist pausin' to remark, 'Look after Rose.'
An', if them partin' words weren't meant fer me,
Well, I'm the gay angora, I suppose,
In this divertin' slab uv 'istory.

It ain't no soft romance, with pale pink bows,
This common little tale I 'ave to tell
Concernin' common on folk, an' wot befell
When me an' my ole parson cobber goes
An' does our bit in lookin' after Rose.
The Church admits I done my part reel well;
An' there won't be no need to ring a bell
Or call the cops in when the langwidge flows.

So, 'ere's a go. If my remarks is plain
An' short uv frills, they soots me tale; an' so,
I 'opes the rood boorjosie will refrain
Frum vulger chuckin'-orf; fer well I know
Ladies an' gentlemen uv Spadgers Lane
Won't fail to un'erstand. So, 'ere's a go.

Now, a visitor from somewhere right outside this Mundane Ball
Do not ask me where he came from, for that point's not clear at all;
For he might have been an angel, or he might have come from Mars,
Or from any of the other of the fixed or unfixed stars.
As regards his mental make-up he was much like you or me;
And he toured about the country, just to see what he could see.

Well, this superhuman person was of most inquiring mind,
And 'twas noted, from his questions, he was very far from blind,
And the striking thing about him was his stern, compelling eye,
That demanded Truth ungarbled when he paused for a reply.
And, despite the mental wriggles of the folk he interviewed,
When they placed the Truth before him she was ab-so-lutely nude.

At our Civilised Society he stared in some amaze,
As he muttered his equivalent for 'Gosh!' or 'Spare me days!'
For our cherished modes and customs knocked him sideways, so to speak.
'To solve,' said he, 'this mystery, now whither shall I seek?
For a sane and sound solution I must question those on high,'
Said this extra-mundane being with the stern, compelling eye.

Now, his methods were intelligent - I confess,
For he started with our Politics, religion and the Press.
Thus, he read a morning paper through, intently, ev'ry leaf,
Then hied him out to interview the editor-in-chief:
'They say that Truth lives in a well,' he muttered as he went;
'But her well is not an inkwell, I will lay my last lone cent.'

It chanced he found the editor unguarded and alone
At the office of the paper - 'twas the MORNING MEGAPHONE.
'Now, I take it,' said the visitor, 'you represent the Press,
That great Public Educator?' And the pressman murmured, 'Yes.'
'Yet in yesterday's edition I perceived a glaring lie!
How's this?' He fixed the pressman with his stern, compelling eye.

Then the editor he stammered, and the editor he 'hemmed'
And muttered things like 'Gracious me!' and likewise, 'Well, I'm demned!'
But the lady Truth came tripping, all undressed and unashamed;
'Oh, I own it!' cried the editor. 'But how can I be blamed?
There's our blighted advertisers and our readers - Spare my grief!
But we've got to please the public!' moaned the editor-in-chief.

'Now to interview a statesman and consider his reply,'
Said this strange Select Committee with the stern, compelling eye.
And the Honorable Member for Mud Flat he chanced to find
In a noble Spring-street building of a most palatial kind.
And the Honorable Member viewed his visitor with awe,
For he surely had the most compelling eye you ever saw.

'Now, then, tell me,' said the visitor; 'you are a man of State,
And you blither on the platform of this Nation grand and great;
Of this noble Land's great destiny I've heard you talking hard,
But, whene'er it comes to voting, it's the 'claims' of your back yard.
Do you represent the Nation, as you often say you do,
Or a hen-roost or a cow-yard, or a parish-pump or two?'

Then the politician stuttered, and the politician stared,
But to voice his patriotic platitudes he felt too scared;
For the lady Truth insisted, and he blurted, 'It's the Votes!
You must blame the dashed electors when you see us turn our coats!
Our constituents control us. You must please remember that.
And we've got to please the public!' whined the Member for Mud Flat.

'Now to look into religion,' said the visitor, 'I'm told
I may get much information from a Wowser-of-the-Fold.'
And he sought him out a Wowser of the very sternest breed:
'Sweet Charity, they tell me, is the keynote of your creed.
And of mercy for the sinner, and of succor for the weak
>From the pulpit, on a Sunday, I have often heard you speak;
Yet Charity is turned to Spite, and Scorn becomes your creed
When they speak of giving bounty to weak Magadalene in need.'

Then the Wowser hesitated, and the Wowser rolled his eyes,
And sought in vain to call to mind some Wowserish replies.
But the lady truth came peeping, and the Wowser cried, 'O, Lor!'
And he hastily drew the blind and softly closed the door.
'She is naked!' gasped the Wowser. 'Oh, where are the hussy's clothes?
If my dear brethren saw me now! Oh, what do you suppose!'

'The Truth!' exclaimed the querist with the stern, compelling eye.
''Tis my flock!' exclaimed the Wowser. 'Oh, I cannot tell a lie!
My flock of virgins sour and chaste, and matrons undeceived,
They would hound me from the pulpit if I said what I believed!
I dot on notoriety! The Truth it must be told.
Oh, I've got to please my public!' moaned the Wowser-of-the-Fold.

'Now, this Public; I must nail it,' said the queer Inquisitor.
''Tis the favor of this mighty god they all seem eager for;
And they always strive to please him, and his sentiments express
In their Parliaments and Pulpits and their organs of the Press.
And I'll get a sure solution if I hvae the luck to meet -
What is this he's called? - the Man, or Bloque, or Fellow-in-the-Street.'

A Fellow-in-the-Street was found, and typical was he,
An eager hunter of the thing that men call £. s. d.
He wore a strained expression on his features, dull and flat,
Also bifurcated coat-tails, and a little hard round hat.
His talk was mainly platitutdes, when it wasn't shop or horse,
And he had some fixed opinions and a bank account, of course.

'Now, then, tell me,' said the visitant, 'What are you private views
On you Politics, Religion and the Sheet that gives you news?
I have heard a lot about you, and a deal I'd like to know
Of why you work, and what you think, and where you hope to go.
I feel assured that I shall find the Truth in your reply.'
And he fixed the foolish Fellow with his stern, compelling eye.

The Fellow hemmed and hawed a bit, the Fellow looked about,
And the lady Truth smiled sweetly while he murmured, as in doubt.
'Well, re-al-ly, my views upon those things I can't express.
You must ask our Politicians and the Parsons and the Press.
But as for me - well, candidly, you've got me off my beat;
For I don't know much about it!' said the Fellow-in-the-Street.

''Tis the Circle!' cried the visitor. ''Tis the same old crazy game
Right through the trackless Milky Way to there from whence I came.
The Earth is round, the Moon is round, and Jupitre and Mars,
Their orbit's all, and Saturn's rings, and countless million stars.
All throughout the constellations I have journeyed, to and fro,
But ev'rything goes round and round no matter where I go.
All the Universe is circles! All one tantalising twirl!
Oh, is there nothing straight or square in all this cosmic whirl?

And with these strange and cryptic words the Being fled afar,
Back to his native hiding-place - his fixed or unfixed star.
Some say his name was 'Reason,' other hold 'twas 'Intellect':
But as for me I have no views to voice in that respect.
His motives seemed mysterious; I know not how nor why;
I only know he had a stern and most compelling eye.

If ole Pharaoh, King of Egyp', 'ad been gazin' on the scene
'E'd' ave give the A.I.F. a narsty name
When they done their little best to scrub 'is dirty Kingdom clean,
An' to shift 'is ancient 'eap uv sin an' shame.
An' I'm tippin' they'd 'ave phenyled 'im, an' rubbed it in 'is 'ead.
But old Pharaoh, King uv Egyp', 'e is dead.

So yeh don't 'ear much about it; an' it isn't meant yeh should,
Since 'is Kingship wasn't there to go orf pop;
An' this mishunery effort fer to make the 'eathen good
Wus a contract that the fellers 'ad to drop.
There wus other pressin' matters, so they 'ad to chuck the fun,
But the Battle uv the Wazzir took the bun.

Now, Ginger Mick 'e writes to me a long, ixcited note,
An' 'e writes it in a whisper, so to speak;
Fer I guess the Censor's shadder wus across 'im as 'e wrote,
An' 'e 'ad to bottle things that musn't leak.
So I ain't got orl the strength uv it; but sich as Ginger sends
I rejooce to decent English fer me friends.

It wus part their native carelessness, an' part their native skite;
Fer they kids themselves they know the Devil well,
'Avin' met 'im, kind uv casu'l, on some wild Australian night-
Wine an' women at a secon'-rate 'otel.
But the Devil uv Australia 'e's a little woolly sheep
To the devils wot the desert children keep.

So they mooches round the drink-shop's, an' the Wazzir took their eye,
An' they found old Pharoah's daughters pleasin' Janes;
An' they wouldn't be Australian 'less they give the game a fly . . .
An' Egyp' smiled an' totted up 'is gains.
'E doped their drinks, an' breathed on them 'is aged evil breath . . .
An' more than one woke up to long fer death.

When they wandered frum the newest an' the cleanest land on earth,
An' the filth uv ages met 'em, it wus 'ard.
Fer there may be sin an' sorrer in the country uv their birth;
But the dirt uv cenchuries ain't in the yard.
They wus children, playin' wiv an asp, an' never fearin' it,
An' they took it very sore when they wus bit.

First, they took the tales fer furphies.. when they got around the camp,
Uv a cove done in fer life wiv one night's jag,
But when the yarns grew 'ot an' strong an' bore the 'all-mark stamp
Uv dinkum oil, they waved the danger flag.
An' the shudder that a clean man feels when 'e's su'prized wiv dirt
Gripped orl the camp reel solid; an' it 'urt.

There wus Bill from up the Billabong, 'oo's dearest love wus cow,
An' 'oo lived an' thought an' fought an' acted clean.
'E wus lately frum 'is mother wiv 'er kiss wet on 'is brow;
But they snared 'im in, an' did 'im up reel mean.
Fer young Bill, wus gone a million, an' 'e never guessed the game. . .
For 'e's down in livin' 'ell, an' marked fer sbame.

An' Bill wus only one uv 'em to fall to Eastern sin
Ev'ry comp'ny 'ad a rotten tale to tell,
An' there must be somethin' doin' when the strength uv it sunk in
To a crowd that ain't afraid to clean up 'ell.
They wus game to take a gamble; but this dirt dealt to a mate-
Well, it riled 'em; an' they didn't 'esitate.

'Ave 'yeh seen a crowd uv fellers takin' chances 'on a game,
Crackin' 'ard while they thought it on the square?
'Ave yeh 'eard their owl uv anguish when they tumbled to the same,
'Avin' found they wus the victums uv a snare?
It wus jist that sort uv anger when they fell to Egyp's stunt;
An', remember, they wus trainin' fer the front.

I 'ave notions uv the Wazzir. It's as old as Pharaoh's tomb;
It's as cunnin' as the oldest imp in 'ell;
An' the game it plays uv lurin' blokes, wiv love-songs, to their doom
Wus begun when first a tart 'ad smiles to sell.
An' it stood there thro' the ages; an' it might be standin' still
If it 'adn't bumped a clean cove, name o' Bill.

An' they done it like they done it when a word went to the push
That a nark 'oo'd crooled a pal wus run to ground.
They done it like they done it when the blokes out in the bush
Passed a telegraft that cops wus nosin' round.
There wus no one rung a fire-bell, but the tip wus passed about;
An' they fixed a night to clean the Wazzir out.

Yes, I've notions uv the Wazzir. It's been pilin' up its dirt
Since it mated wiv the Devil in year One,
An' spawned a brood uv evil things to do a man a 'urt
Since the lurk uv snarin' innercents begun.
But it's sweeter an' it's cleaner since one wild an' woolly night
When the little A.I.F. put up a fight.

Now, it started wiv some 'orseplay. If the 'eads 'ad seen the look,
Dead in earnest, that wus underneath the fun,
They'd 'ave tumbled there wus somethin' that wus more than commin crook,
An' 'ave stopped the game before it 'arf begun.
But the fellers larfed like school-boys, tbo' they orl wus more than narked,
An' they 'ad the 'ouses well an' truly marked.

Frum a little crazy balkiney that clawed agin a wall
A chair come crasbin' down into the street;
Then a woman's frightened screamin' give the sign to bounce the ball,
An' there came a sudden rush uv soljers' feet.
There's a glimpse uv frightened faces as a door caved in an' fell;
An' the Wazzir wus a 'owlin' screamin' 'ell.

Frum a winder 'igh above 'em there's a bloke near seven feet,
Waves a bit uv naked Egyp' in the air.
An' there's squealin' an' there's shriekin' as they chased 'em down the street,
When they dug 'em out like rabbits frum their lair.
Then down into the roadway gaudy 'ouse'old gods comes fast,
An' the Wazzir's Great Spring Cleanin' starts at last.

Frum the winders came pianners an' some giddy duchess pairs;
An' they piled 'em on the roadway in the mire,
An' 'eaped 'em 'igh wiv fal-de-rals an' pretty parlor chairs,
Which they started in to purify wiv fire.
Then the Redcaps come to argue, but they jist amused the mob;
Fer tbe scavengers wus warmin' to their job.

When the fire-reels come to quell 'em-'struth! they 'ad no bloomin' 'ope;
Fer they cut the 'ose to ribbons in a jiff;
An' they called u'pon tbe drink-shops an' poured out their rotten dope,
While the nigs 'oo didn't run wus frightened stiff.
An' when orb wus done an' over, an' they wearied uv the strife,
That old Wazzir'd 'ad the scourin' uv its life.

Now, old Gin er ain't quite candid; 'e don't say where 'e came in;
But 'e mentions that'e don't get no C.B.,
An' 'e's 'ad some pretty practice dodgin' punishment fer sin
Down in Spadger's since 'is early infancy.
So I guess, if they went after 'im, they found 'im snug in bed.
Fer old Ginger 'as a reel tactician's 'ead.

An' 'e sez that when 'e wandered down the Wazzir later on
It wus like a 'ome where 'oliness reposed;
Fer its sinfulness wus 'idden, an' its brazenness wus gone,
An' its doors, wiv proper modesty, wus closed.
If a 'ead looked out a winder, as they passed, it quick drew in;
Fer the Wazzir wus a wowser, scared from sin.

If old Pharaoh, King uv Egyp', 'e 'ad lived to see the day
When they tidied up 'is 'eap uv shame an' sin,
Well, 'e mighter took it narsty, fer our fellers 'ave a way
Uv completin' any job that they begin.
An' they might 'ave left 'is Kingship nursin' gravel-rash in bed. . .
But old Pharaoh, King uv Egyp', 'e is dead.

I'm standin' at the corner uv the Lane
The Land called Spadgers - waiting fer 'is jills.
The night's come chilly, an' a drizzlin' rain
Falls steady where a near-by street lamp spills
A gashly yeller light on stones all wet,
An' makes the darkest corners darker yet.

Them darkest corners! 'Struth! Wot ain't I 'eard
Uv dark deeds done there in the olden days,
When crooks inticed some silly sozzled bird
Upstage, an' dealt with 'im in unkind ways
Bashed 'im with bottles, woodened 'im with boots.
Spadgers was rood to flush an' festive coots.

If you are flush in Spadgers, 'tain't good form
To git too festive, if you valyer thrift.
To flash yer gilt an' go the pace too warm
Might make the Lane regard yeh as a gift.
Ther's nothin' loose they're likely to ferget;
An' all yeh've left is 'eadache an' regret.

Lestwise, that's 'ow it used to be. They say
The Lane's reformed, an' took to honest trade.
An' so yeh'd think, to see it uv a day,
All prim an' proper. But when ev'nin's shade
Comes down, an' fools as stacks uv beans to spill,
Why, 'umin nacher's 'urnin nacher still.

Don't git me wrong. An' jist in case you might
Misjudge the gents 'oo plys their callin' there,
In Spadgers darkest corners uv a night,
Wot time a shikkered mug 'as gonce to spare,
I'd jist ixplain they takes their point uv view
Frum diff'rint angles to sich birds as you.

F'rinstance, s'posin' blokes like me an' you
('Oo is raspectabil, I 'ope) should see
Some prodigal all 'eadin' fer to do
A one-ack 'Road to Ruin' tragedy,
Would we jist let 'im flop before our eyes
Or, bein' decint 'umins, put 'im wise?

Would we not try to 'alt the wayward feet
Uv this 'ere errin' brother with a word
Before 'is moril knock-out was complete?
O' course we would. Advice is cheap, I've 'eard.
When sinners miss the step ther's few men ain't
Itchin' like 'ell to preach, an' be a saint.

Well, s'pose again, the Lane should see a bloke
Dead keen to splash around 'is surplis wealth
On rapid livin' till 'e's bust an' broke
An' rooned in repitation an' in 'ealth,
Do they tork empty words, an' let 'im go,
Jist for a chance to say, 'I tole yeh so!'

Not them. They say, ' 'Ere is a wasteful coot
'Oo will be sorry ere tamorrer's sun.'
Per meejim, then, uv bottle or uv boot
They learn 'im wisdom, an' 'is sinful fun
Is ended. An', for quick results, their style
'As all yer preachin' beaten be a mile.

Quick-action missionaries, you might say.
When they sees some stray sheep inclined to roam
An' chuck 'is 'ealth an' character away,
They takes stern measures for to lead 'im 'ome.
An', if they reaps some profits at the game,
Well, 'oo are me an' you to sling 'em blame?

I'm standin' at the corner uv the Lane
Toyin' with sich thorts idly, when I spys
A furtive coot come sloushin' through the rain
An' stop to size me up with sidelong eyes.
An' then 'e chats me, with the punkest tale
That ever got a bad man into jail.

I s'pose me face ain't clear in that 'arf-dark,
Or else 'e was near-sighted. An' I s'pose
I mighter seemed to 'im a easy mark
Me in me farmer's 'at an' country clo'es.
But, strike, it 'urt me pride to think that 'e
Would try to ring that old, old dope on me.

On me! 'Is make-up fairly yelled 'is trade,
Brandin' 'im plain a low-down city gun.
The simple country mug was never made
'0o'd wear sich duds. It was all overdone:
'Is moleskin pants, 'is carpet-bag, 'is beard
Like some cheap stage comeejin 'e appeared.

'Hey, mate,' 'e w'ispers. 'Could yeh do a bloke
A little favor? Listen - on the square
I've done me tin. I'm bottle-green, dead broke,
An' can't git 'ome. I 'aven't got me fare.
But 'ere's me watch - reel gold - belong to Dad.
Lend us a fiver on it, will yeh, lad?'

A reel gold watch! Oh, 'elp! They worked that lay
When I was jist a barefoot kid. 'Twas old
When cheap-jacks sweated for their 'ard-earned pay
At country shows. I knoo the sort of gold
Priced in the brumy shops four an' a zac;
An' 'fore you git' 'em 'ome the gold's gone black.

'Send I may live!' I sez. 'You got a nerve!
That tale's got w'iskers longer than your own.
A slice of cold, 'ard quod's wot you deserve
For springin' duds like that! Lea' me alone;
An' try some kindergarten with that lurk.
A man's a right to crack you! Aw, git work!'

But 'e won't take a 'int nor 'old 'is jaw,
This amacher in crime with brums to sell,
But breasts right up to me an' starts to paw.
Now, likewise, that's a game I know too well:
Pawin' with one 'and while the other dips
Into yer - 'Back!' I yell, an' come to grips.

I grab 'im be the throat an' shake 'im good,
Ixpectin' 'is fake w'iskers to come loose.
'A rotten way to earn yer livli'ood!'
I growl . . . 'E grunts . . . 'Is face is goin' puce.
'You imitation crook!' I sez agen.
'Wot do yeh mean by swin'lin' honest men?'

I shake 'im 'ard once more. 'The first John 'Op
That comes,' I sez, 'can 'ave you for a gift!'
Me late idears uv thugs 'as all gone flop:
Me point uv view, some'ow,' 'as seemed to shift;
'Tain't philosophic, like it used to be,
Now someone's took a fly at thuggin' me.

'E's gurglin' nicely - clawin' at the air.
'You pest!' I sez. 'You scum! You sewer rat!
Why can't yeh earn yer livin' on the square,
An' be raspectabil?' I'm gettin' that
Right-thinkin' I am all one virchus glow.
'Leg-gug-' 'e gurgles, musical. 'Leggo!'

We made a pretty pitcher standin' there
Nocturne, as artists sez. I felt, some'ow,
That, underneath the yeller lamp-light's glare,
'Is upturned face (It's gittin' purple now)
Was sumpthin' painters would admire no end ....
Then a sharp voice be'ind me yelps, 'Young friend!'

'Young friend,' 'e sez, su'prised, 'wot-wot's amiss?
Yes; my ole parson friend. I drops the crook.
'You are nustook, young friend,' 'e sez; 'for this
Is not the man for 'oo we've conic to look.'
Then 'e stares closer at the gaspin' gun.
'Why! Bless me 'eart!' 'e chirps. 'It's Daniel Dunn!'

'It's Mister Dunn,' 'e sez, 'from Bungaroo!
My farmer friend!' ('Ere was a flamin' mess!)
'Is this 'ere coot,' I arsts, 'well knowed to you?'
The parson takes another gig. 'Why, yes.
You're Mister Dunn?' An' Whiskers answers ''Ick!'
I notice then that Daniel's partly shick.

A dinkum farmer! Strike! I'm in all wrong!
'Sorry,' I sez. 'My fault. 'Ow could I tell?
I acted nervis when 'e come along.
But, if you're sure, it might be jist as well
To intrajuice us, 'coz it would appear
Ther's been some slight misun'erstandin' 'ere.'

Then Snowy twinkles, an' pufforms the rite.
W'iskers 'as got 'is wind back with the spell)
''Appy to meet yeh, sir,' 'e sez, perlite.
'Don't mention it,' sez me. 'I 'ope you're well?'
'Not bad, consid'rin',' 'e remarks (an' takes
Me 'and) 'the narsty weather.' So we shakes.

Then I ixplain; an' W'iskers spills 'is tale
The old yarn uv the mug 'oo puts 'is trust
In nice new city frien's uv 'is 'oo fail
To keep appointments, an' 'e wakes up bust.
We spring a overdraft, an' leave 'im there,
Bristlin' with gratiehood in every 'air.

'Jist goes to show,' I sez to Snowy then.
'If I 'ad not - well, not detained yer friend,
'E mighter fallen in with reel rough men
An' ended up all narsty in the end.
I feel to-night, some'ow, me luck's dead in,
An' I could give some crook a rotten spin.'

'Young friend,' sez Snowy, solemn, 'should we meet
This man we seek to-night - this feller Wegg,
Try to be diplermatic an' discreet;
Reason with 'im; no vi'lince, friend, I beg.'
'Wot? Vi'lince? Me?' I chirps. (I'm bublin' now)
'Wot do yeh know bout that? I'll kiss the cow!'

Brothers!....
(That is to say, those of you that are.
For, even in the most altruistic mood, there are some I bar.)
Brothers!
Workers, shirkers, writers, skiters, philosophers and others,
Attend. I address myself only to those
Of the class that habitually looketh even beyond its nose.
To him I speak who shrewdly seeketh for the milk in the cocoanut, while his fellows are repeating the bald assertion that 'The fruit is not yet ripe!'
Him I address who knoweth the sheep from the goats, the chaff from the oats,
the half-quid from the gilded sixpence, and the common sense from common tripe.
To the 'Man in the Street' I speak not, nor to the 'Right-thinking Person,'
nor 'Constant Subscriber,' nor 'Vox Populi,' nor 'The Bloke on the Train,'
nor any of their band.
For of the things I write they wot not, neither may they hope to understand.
But ye whom I, even I, presume to address as brother:-
Journalists, politicians, burglars, company promoters, miners, millers,
navvies, shearers, confidence-men, piano-tuners, paling-splitters,
bookmakers, process-workers, judges, brass-fitters, policemen and others.
Attend. Him who looketh for the hall-mark on every link, and taketh not the say-so of the label, nor the sworn affidavit of the pill advertisement
him who hath it in him to discern the fair thing from that which is over the odds, and shaketh the new-laid egg that he may know what is within it
Him I address. For lo, my brothers, maybe there is one of us born once a week or thereabouts, but we know it is written that one of the others is born every minute.
Wherefore, attend,
And lend
An ear; for I have planned for you a pleasing diversion.
Come with me, my brothers, and let us make a little excursion
Out over the land, through the cities and the country places, even to the farthest limit of Back-o'-beyond. Hearken brothers! What are these sounds we hear?
Say, what is all this babbling and gabbling, this howling and growling, this muttering and spluttering, that smites the ear?
Listen again. Do you hear them, brothers? Lo, they are the Echoes calling.
They are the multitudinous echoes that sound up and down the land; crying and sighing, squalling and bawling.
In all places they sound; in the city and in the country; upon the high mountains and along the plains, wherever man hideth; and at all times, for the night is loud with the sound of them even as is the day.
Listen again, brothers! What is it that they say?
Lo, this one shouteth. 'The Time is Not Yet Ripe!' And another bawleth.
'Capital is fleeing the Land!' And yet another howleth, 'It is
Inimical to Private Enterprise and Thrift!' And yet another screameth.
'It will Bust up the Home and ruin the Marriage Tie!'
Why do they howl these things, my brothers? I ask ye, why?
For lo, even as they shout, still other Echoes take up the cry till it is increased and multiplied even unto 70,000 times seven;
And a howl, as of 1400 she-elephants simultaneously robbed of their young, assaileth Heaven.
What say ye, brothers? What is the inner significance of these Echoes, and why do they make these divers sounds? What say ye, brothers; is it because they think?
Aha! I apprehend ye! I say ye - nay, verily, I heard ye wink.
For the noise of the falling - of the flapping of your collective eyelid was even as the banging of the bar door what time the clock telleth of eleven thirty p.m., and the voice of Hebe murmureth through the night 'Good-bye, ducky.'....But I digress.
Which is a characteristic failing I must confess!
But, nevertheless,
It hath its compensations, as is plain to any noodle,
When matter is paid for at space rates, for it pileth up the boodle....
However, to resume. Let us isolate a case, my brothers. Let us sample an
Echo. Take Brown.
We all are well acquainted with Brown. Mayhap his name is Smith or Timmins, but no matter. He is the Man in the Street. He hath a domicile in the suburbs and an occupation in town.
This Brown riseth in the morning and donneth the garments of civilisation. In hot socks he garbeth his feet, and upon his back he putteth a coat which hath
a little split in the tail for no sane or accountable reason.
Except that it is an echo of the first and original split that set the fashion for the season.
Then he proceedeth to feed.
And simultaneously to read
His solemn, though occasionally hysterical, morning sheet, which he proppeth
against the cruet.
Remarking to his spouse, inter alia. 'I wish to goodness, Mirabel, you wouldn't cook these things with so much suet!'
(Which rhyme, though labored, is remarkably ingenious and very rare. For you will find, if you try to get a rhyme for cruet - But let that pass. This is more digression.
Time is money; but the space writer must contrive to sneak it with discretion.)
Lo! as Brown peruseth his apper a lugubrious voice speaketh to him from out the type,
Saying: 'Despite the howls of demagogues and the ranting of pseudo-reformers, it is patent to any close student of political economy - nay, it is obvious
even to the Man in the Street that the Time is Not Yet Ripe'
And Brown, with solemn gravity,
Having mainly a cavity
In that part of him where good grey matter should abide,
Pusheth the sheet aside,
And sayeth to the wife of his bosom across the breakfast dish of stewed tripe:
'Verily, this paper speaketh fair. The time is not yet ripe!'
Now, mark ye, brothers, it is the nature of a cavity to give back that which is spoken into it. This doth it repeat.
Wherefore Brown, with rising heat,
Sayeth again: 'Dammit, woman, this Labor Party will ruin the blanky country.
Of COURSE, the time is not yet ripe!
Where's my pipe?
And my umbrella and my goloshes? I'll miss that train again as sure as eggs!'
Then on nimble legs
he hastest to thetrain,
And here again
he meeteth other Echoes surnamed White or Green or Black,
Each with a coat upon his back
Which hath an absurd and altogether unnecessary little split in its tail.
Brothers, do not let the moral fail.
For it is written:
If the tail of the coat of Brown be absurdly split,
So, also, shall th etails of the coats of White also Green and Black be likewise splitten;
And if the mind of Brown with a shibboleth be smit,
So, also, shall th ealleged minds of White and Green and Black be smitten.
For, lo, they use but as hat-racks those knobs or protuberances which Nature has given unto them to think with; and, even as 10,000 others of their type,
They echo again, as the train speedeth onward, the same weird cry: Lo, the
Cost of Living is becoming a Fair Cow! These Trusts will have to be Outed.
But, as the paper says, the Referendum is a dangerous mistake. THE TIME
IS NOT YET RIPE!'
And here and there, and elsewhere, and in divers places, not mentioned in the specifications, the foolish Echo echoeth and re-echoeth and echoeth even yet
again, till it soundeth far and near and in the middle distance from Dan to
Berrsheba. Ay, even from Yarra Bend to Kow Plains:
In hundreds of trams and boats and trains;
In motor-cars and junkers and spring-carts and perambulators and hearses and
Black Marias; in shops and pubs and offices and cow-yards and gaols and
drawing-rooms and paddocks and street corners; and across counters and slip
rails and three-wire fences, and streets and lanes and back fences; and
through telephones and speaking-tubes and pipestems and weird whiskers of
every shade and color: up and down the land, and across it: from the mouths of men of every shape and size and kind and type,
The Echo soundeth and resoundeth: 'THE TIME IS NOT YET RIPE - RIPE - ripe -
ripe'....
And now the Voice - the original anonymous voice that caused these divers Echoes smileth to Itself and saith: 'Verily, that was a good gag. It should help to bump 'em next elections. This unprecedented growth of Public Opinion is
prime....
Snaggers, see if you can get a column interview with Sir Ponsonby Stodge on the
Obvious Inripeness of Time.
We must follow this up while we're in luck.'
And the voice of the Chief Reporter answering, saith 'Ribuck.'
Brothers, ye have heard the Echoes. In a multitude of words have I spoken of them to ye. Have I not planned for ye a pleasing diversion? Lo! then, when the Little Blue Devil sitteth upon the right shoulder and whispereth into the ear that the World is a Dead Nark; when the Spice of Life tasteth in the mouth even as the stale beer of yester's revel; when the Soul wilteth for lack of
congenial employment;
Go ye forth and give ear unto the Echoes, and thus shall the Spirit be uplifted
and cheered by the fatheadedness of your fellows, and ye shall reap profitable
and unending enjoyment.
I say this unto ye, even I, and my word has never neem broken
More often than has been absolutely necessary or expedient considering the dreadful Socialistic trend of Legislation in this Country. Lo! I have spoken.

Nobody knew why it should be so;
Nobody knew or wanted to know.
It might have been checked had but someone dared
To trace its beginnings; but nobody cared.
But 'twas clear to the wise that the Glugs of those days
Were crazed beyond reason concerning a craze.


They would pass a thing by for a week or a year,
With an air apathetic, or maybe a sneer:
Some ev'ryday thing, like a crime or a creed,
A mode or a movement, and pay it small heed,
Till Somebody started to laud it aloud;
Then all but the Nobodies followed the crowd.


Thus, Sym was a craze; tho', to give him his due,
He would rather have strayed from the popular view.
But once the Glugs had him they held him so tight
That he could not be nobody, try as he might.
He had to be Somebody, so they decreed.
For Craze is an appetite, governed by Greed.


So on Saturday week to the Great Market Square
Came every Glug who could rake up his fare.
They came from the suburbs, they came from the town,
There came from the country Glugs bearded and brown,
Rich Glugs, with cigars, all well-tailored and stout,
Jostled commonplace Glugs who dropped aitches about.


There were gushing Glug maids, well aware of their charms,
And stern, massive matrons with babes in their arms.
There were querulous dames who complained of the 'squash,'
The pushing and squeezing; for, briefly, all Gosh,
With its aunt and its wife, stood agape in the ranks
Excepting Sir Stodge and his satellite Swanks.


The Mayor of Quog took the chair for the day;
And he made them a speech, and he ventured to say
That a Glug was a Glug, and the Cause they held dear
Was a very dear Cause. And the Glugs said, 'Hear, hear.'
Then Sym took the stage to a round of applause
From thousands who suddenly found they'd a Cause.

We strive together in life's crowded mart,
Keen-eyed, with clutching hands to over-reach.
We scheme, we lie, we play the selfish part,
Masking our lust for gain with gentle speech;
And masking too - O pity ignorance!
Our very selves behind a careless glance.


Ah, foolish brothers, seeking e'er in vain
The one dear gift that liesso near at hand;
Hoping to barter gold we meanly gain
For that the poorest beggar in the land
Holds for his own, to hoard while yet he spends;
Seeking fresh treasure in the hearts of friends.


We preach; yet do we deem it worldly-wise
To count unbounded brother-love a shame,
So, ban the brother-look from out our eyes,
Lest sparks of sympathy be fanned to flame.
We smile; and yet withhold, in secret fear,
The word so hard to speak, so sweet to hear -


The Open Sesame to meanest hearts,
The magic word, to which stern eyes grow soft,
And crafty faces, that the cruel marts
Have seared and scored, turn gentle - Nay, how oft
It trembles on the lip to die unppoke,
And dawning love is stifled with a joke.


Nay, brothers, look about your world to-day:
A world to you so drab, so commonplace
The flowers still are blooming by the way,
As blossom smiles upon the sternest face.
In everv hour is born some thought of love;
In every heart is hid some treasure-trove.

With a modified clapping and stamping of feet
The Glugs mildly cheered him, as Sym took his seat.
But some said 'twas clever, and some said 'twas grand
More especially those who did not understand.
And some said, with frowns, tho' the words sounded plain,
Yet it had a deep meaning they craved to explain.


But the Mayor said: Silence! He wished to observe
That a Glug was a Glug; and in wishing to serve
This glorious Cause, which they'd asked him to lead,
They had proved they were Glugs of the noble old breed
That made Gosh what it was . . . and he'd ask the police
To remove that small boy while they heard the next piece.

'Now come,' said the Devil, he said to me,
With his swart face all a-grin,
'This day, ere ever the clock strikes three,
Shall you sin your darling sin.
For I've wagered a crown with Beelzebub,
Down there at the Gentlemen's Brimstone Club,
I shall tempt you once, I shall tempt you twice,
Yet thrice shall you fall ere I tempt you thrice.'


'Begone, base Devil!' I made reply -
'Begone with your fiendish grin!
How hope you to profit by such as I?
For I have no darling sin.
But many there be, and I know them well,
All foul with sinning and ripe for Hell.
And I name no names, but the whole world knows
That I am never of such as those.'

'How nowt' said the Devil. 'I'll spread my net,
And I vow I'll gather you in!
By this and by that shall I win my bet,
And you shall sin the sin!
Come, fill up a bumper of good red wine,
Your heart shall sing, and your eye shall shine,
You shall know such joy as you never have known.
For the salving of men was the good vine grown.'

'Begone, red Devil!' I made reply.
'Parch shall these lips of mine,
And my tongue shall shrink, and my throat go dry,
Ere ever I taste your wine!
But greet you shall, as I know full well,
A tipsy score of my friends in Hell.
And I name no names, but the whole world wots
Most of my fellows are drunken sots.'


'Ah, ha!' said the Devil. 'You scorn the wine!
Thrice shall you sin, I say,
To win me a crown from a friend of mine,
Ere three o' the clock this day.
Are you calling to mind some lady fair?
And is she a wife or a maiden rare?
'Twere folly to shackle young love, hot Youth;
And stolen kisses are sweet, forsooth!'


'Begone, foul Devil!' I made reply;
'For never in all my life
Have I looked on a woman with lustful eye,
Be she maid, or widow, or wife.
But my brothers! Alas! I am scandalized
By their evil passions so ill disguised.
And I name no names, but my thanks I give
That I loathe the lives my fellow-men live.'


'Ho, ho!' roared the Devil in fiendish glee.
''Tis a silver crown I win!
Thrice have you fallen! 0 Pharisee,
You have sinned your darling sin!'
'But, nay,' said I; 'and I scorn your lure.
I have sinned no sin, and my heart is pure.
Come, show me a sign of the sin you see!'
But the Devil was gone . . . and the clock struck three.

With an increase of cheering and waving of hats
While the little boys squealed, and made noises like cats
The Glugs gave approval to Sym's second rhyme.
And some said 'twas thoughtful, and some said 'twas prime;
And some said 'twas witty, and had a fine end:
More especially those who did not comprehend.


And some said with leers and with nudges and shrugs
That, they mentioned no names, but it hit certain Glugs.
And others remarked, with superior smiles,
While dividing the metrical feet into miles,
That the thing seemed quite simple, without any doubt,
But the anagrams in it would need thinking out.


But the Mayor said, Hush! And he wished to explain
That in leading this Movement he'd nothing to gain.
He was ready to lead, since they trusted him so;
And, wherever he led he was sure Glugs would go.
And he thanked them again, and craved peace for a time,
While this gifted young man read his third and last rhyme.

(To sing you a song and a sensible song is a worthy and excellent thing;
But how could I sing you that sort of a song, if there's never a song to sing?)
At ten to the tick, by the kitchen clock, I marked him blundering by,
With his eyes astare, and his rumpled hair, and his hat cocked over his eye.
Blind, in his pride, to his shoes untied, he went with a swift jig-jog,
Off on the quest, with a strange unrest, hunting the Feasible Dog.
And this is the song, as he dashed along, that he sang with a swaggering swing
(Now how had I heard him singing a song if he hadn't a song to sing?)

'I've found the authentic, identical beast!
The Feasible Dog, and the terror of Gosh!
I know by the prowl of him.
Hark to the growl of him!
Heralding death to the subjects of Splosh.
Oh, look at him glaring and staring, by thunder!
Now each for himself, and the weakest goes under!

'Beware this injurious, furious brute;
He's ready to rend you with tooth and with claw.
Tho' 'tis incredible,
Anything edible
Disappears suddenly into his maw:
Into his cavernous inner interior
Vanishes evrything strictly superior.'



He calls it 'Woman,' he calls it 'Wine,' he calls it 'Devils' and 'Dice';
He calls it 'Surfing' and 'Sunday Golf' and names that are not so nice.
But whatever he calls it-'Morals' or 'Mirth'-he is on with the hunt right quick
For his sorrow he'd hug like a gloomy Gllig if he hadn't a dog to kick.
So any old night, if the stars are right, vou will find him, hot on the trail
Of a feasible dog and a teasable dog, with a can to tie to his tail.
And the song that he roars to the shuddering stars is a worthy and excellent thing.
(Yet how could you hear him singing a song if there wasn't a song to sing?)

'I've watched his abdominous, ominous shape
Abroad in the land while the nation has slept,
Marked his satanical
Methods tyrannical;
Rigorous, vigorous vigil I kept.
Good gracious! Voracious is hardly the name for it!
Yet we have only our blindness to blame for it.

'My dear, I've autoptical, optical proof
That he's prowling and growling at large in the land.
Hear his pestiferous
Clamour vociferous,
Gurgles and groans of the beastliest brand.
Some may regard his contortions as comical.
But I've the proof that his game's gastronomical.

'Beware this obstreperous, leprous beast -
A treacherous wretch, for I know him of old.
I'm on the track of him,
Close at the back of him,
And I'm aware his ambitions are bold;
For he's yearning and burning to snare the superior
Into his roomy and gloomy interior.'


Such a shouting and yelling of hearty Bravoes,
Such a craning of necks and a standing on toes
Seemed to leave ne'er a doubt that the Tinker's last rhyme
Had now won him repute 'mid the Glugs for all time.
And they all said the rhyme was the grandest they'd heard:
More especially those who had not caught a word.


But the Mayor said: Peace! And he stood, without fear,
As the leader of all to whom Justice was dear.
For the Tinker had rhymed, as the Prophet foretold,
And a light was let in on the errors of old.
For in every line, and in every verse
Was the proof that Sir Stodge was a traitor, and worse!


Sir Stodge (said the Mayor), must go from his place;
And the Swanks, one and all, were a standing disgrace!
For the influence won o'er a weak, foolish king
Was a menace to Gosh, and a scandalous thing!
'And now,' said the Mayor, 'I stand here to-day
As your leader and friend.' And the Glugs said, 'Hooray!'


Then they went to their homes in the suburbs and town;
To their farms went the Glugs who were bearded and brown.
Portly Glugs with cigars went to dine at their clubs,
While illiterate Glugs had one more at the pubs.
And each household in Gosh sat and talked half the night
Of the wonderful day, and the imminent fight.


Forgetting the rhymer, forgetting his rhymes,
They talked of Sir Stodge and his numerous crimes.
There was hardly a C3lug in the whole land of Gosh
Who'd a lenient word to put in for King Splosh.
One and all, to the mangiest, surliest dog,
Were quite eager to bark for his Worship of Quog.


Forgotten, unnoticed, Sym wended his way
To his lodging in Gosh at the close of the day.
And 'twas there, to his friend and companion of years
To his little red dog with the funny prick ears
That he poured out his woe; seeking nothing to hide;
And the little dog listened, his head on one side.


'O you little red dog, you are weary as I.
It is days, it is months since we saw the blue sky.
And it seems weary years since we sniffed at the breeze
As it hms thro' the hedges and sings in the trees.
These we know and we love. But this city holds fears,
O my friend of the road, with the funny prick ears.
And for what me we hope from his Worship of Quog?'
'Oh, and a bone, and a kick,' said the little red dog.