Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis: Verses about Daybreak

What do you think I saw to-day when I arose at dawn?
Blue Wrens and Yellow-tails dancing on the lawn!
Bobbing here, and bowing there, gossiping away,
And how I wished that you were there to see the merry play!

But you were snug abed, my boy, blankets to your chin,
Nor dreamed of dancing birds without or sunbeams dancing in.
Grey Thrush, he piped the tune for them. I peeped out through the glass
Between the window curtains, and I saw them on the grass -

Merry little fairy folk, dancing up and down,
Blue bonnet, yellow skirt, cloaks of grey and brown,
Underneath the wattle-tree, silver in the dawn,
Blue Wrens and Yellow-tails dancing on the lawn.

Here, in soft darkness where the whole night thro',
Dreamless, my quiet garden slumbered well.
Night's soothing fingers all adrip with dew
Crept in and out, weaving a mystic spell
O'er wilting bud and bell;
Now with deft touches deepening tints anew.
Now lifting up some languid suppliant who
Had wooed the sun too well.


In the grey twilight tall trees seem to yawn
And, waking, stretch their mighty limbs on high.
A small bird cheeps; and, silver in the dawn,
The jewelled wattles to a soft wind sigh.
Hard etched against the sky
The timbered hill-tops stand forth boldly drawn. . . .
A sunbeam, laughing, trips across the lawn,
And smiling day is nigh.


The kindly offices of night are done.
A grey thrush carols forth his matin hymn.
Then proud, triumphant of a new day won,
The magpie's trumpet tops a lofty limb.
By the pool's mirrored brim
The drowsing daisies open one by one:
'Wake, brothers, wake! Here comes our lord, the Sun!
Awake and worship him!'

'A woman's work is never done,'
Said she.
'From dawn to setting of the sun,'
Said she.
'I toil and moil and work and slave,
And do my best to pinch and save,
And yet you say I don't behave,'
Said she.

And twenty men in twenty carts
In that suburban street
Long, long before the daylight starts
Are setting out with cakes and tarts
And fish and milk and meat
And cauliflowers, beans and bread
What time my lady lies in bed.

'All day I have to live alone,'
Said she.
'Attending to the door or 'phone,'
Said she.
'While you go gaily into town
To meet your friends, I want a gown,
A hat! This life has got me down,'
Said she.

And twenty men when day is done,
In that suburban street,
Who have performed the task of one
(If things more orderly were done),
Drive back along their beat. . .
It seems absurd. But, all the same,
Is it my lady who's to blame,
For all these economic cares,
Or just man's muddling of affairs?

Our baker, Mr Brackenby, toiler in the night,
Was a lean, tall, glum man whose face was very white;
A brooding man 'twas said of him, and mannerisms odd;
For a grunt of recognition and a rather surly nod
Were all he granted any who came strolling by his shop
In the cool of summer even, when a man might wish to stop
For a bit of neighbor's gossip. But our baker chose to mope
Like one who nursed grave illness or deep grief beyond all hope.

His chirping little 'missus' had the old town's sympathy;
For she loved to hold a customer and let her tongue run free
On stay bits of tittle-tattle; and we said, 'Poor thing,
With a dumb man for a husband, well, she has to have her fling.'
For silent Mr Brackenby, he never seemed to speak
To wife or child or anyone from week to dreary week.
There he sat upon his doorstop, and he stared and stared ahead
Like a being sore afflicted. But he baked good bread.

Yet once a year, on Show Day, some urge removed his gag,
And gloomy Mr Brackenby went out upon a 'jag.'
He visited the taverns from the morn till deepest night
Getting gradually garrulous and gradually 'tight.'
He laughed, he sang, he spent, to talked to any who would hear:
A merry man for just one day and night in all the year.
He sang of 'Champagne Charlie' and 'Where Did You Get That Hat?'
'Belle Mahone,' 'Tarpaulin Jacket,' and a score of songs like that.

Thro' the night he roared and revelled till the daylight broke the spell;
Then our baker, Mr Brackenby, crept back into his shell.
Stale the bread we got that morning; but, for twelve months after that,
In the loaves that came at dawning folk found nought to grumble at.
For he shunned the noisy taverns in the cool of summer eves,
And he squatted on his doorstep in the pose of one who grieves,
With his hand cupped in his white palm, he just stared and stared ahead
Like a man remorse had ravaged. But he baked good bread.