Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis: Verses about Friend

There once was a fellow called Croll,
Who loved to hear periods roll
On his musical tongue.
It is he who has sung,
'Ev'n sev'n heav'ns giv'n buy not my soul'.

'E 'ad spragged me before for the loan of a quid.
But I told 'im straight out I was broke.
Still 'e would 'ang around me, wotever I did.
'E's a regiler obstinit bloke.


'E'd tapped me for dollars an' bit me for bobs;
An' I ain't too finanshil meself.
Wot with times like they are an' not too many jobs;
So a bloke 'as to 'ang to 'is pelf.


But this Mister Theodore give me a lead
'E's a genius all on 'is own
'E put me wise yestidy - jist wot I need,
When a bloke comes along for a loan.


I rekin this Theodore's out on 'is pat
As a shrewd an' a far-seein' bloke,
Wot can 'and out the patter an' deal with a flat,
'Fore 'e's time to make up to the joke.


So today, when this cove puts the 'ard word on me,
I tells 'im straight out I'm 'is friend,
An' I'm goin' to 'elp 'im from sheer sympathy
With a few quid I'm goin' to lend.


It 'urts me, I tells 'im, to ark at 'im moan,
An' I 'aven't the 'eart to refuse.
So I gives the poor coot a fidoosary loan
In the shape of some nice I.0.U.'s.

When Ned was a neophyte nobody heeded him.
No man could prophesy, none could foretell
How, when the day came that the populace needed him,
Quite a new Ned would emerge from his shell
For he blithered and blathered and talked without end
In a manner provoking to foe and to friend.

In days of prosperity, peevish asperity
Ever informed his debate in the House
Some hint or suspicion of fault or omission,
And Ned would arise, without thinking, and rouse.
But 'tis strange what a change has come over the fellow
Who, faced with stern duty, grown thoughtful and mellow.

When clowns are stampeded and strong men are needed
'Tis well that the man has arrived with the hour
Who, wielding a sabre, as ever, for Labor.
Sees prejudice wane as he waxes in pow'r.
And 'mid froth and faction can still keep his head.
While we gasp at the grit of the latter-day Ned.

There are men, it is written, who, when they are smitten
By fate, may develop new firmness and calm.
Tho' other men curse it, he thrives on adversity,
Lately for doggedness taking the palm.
And arising refreshed to the popular joy,
A leader new-armed, and a broth of a boy.

First I tried a Dry Martini;
But found not one teeny-weeny
Semblance of a kick in any kind of this.
Then I sampled a Manhattan;
But 'twas much the same with that 'un;
And as impotent I found an Angel's Kiss.

So I drank the menu thro';
Side-car, Bronx and Gin-and-Two.
Such innocuous concoctions left me sad.
And I yearned with eager yearning
For a cocktail, sudden, burning,
That might give a man a jolt and make him glad.

Then a fellow, somewhat seedy,
Down at heel and seeming needy,
said, 'If it's a kick you're seeking, come with me.'
So we went into a garden
That to me seemed partly Arden,
Partly, Eden; and we sat beneath a tree.

Here my friend produced a bottle,
Drew the stopper from its throttle,
And, pouring out a nip, said, 'Drink this, quick!'
No least hesitation followed;
I threw back my head and swallowed.
Oh, boy! Oh, res and furies! What a kick!

Green lightnings and blue blazes!
Fierce stars in fiery hazes!
Pink elephants that flapped about the sky! ...
When I woke, some five hours later,
Feeling queer at the equator,
'Great Scott! How do you make that stuff?' said I.

'First of all,' he proudly stated,
'Take a pint of methylated,
Stir in varnish, an' some 'air oil, just a drop.
Then, if pep should still be lackin',
Add turps, an' a tin of blackin'.
Me own invention, called the Fitzcray Flop.'

I've never met a man who hated dogs....
One meets with all sorts as through life he jogs
The mean ones, and the vain ones, and the rash,
The foolish fellows who splash up the cash.
The brisk 'live wires,' the dull, the sodden logs -
But I have ne'er met one who hated dogs.


(I think I'm fortunate in this, somehow,
For, if we ever met, there'd be a row).


Mayhap I'm prejudiced; mayhap I'm wise
To judge a fresh acquaintance by his eyes.
But show me one who has a dogs' straight look,
And I can read that fellow like a book.
I know him for a man who'd be a friend,
A mate, a sticker to the very end.


(He who can't comprehend this last remark
Is not worth one poor mongrel's joyous bark).


I left a dog up in the bush last week.
He was my one good pal, who'd never seek
To take advantage of my frailties
(And, heaven knows, I have enough of these).
He was my one good pal who trusted me,
And when the day of parting came, why, he -


(Well, maybe we had better draw the line,
I get so sloppy o'er this frined of mine).


But when I saw that look come in his eyes,
Well - you know what it is when your dog tries
To tell you things - Oh, I think it's all rot
To say a man could hate dogs. He could not.
Men surely are superior. Well, then?
Where could you find a dog who hates all men?


(My brothers, think this over, and reflect:
E'en curs hold qualities we may respect).

Don't yeh hear them callin, to yeh, callin' to yeh, lad?
Where the skyline's smeared an' grey with cannon smoke,
There's a crowd o' chaps that knew yeh;
Don't yeh hear them callin' to yeh
Mates o' yours with 'oom yeh used to drink an' joke?
An' they trust yeh, lad; they trust yeh for the friendship that yeh had.
Don't yeh bear them callin',
Callin' to yeh, lad?


Can't you see them beck'nin' to yeh, beck'nin' to yeh, boy ?
There's a pal o' yours that fell at Sari Bair;
An' yeh cheered 'im when yeh parted,
An' yeh felt a bit down-'earted;
Now 'e's passed the game to you, to do yer share.
Oh, the job is reel dead earnest, an' a gun is not a toy;
Can't yeh see them beck'nin',
Beck'nin' to yeh, boy?


Don't yeh know they're waitin' for yeh, waltin' for yeh, mate,
Hopin', prayin' that their countrymen are game;
All that brave an' battlin' crowd of
Men that In yer 'eart yer proud of -
Mates o' yours that 'elped to make yer country's name?
Do yeh mean to dodge the trouble till the foe is at the gate?
'Oh, it's weary waltin',
Waitin' for yeh, mate!'


Can't yeh see them lookin' at yeh, lookin' at yeh, lad
Women-folk of mates o' yours that fought and fell?
Are yeh grumblin' an' protestin'?
Will yer mateship stand the testin'?
Have yeh read the message that those wide eyes tell?
Have yeh heard grey mothers weepin'? Have yeh seen young wives grow sad?....
Won't yeh have them prayin',
Prayin' for yeh, lad?

1. ANTE-ELECTIONS
Now, a cove the name of Blabb, a politician,
He's a haughty sort o' high pan-jan-dee-ram;
An' he holds a very dignified position
As the member for the districk where I am.
There is times he seems to faintly reckernise me
Jist a flutter of his flipper when we meet;
Yet, other times, his actions fair surprise me,
When with a very icy eye he eyes me,
Jist as if he never knoo me in the street.
But who am I to seek his hand to grab?
So I simply sez, 'Good mornin', Mr Blabb.'
An' passes on.
'An' I hopes you're doin' nicely, Mr Blabb.'

2. ELECTIONS

Now, a cove the name of Blabb, a politician,
Is a pal o' mine, an' most perlite, at that.
He's a candidate again for th eposition
As a member for the districk where I'm at.
He will grab me hand an' pump it when I meet him,
An' he pats me on the back an' calls me Joe
Seems sort of anxious-like for me to grete him
An' as a fond an' faithful friend to treat him.
He's the nicest sort o' neighbour you could know,
But who am I to listen to his gab?
So I simply sez, 'I'll think it over, Blabb,'
An' passes on.
'I'll see wot I can do about it, Blabb.'

3. POST-ELECTIONS

Now, a coot the name of Blabb, a politician,
He's a Public Figger, an' a Man of note;
For he recently rewon the high position
As the member of the districk where I vote.
An', altho' we come to be close cobbers lately,
Monday last he hardly knoo me when I spoke;
An' he didn't sort o' seem to want to, greatly;
But he rose his hand an' nodded most sedately,
He's an awful, absent-minded sort o' bloke.
But who am I, whose ways is drear an' drab?
So I simply sez, 'Good evenin', Mr Blabb,'
An' passes on.
'An' I hopes you ain't forgot me, Mr Blabb.

O, fellow Australians, listen, attend:
We must cease our contemptuous swearing
And cursing and sneering at Bull's colored friend,
For our attitude's too overbearing.
It is perfectly right we should keep ourselves white
But contemnpt is a national blunder.
Be as nice as you can to the camel-train man,
And speak like a friend to Ram Chunder.


When a spindle-legged heathen comes round to the door
With the bundle of commerce, disturbin'
The peace of your home, he'd be hurt if you swore
Or attempted to knock off his turban.
When the smiling Ah Wong, from the isle of Hongkong,
A loud smell and some cabbages hawking,
Makes eyes at your missus, 'tis certainly wrong,
To indulge in discourteous talking.


For, mark you, the hawker and camel-train lot,
Also he of the early 'spling callot,'
Are our own fellow subjects, although they do not,
Like ourselves, own the boon of the ballot.
For somehow or other old England, our mother,
Has got a mysterious notion
Of blocking their voting, although she is doting
Upon our dear friends o'er the ocean.


And watch how the Britisher does it himself
When he's forced to abide with the nigger.
Is he rude in his way and contemptuous? Nay,
His is quite a benevolent figure.
He loves Abdul Khan as a brother and man;
And he quickly by conscience is smitten
If on Khan by some chance he should cast a rude glance
He's a kind and considerate Briton.


The bonds of the Empire are somehow involved
In this business. So be not neglectful.
Though Bull says it's right we should keep ourselves white,
He insists on our being respectful.
And it you should find your gorge rise, bear in mind
We must, keep our rude sentiments under.
Be as nice as you can to the camel-train man,
And act like a son to Ram Chunder.

Dreaming to-day in a forest green
Where the great gums rake the sky,
My thoughts turn back to another scene
And to old days, long gone by;
To a land of youth, and a youth's employ,
And - to filch another's phrase -
To the men who were boys, when I was a boy,
In the long gone Laura days.

To a little town that nestles down
By the hills of Beetaloo,
Where a youth dreamed dreams of fair renown,
And a man's ambition grew,
'Twas here his earliest songs were sung
And he won his earliest praise
From men who were young when he was young
In the long gone Laura days.

Spicer, Stockdale, Ballantyne,
Marrie, Mitchell and Braund;
How many a right good pal of mine
Has gone from that sunlit land.
How many a man, how many a lad,
Whose head now slowly greys,
To a song grew glad as I grew glad
In those long gone Laura days.

Susman, Sibly and Dr Cook,
Blume and Barrington,
Oh! the lives of some are a long-closed book,
But many a tale runs on.
Hollis and Harvey, Chandler, Green
Are gone their various ways,
But I see them all in the olden scene
Of the long gone Laura days.

I see them still, I see the town
Under those scrub-clad hills,
The shops where the quiet street runs down,
Wilson, Rowland, Bills.
Taylor, Weste, Felstead too,
Cole of the kindly ways,
And many other friends I knew
In the long gone Laura days.

And the names of some come slow to mind,
But the faces greet me clear,
And I hold them all as men most kind,
As I hold the old town dear;
And so in memory to the end
That old time picture stays,
For I see each face as a faithful friend
Of the far off Laura days.

To the ladies all I lift a glass,
And toast with a right good will,
Every matron, every lass, who
Shine in memory still,
Fair would I hymn them all in rhyme
With soaring song of praise,
Friends of mine from a golden time
In the long gone Laura days.

When the evening sun slants through the gums,
By my forest-rimmed abode,
Once more the old clear picture comes,
And my mind drifts down the road;
Back to the town by Beetaloo,
Where the Rocky River strays;
Back to the old kind friends I knew
In the dear dead Laura days.

The pale young man he comes to me,
An' chats me good an' fair;
'The langwidge that you use,' ses he,
'Pollutes the good, clean air.
Why don't yeh chuck sich silly rot,
An' line-up with the Clean Lip lot?'


But, square 'n' all, I got no use
For them poor, shrinkin' guys,
Who, at the sound of coves' abuse,
Turn pale, an' rolls their eyes.
To use the fancy swears I hear
Comes natural as sinking beer.


Beef an' blood-gravy's fightin' food,
Not milk; but, all the same,
I come to see there ain't no good
In this crook-landwidge game.
An' so a little vow I made,
An' joined their swell Clean Lip Brigade.


'Twas 'ard! But sternly I pursoo'd
Me course; an' wore a frown
Thro' swallerin' me speech unchewed,
An' chokin' curse-words down.
Oh, dear! It was a dreadful stunt!
Then, gracious me, I hit the Front!


A feller in the firin' line,
Tied up with sich a gag,
Who has to curse by look an' sign,
He fair gets out the rag.
An' so, I ses, each time I shoots,
'I'll teach you, you - you - you - you broots!'


I don't care wot the goodies say,
It's cruel fightin' dumb!
To curse a bit, once in a way,
Relieves yer feelin's some.
I kills four men in fair, clean fight,
An' seven extra out er spite.


An' then there come the bay'nit charge.
The blokes to left an' right
They all was cursin' fine and large,
But I keep mum, an' fight.
I plunks a square-'ead in the wind
'Annoying fellow; there!' I grinned.


With that a great, big 'ulking chap,
Comes at me with a sword
(The thing I need in that scrap
Was just one little word).
'Haw! You - you person,' I begun;
But while I talks, he gets in one.


Far in the chest I gets that swipe,
An' crumbles in a heap.
An' starts to think the time is ripe
To 'ave a long, deep sleep.
'You are intensely rude,' I said
An' so they leaves there for dead.


They invaleeds me 'ome, although
The wound gives me no cares.
The cause of my complaint, know,
Was bottlin' up me swears
Congestion of me 'Damn' denied:
It made me feel all swelled inside.


The pale young man he comes to me.
'Ah, friend,' he says, 'how now?
Your lips are clean, I'm pleased to see,
An' you 'ave kep' your vow!'
'Me lips is bonzer,' I replied.
'But, 'struth, me throat is scarified!'

Tho' it sounds a trifle mystic,
Somewhat vague and cabbalistic,
When you come to analyse the inner side
Of political alliance
You will find it is a science
That embraces matters delicate and wide.
It involves the close cohesion of the faction or cabal,
And the very fleeting friendship of the temporary pal.


But pull for the shore, lads, pull for the shore.
Never mind wot boat yer in, struggle at yer oar.
Cook is on the gunwale, cursin' us fer cows;
Deakin's in stern-sheets. Mauger's at the bows;
The stormy winds are blowin' an' the enemy's at hand;
We must settle it among us when we're safely on the land.

There's the Temporary Fusion;
Which is mainly an illusion
When you view it in the light of ev'ry day.
But politically? - truly
'Tis a state in which, unduly,
You are never pledged or promised either way.
An ideal party union, where a man may trim his sail;
Though vulgar folk allude to it as 'sitting on a rail.'


But pull for the shore, lads, pull for the shore.
We'll settle in the harbour when the hurricane is o'er.
Quick is partly inside; Irnine's partly out;
Wille Kelly's overside, floundering' about;
Forrest's at mast'ead, letting out a roar.
Never mind who owns the boat. Pull for the shore.

Then there's the Coalition,
Which is entered on condition
You can swallow certain principles with ease.
'Tis corruption sugar-coated;
And no matter how you've voted
In the past, you may change it if you please.
Though the common crowd may scoff at the reversal of your vote,
If you murmur 'Coalition' you may safely turn your coat.


But pull for the shore, lads, pull for the land.
Never mind who owns the craft, lend a willin' hand.
Smith is on the bowsprit, yellin' 'Anti-Sosh'!
Reid is on the towline, draggin' in the wash;
Jawbone Neild is founderin', shoutin' for a rope;
But pull, lads, pull, for the shore's our only hope.
Note you now the Understanding,
Quite devoid of party branding,
Where the parties undertake to understand
That, in certain set conditions,
They'll consider their positions,
And reach out for what they want with either hand.
And for the country's welfare and the nation's lasting good,
They agree to understand that they are all misunderstood.


But pull for the shore, lads, pull for the shore.
Groom is on the fore'atch with 'arf a dozen more;
Knox is in the chart-room makin' up his mind;
Wilks is on a hen-coop, draggin' on behind.
Never mind the company; only keep afloat.
You can't be too particular who's mannin' of the boat.

'Haw! Good fellow I'm not doubting
Your intentions are all right,
And your general appearance
Is intelligent and bright;
But the question you're discussing
Rather flicks me on the raw,
And it really doesn't matter;
So we'll close the subject. Haw!'

Since the every first reformer
Made suggestions in the trees
All the old earth's agitators
Meet with phrases such as these.
And it acts as brake and hobble
On the progress of mankind,
This superior aloofness
Of the static type of mind.

'Haw!' It rings throughout the ages
Since dim neolithic years,
Striving to discount the credit
Of philosophers and seers;
And the richest, fattest molluse
Spat it out in savage hate
When he marked his fellow's yearning
Towards a structure vertebrate.

'My good chap, enthusiasm's
Right enough just now and then;
But your pose is idiotic
In the sight of sober men.
Calm yourself, my worthy fellow,
Stay that wildly wagging jaw.
The-ah mattah you're debating
Isn't on the tapis. Haw!'

Spoken in a haughty fashion,
With an apathetic glance,
Then that simple interjection
Clothes a mass of ignorance.
'Haw! The fellow is a boundah!
Do not heed his fuss and fret,
And the subject he alludes to
Isn't mentioned in our set.'

Friend, if you have privileges
Fairly come by - more or less
And the claims of poorer brothers
Cause you most acute distress
When all argument has failed oyu
'Gainst their Socialistic law
Cultivate the distant manner
And the haughty Tory 'Haw!'

Cultivate the cool aloofness
When they seek with howlings rude
To assault your proud position.
Cultivate the platitude:
And, when they bring forth suggestions
Of a democratic type;
Tell then, friend, it is 'un-British,'
And, 'the time is not yet ripe.'

When with calm, unswerving reason,
And with logic merciless,
They convince your better nature
That abuses need redress,
Do not weakly yield to measures
That your prejudices hate.
But remark, 'It's not at issue,'
And that closes the debate.

Still, my friend, despite your coldness,
'Spite reactionary, 'Haws.'
These reformers somehow get there
When they have a worthy cause,
And the fat and foolish molluse
Who the vertebrates ignored,
Did not block all evolution,
So the scientists record.

As the world goes bravely onward
Leaving molluses far behind,
Progress ever has to reckon
With the static type of mind.
And the fighters in the vanguard
Recognise this simple law,
'Social evolution mainly
Is the overthrow of 'Haw!'

The thrush is in the wattle tree, an', 'O, you pretty dear!'
He's callin' to his little wife for all the bush to hear.
He's wantin' all the bush to know about his charmin' hen;
He sings it over fifty times, an' then begins again.
For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! The world is wet with dew,
With tiny drops a-twinkle where the sun comes shinin' thro'.


The thrush is in the wattle tree, red robin's underneath,
The little blue-cap's dodgin' in an' out amongst the heath;
An' they're singin', boy, they're singin' like they'd bust 'emselves to bits;
While, up above, old Laughin' Jack is having forty fits.
For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! The leaves are all ashine:
There's treasure all about the place; an' all of it is mine.


Oh, it's good to be a wealthy man, it's grand to be a king
With mornin' on the forest-land an' joy in everything.
It's fine to be a healthy man with healthy work to do
In the singin' land, the clean land, washed again with dew.
When sunlight slants across the trees, an' birds begin to sing,
Then kings may snore in palaces, but I'm awake - and king.


But the king must cook his breakfast, an' the king must sweep the floor;
Then out with axe on shoulder to his kingdom at the door,
His old dog sportin' on ahead, his troubles all behind,
An' joy mixed in the blood of him because the world is kind.
For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! Time to out an' strive!
Oh, there's not a thing I'm askin' else but just to be alive!


It's cranky moods a man will get an' funny ways of mind;
For I've a memory of one whose thoughts were all unkind:
Who sat an' brooded thro' the night beside the blazin' log,
His home a mirthless, silent house, his only pal a dog.
But it's Mornin'! Mornin'! I nurse no thought but praise,
I've more good friends than I could count, tho' I should count for days.


My friends are in the underbrush, my friends are in the trees,
An' merrily they welcome me with mornin' melodies.
Above, below, from bush an' bough each calls his tuneful part;
An' best of all, one trusty friend is callin' in my heart.
For it's Mornin'! Mornin'! When night's black troubles end.
An' never man was friendless yet who stayed his own good friend.


Ben Murray, he's no friend of mine, an' well I know the same;
But why should I be thinkin' hate, an' nursin' thoughts of blame?
Last evenin' I'd no friend within, but troubles all around,
An' madly thought to fight a man for ten or twenty pound.
But it's Mornin'! Mornin'! my friend within's alive,
An' he'd never risk a twenty - tho' he might consider five.


But where's the call to think of strife with such good things about?
The gum-leaves are a-twinkle as the sun comes peepin' out.
The blue-cap's in an' out the fern, red robin's on the gate,
An' who could hear the song of them a hold a thought of hate?
Oh, it's Mornin'! Mornin'! No time for thinkin' wrong.
An' I'd be scared to strike a man, I feel so awful strong.


Grey thrush is in the wattle, an' it's, 'O, you pretty dear!'
He's callin' to his little wife, an' don't care who should hear
In the great bush, the fresh bush, washed again with dew.
An' my axe is on my shoulder, an' there's work ahead to do.
Oh, it's Mornin'! Singin' Mornin'! in the land I count the best,
An' with the heart an' mind of me I'm singin' with the rest.

'Tis morn.
An individualistic cock
Proclaims the fact.
The dissipated cat sneaks home forlorn.
'Tis time to get up and act!
'Tis eight o'clock!
The stern and stalwart anti-Socialist,
Freeborn
And independent citizen, whose fist
Is raised against all Socialistic schemes,
Wakes from the land o' dreams;
(Nightmares of Sosh)
Gets up, and has a wash
In water from the Socialistic main;
Empties it down the Socialistic drain,
And, giving his moustache the proper twist,
He then
Breakfasts upon an egg,
Laid by some anti-Socialistic
Hen;
And, as he chews,
Endeavours to peruse
The news
In some wise publication, printing views
That no right-thinking man could grumble at;
And, having scoffed the egg,
His hat
He reaches from its peg;
Perambulates the Socialistic path
But that
Annoys him just as little as the bath.
Tho' both essentially are Sosh's works,
He never shirks
Their use;
But much abuse
Of Socialistic ideas, without excuse,
Flavors his conversation in the train
The Socialistic train.
But, here again,
He is not heard to murmur or complain
Against the train.
At length the hour
Of ten
Strikes the Socialistic tower;
And then
He gains
His office and enquires
For letters and for wires.
Nor e'en complains
They reach him thro' a Socialistic post.
There are a host
Of letters - quite a pile
Some from his friends
(Ah! See him smile),
Cursing the Labor party's aims and ends.
Here is a note
Bidding him be content and of good cheer,
For, in the House last night, the Fusion vote
Defeated Labor on the Telephone
Discussion. Wherefore charges won't be near
As dear
As he has cause to fear.
And that reminds him. He rings on the 'phone,
And tells a friend
At t'other end
That Socialism's better left alone.
Says it emphatically thro' the 'phone
The Socialistic 'phone
That instrument
The Government is running at a loss
Of very much per cent.
He knows that it is so.
But is he cross?
No!
He's quite content...
So, through the day
He goes his anti-Socialistic way.
Round and about
The town,
Wearing the Socialistic pavement out;
Riding in Socialistic trams
And damning damns
When Socialism's mentioned - with a frown...
As night comes down,
He scorns the Socialistic atmosphere
Of a plain pub
And beer,
And seeks his club.
While here
He drinks
And tells his fellow members what he thinks
About the 'Labah pawty' and its claims
And visionary aims.
They languidly remark 'Hear, hear.'...
Then out once more
And, in a Socialistic tram and train,
On to suburbia, and home again
To his own door.
Then to his bed;
Laying his wise and proper-thinking head
In downy pillow-deep.
He is about to dropp
To sleep
When - 'Flop... Flop...
Flop' ...
What's that?
The cat,
Chasing an individualistic rat?
Nay, 'tis the footfall of the midnight cop,
Echoing through
The stilly night,
Telling that I and you
Are guarded in our right;
He guards the persons and the propertee
Of you and me.
He's a Socialistic institution too
The man in blue.
No wonder WILLIAM SIKES
Dislikes
The whole blue Socialistic crew....
I wish he'd keep
Still, that cop,
I want to go to sleep...
Why does he keep
Flop, flop, flop!
With his big feet
Along the street?
Why can't he stop?...
His Socialistic feet....
Why don't he change his beat?...
Of all the rows I ever heard
Upon my word!
When you stop to think of it
A bit,
This Socialistic business is absurd!

A sight that gives me much distress
Is George without his trousers,
Garbed, scantily, in bathing dress
Proscribed by saintly Wowsers,
And Gerty, gay and forward flirt,
Without the regulation shirt.

Though 'tis a fearsome sight, I ween,
When jam tins strew the shingle,
It is a far more shocking scene
When Bert and Benjy mingle
With Maude and Winnie in the wave;
It hurts to see them so behave.

The melancholy dead marine
Sown thick along the beaches,
The can that held the late sardine,
Or potted prawn, or peaches,
Are things of innocence beside
Gay Tom and Topsy in the tide.

I hold by stern morality,
Depite the worldings' scoffing,
And though it pains my soul to see
A fish tin in the offing,
'Tis naught beside the things I feel
Whene'er I hear Belinda squeal.

Indeed, this tin that held sardine
My sad soul sorely vexes.
The fish it harbored might have been
Unwed, and mixed in sexes!
Good brothers, can you wonder then,
That seaside damsels mix with men?

A pile of picnic scraps, 'tis true,
Can raise a mild commotion.
But what of John and Jane and Sue
Mixed in a single ocean?
A sight that stabs me to the heart
Is Billo smoodging with his tart.

But hark, my brothers, yester eve
I had a wondrous vision.
The sun was just about to leave,
With his well-known precision,
When I espied upon the sand
A tin with a familiar brand.

And, as I gazed, my limbs grew limp
And giddiness came o'er me;
For from it stepped a fish-like imp
That smirked and bowed before me!
His puckered features seemed to be
Awry with spite and devilry.

'Young man,' he said, 'You're wasting time.
Why do you sit there mooning?
So brave a youth, just in his prime,
Should find more joy in spooning.
For see! the ocean hath its pearls.
Go forth and mingle with the girls!'

And from the tins that lay about
Upon the silver shingle
I heard a wee shrill chorus shout,
'Young man, go forth and mingle!'
And then I knew each empty tin
Concealed its special imp within.

I know my eye grew wide and bright,
Despite a life ascetic,
And from the narrow path of right
I felt a tug magnetic,
That sought to draw me o'er the sand
Out to the siren-haunted strand.

I felt the red blood course anew,
I felt my pulses tingle;
And still the tiny chorus grew:
'Young man, go forth and mingle!' ....
Then, from the old, bashed can I saw
A lordly lobster wave a calw.

'Good fellow, have a care!' he said,
'Stray not from pathways upper!
I am the ghost of one long dead,
Slain for a sinful supper.
But once good works were done by me
Amongst the sinners of the sea.

'In life I roamed the vasty deep
Engaged upon a mission
Which was my fellow-fish to keep
From swimming to perdition.
Now I am dead' (his voice grew thin)
'Alas! they mingle in the tin!

'Beware the blood that bounds and leaps!
Your sinful feelings throttle.
Beware the imp that leers and peeps
From out each tin and bottle!
A submarine Chapzander speaks.
Beware when gay Belinda squeaks!'

Lo, as he spoke my blood grew chill,
The spell no longer bound me,
The impish chorus now was still
And silence reigned around me.
The ghostly lobster disappeared;
My heart of base desire was cleared.

But, like a man inspired, I saw
His cause for intervening.
His sad, sweet face, his waving claw
To me were full of meaning.
Indeed, a sainted fish was he,
A very Wowser of the sea.

You smile, good friend? But ah, be sure
'Tis not a theme for scoffing;
For well, too well, I know the lure
of fish tins in the offing.
A devil lurks inside each tine
To tempt unwary souls to sin.

And, top this day, I fell a thrill
'Mid tins upon the shingle;
I seem to hear that chorus shrill:
'Young man, go forth and mingle!'
And yet, 'tis naught to what I feel
Whene'er I hear Belinda squeal.

Why, 'ow's she goin', Bill, ole sport?
I thort I knoo your dile!
My oath! You look the proper sort!
That khaki soots your style.
I never 'eard you'd joined, yeh know
It makes me feel I want to go.

Must be a year or more, I s'pose,
Since last time we two met!
An' then, to see you in them clothes
Can't realise it yet!
I'm proud to think a friend o' mine
Is off to biff the German swine!

You look slap-up in that rig-out.
We ort to celebrate
I fell it's up to me to shout!
But - can't be done, ole mate!
For I 'ave took a solemn vow
I never shout for soldiers now.

No, Bill; you mustn't take offence;
You'll undertsand, I thnk.
I've come to see there ain't no sense
In buyin' soldiers drink.
I loves me country an' me king;
An' boozin' soldiers ain't the thing.

An' yet it's sich a time ago
Since you an' me 'ave met,
It's sorter 'ard to let you go
Without one little wet.
Say, come in 'ere, an' you can take
A soft'un, jist fer ole time's sake.

Well, Bill - 'ere MIss! Don't you attend
To customers in 'ere?
A lime-an'-soder fer me friend:
And' mine's a long, cool beer.
Ah, Bill, you stick to that soft stuff;
Chuck booze, an' you'll be right enough.

Well, 'ere's a go!...My oath, that's goo!
Bets beer I've 'ad to-day....
Yes, Bill, I 'olds no soldier should
Drink all 'is brains away.
I'm patriotic, that I am;
To fight on beer ain't worth a damn.

Now, Bill, look 'ere, you take my tip
I know that German lot
An', when you meet 'em, let 'er rip.
An' prod 'em in the - wot?
Well, jist one more. Mine's beer thish time.
An' bill, ole frien', you shtick to lime.

'Ere's joy!...Wot was I sayin'? Oh!
Them Germans allush funk
The bay'nit. Take my tip, an' go
Fair for their stummicks - plunk!
Jist stick 'em in the - 'Ere, Miss, 'ere!
Give 'im the soft one! Mine's the beer.

See, Miss, I don't booze sojers now.
They shouldn't drink the stuff!
Me conshuns, Miss, it won't allow
'Right, Bill; don't cut up rough.
I'm proud to let the ole bar 'ear
I wouldn't buy no sojers beer.

I wouldn't buy no cursed drink
Fer any fightin' bloke!
Wot? Torkin' loud? Well, do yeh think
I'm 'shamed o' wot I shpoke?
I stansh on principle, by Gosh!
'Ere, 'ave anurrer lemin squash.

Oh, yesh; I've 'ad a few ter-day.
Thish makes - eighteen er so.
But I don't 'ave to go away
To fight no rotten foe!
Go fer their stummichsk, Bill, ole man!
Jist prod 'em - why, 'ello! 'Ere's Dan!

'Ave one wi' ush, Dan. Yoush a beer?
Yes, mine'sh a - wot-o, Jim!
Lesh innerjooce my cobber 'ere
I'm buyin' squash fer 'im.
'E's sojer....Took a solemn vow:
I don't - (hic) - shoush fer soljersh now.

I jist been tellin' soljer frien'
Them Germans got no - whash?
Orright, Dan: mine's a beer agen.
Me friend 'ere'sh drinkin' sqauash.
Yeh mustn't buy no beer fer 'im
Unpa'ri - (hic) -. Whash you think, Jim?

It 'urts me feelin's, all er same.
Bill'sh 'listed!....Orful sad!....
Pore bill! That fightin'sh rotten game.
Go fer their stummicksh, lad!
Sharge wisher bay'nit, ev'ry time!
An' take my tip - you shtick ter lime!
'Ere'sh to Aushtralier, ev'ry time!
I doesh my lirrle bit
Be buyin' only squash 'n' lime
To keep er soljersh fit.
Fine, pa'ri-otic effort. Wot?
'Ere's to er blockesh wash gettin' shot!

Aw, I kin shtan' annurrer, Jim.
Yesh, mine's a long, wet beer.
But don't you buy no beer fer 'im,
'N' get 'im on 'is ear!
I never shoush fer sojersh now.
Unpari-pari - sholum vow!

Wash sayin', Bill? Wash 'at I 'ear?
Yeh don't want me ter shout?
You been teeto'ler fer a year!
Well, 'ash a fair knock-out!
You mean er shay...lemme buy lime,
Wile you....injoyed it all er time!

You mean er shay you thort it ni-esh
To take yer ole pal in?
You lemme make self-sacrifi'esh,
Wile you stan' there an' grin!
Wash? Goin', ie 'e? let 'im go!
Ni'esh sorter bloke ter fighter foe!

I wouldn't shoush fer sojersh now
Not fer a million poun'!
I bought 'im lemon-squash, ther cow,
And then 'e takesh me down!
Go fer the'r stummiscksh? 'Im? No fear!
Down wish er Kaiser! Mine'sh a beer.

'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.

'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.

Once upon a recent even, as I lay in fitful slumber,
Weaving dreams and seeing visions vague and utterly absurd,
Suddenly I seemed to waken, somewhat scared and rather shaken,
For I thought my name was mentioned, coupled with - 'a certain word.'

'Twas the Adjective that roused me, sanguinary and familiar,
That embellishes the diction of my fellow countrymen,
When they do commune together in regard to crops or weather -
Such a word as never, never shall defile this pious pen.

Sitting, upright on my pillow, filled with weird, uncanny feelings,
Once again I heard, distinctly someone calling on my name.
And I gazed around me vainly as a voice exclaimed quite plainly:
'Strike me up a blessed wattle if it ain't a blessed shame!'

''Tis some idiotic joker, 't's some festive friend,' I muttered,
Gazing toward my chamber window where the moonlight faintly gleamed
Then, before my bedroom curtain, I beheld a shape uncertain,
Something vague and dim and doubtful, slowly taking form it seemed.

Then, all obvious before me stood a figure most familiar,
Clad in bushman's boots and breeches and a colored cotton shirt.
Said he: 'No, yer eyes don't fail yer: Here's yer cobber, BILL AUSTRALIER,
An' I've come to ask you plainly if this game ain't blessed dirt!'

'Pardon. BILL,' said I politely; 'but I hardly get your meaning.'
'Strewth!' said BILL. 'Dead crook, I call it!' But I stayed him with a smile.
'By your leave, my worthy bloke, we'll dropp these oaths and terms colloquial,
And just talk the matter over in a peaceful, friendly style.'

BILL choked back a warm expletive - for my smile was most engaging -
And, upon my invitation, sat beside me on the bed.
And, omitting decorations - fancy oaths and execrations
That his woeful story garnished, I shall tell you what he said.

'Now my name is BILL AUSTRALIER, just plain BILL without no trimmin's,
And you'll tumble that I'm ownin' quite a tidy bit o' land;
Land that needs a bit o' workin'; an' there ain't no time for shirkin',
An' there ain't no call for loafers on the job I got on hand.

'My selection is extensive; right from sea to sea it stretches;
An' I'm needin' willin' grafters for the toil there is to do:
So some blokes called politicians speaks for overseers' positions,
An' I hands 'em out the billets, thinkin' they would see things through.

''Strewth! They ain't signed on 10 minutes 'fore they downs their tools in anger,
An', without no word o' warnin', started fightin' tooth an' nail.
An' I yelled till I grew husky, an' me face with rage went dusky,
But me most expensive language wasn't of the least avail.

'Tell yeh, I was fair bewildered till a bloke gives me the office,
Puts me wise about them factions an' this Party Guv'ment lurk.
Seems, if one side takes to toilin', then the other aims at spoilin'
Ev'ry blessed job they tackle. An' the blighters calls it WORK!

'So I puts it to 'em plainly. Sez I: 'This here Party scrappin'
In the time for which I'm payin' ain't a fair thing, anyway!'
An, I calmly asks 'em whether they can't work in peace together,
An' consider me a trifle, seein' as I find the pay.

'But it weren't no use o' torkin', they just howls and fights the harder,
Leaves me pressin' jobs to languish while they plays their party games;
Till one push turns out the stronger; then I don't chip in no longer,
For they done a bit o' graftin' while the others calls 'em names.

'Now, this year their contracts finished, so I gives 'em all the bullet,
Sacks the lot an' advertises for fresh men; an' when they came,
With near even sides, by Heaven! 38 to 37.
They remarks: 'The job be jiggered! We're too close to play the Game.'

'Game! What game? Of all the blighters!' - (Here BILL'S language grew tremendous.
I have never heard a vision curse so much in all my life.)
'Five an' seventy I'm payin' for to work, an' here's them sayin'
That the sides is too near equal an' 'twould only lead to strife!

'Strike me - !' (BILL again, in anger, aired his vast vocabulary,
Using words against his 'workmen' stronger than the law allows;
And his ultimate expletive! - Fain would I remain secretive,
But I may not. In his anger. BILL described them as FAIR COWS!)

'Fair dashed Cows! That's wot I call 'em. An' I want your straight opinion.
Am I boss of this selection that extends from sea to sea?
Here's these blinded politicians hangin' on to them positions!
An' I want the dead, straight griffen: Are they workin' points on me?'

'BILL,' said I - and tears were streaming down my whiskers as I answered -
'Precedent, and rule, and custom cannot be ignored, you know.
This Great System was imported by our fathers' (Here BILL snorted)
'From the dear old Mother Country, and we cannot let it go.'

'Wot!' yelled BILL. 'Still more imported pests upon the job to plague me!
Like the rabbits an' the foxes, burrs an' thistles, an' the rest.
Must I ever curse in anguish? Must my Big Jobs ever languish?
Can't I clear me blamed selection of this Party Guv'ment pest?'

'BILL!' I sobbed, choked with emotion - then in wonder gazed about me;
Marked the moonlight, white and ghostly, faintly gleaming through the pane:
Saw mine old familiar trousers - (Pardon this allusion, Wowsers) -
Hanging on the bedpost sadly. But I searched for BILL - in vain.
Gone had he from out my chamber. Yet I sat and pondered deeply
Through that chilly winter even; and I ponder deeply still.
Evidence I've none to show men; but, I ask, was it an omen?
Did it presage good or evil, that strange vanishing of BILL?

Brothers; even those of you who are already in the sear and yellow leaf, and full of years and iniquity,
Sometimes, I doubt not, let your thoughts go back to those days of antiquity
When mother tucked you into your little bed.
After your little prayers were said;
And, having said goodnight,
She most inconsiderately took away the light.
Then came, my brothers, that dread half-hour in the day of a child;
When your mind was filled with weird imaginings and fancies wild
Of Bogey-men and Hobgoblins, Ogres and Demons; so that, for a space, you lay
Filled with a child's vague fear of the dark, and longing for the day.
Then, to comfort you, there came the thought
That guardian angels, as you had been taught,
Hovered ever near
To watch over timid little boys and girls and still their fear.
Is not that what other said?
And, in your childish mind you pictured a feathered friend roosting benevolently
at the foot of your bed.
Then were you filled with solace deep;
You sighed contentedly and went to sleep.


Brother:
I would speak to you of another kind of mother;
Of our political mamma or historical mater:
Mrs. Britannia, to wit, who lives on the other side of the equator.
You have doubtless seen her pictured upon certain coins of the realm,
Sitting on the sharp edge of a shield, holding a picthfork, and wearing an absurd
and elaborate helm.
That is the lady; our dear old mum;
Mother of a large and parti-colored family that has given her much trouble and
promises more in the years to come.
Hitherto she has tucked us into bed.
And, for a trifling cash consideration, to allay our dread,
Has, so to speak, left us the light
In the shape of a few more or less efficient warships that might or might not be
of use in a fight;
But that was neither here nor there
So long as they served their purpose, and, like a candle of childhood's days,
dissipated the shadows and the attendant thoughts that scare.
But, behold, my brother, we are no longer an infant nation.
We have doffed our swaddling clothes, and have gone into pants, and top-hats,
and motor-coats, and split-skirts, and other habilments of adult
civilisation.
We are no longer young enough to pet and fondle, to nurse and bounce and dandle;
And, behold, mother has taken away the candle!
This is well enough;


And nobody would be complaining if the dear old lady didn't try to fill us up with
the stuff
That was designed alone for infant ears,
And to allay imaginery fears.
She forgets, the poor old worried mum, that we have, so to speak, arrived now
at years of discretion,
And (if you pardon the expression)
Endeavors to pull her trusting offsping's leg with the old, old tale
Of the beautiful and ever watchful guardian angel that will never fail
To banish the naughty, nasty bogeys, the wicked ogres that lurk
Around our little bed.... Brother, that guardian angel gag won't work!
We happen to know a little about this saffron-colored seraph, this Mongolian
cherub to whose tender care our doting parent would leave us;
And, unless our eyes deceive us,
He bears a most remarkable reseblance to the ogre that we fear!
We have not the least doubt that he will most obligingly hover near
Our little cot.
But we are very, very anxious concerning certain little childish possessions
we have got.
We have out own private opinions about the sort of watch he will keep;
And we have wisely, if rebelliously, decided that WE WILL NOT GO TO SLEEP!!


Speaking of guardian angels and other birds,
I should just like to say a few words
In conclusion
In reference to this guardian angel illusion.
It will be remebered that mother herself, when she was young, and not so
handy with the flatiron of war as she is to-day,
Had a little experience of her own in that way.
It was a Saxon guardian angel, with fierce whiskers and a spear,
That poor mother put her maiden trust in: and it would appear
That he treated her in a very shameful and ungentlemanly style;
For, after he had expelled the Scot burglar or the Pict fowl-thief or whoever it was,
he remarked, with a sinister smile:
'Well, not that I am here,
My dear,
I think I'll stay for a while.'
And that's how mother got married....he did marry her in the end, or so I
understand,
And made an honest woman of her, and in time they built up a very respectable home
in the land.
But, after all, despite his morals, he was a white man, and a decent sort of fellow.
And things miht have been very different if his color had happened to be yellow.
Since then, if any reliance can be placed on the histories that adorn my shelf,
Mother has gone in rather largely for the guardian business herself.


And this she has done, I must confess,
With considerable success.
She has played the benign guardian angel, at one time and another, to quite a
number of simple and unsophisticated folk,
Who, when her guardianship has become too insistent, have not always appeared to
appreciate the joke.
But, my brother, this is what I should vey much like to know:
Since the old girl knows so much about this thing through personal experience,
why does she want to go
And put up that rusty old bluff on her innocent and confiding little son?
In the circumstances there is only one thing for him to do, and the lesson cannot be
learned too soon: The only reliable guardian angel for children of his age
IS A GUN!
I don't know what you think about it, brother;
But, speaking privately and strictly between ourselves, I think it's pretty crook
on the part of mother.

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


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


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


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


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


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

It knocks me can in, this ere game uv life,
A bloke gets born, grows up, looks round fer fun,
Dreams dilly dreams, then wakes to find a wife
An' fambly round 'im - all 'is young days done.
An', gazin' back, sees in 'is youth a man
Scarce reckernised. It fair knocks in me can!

Ther's me. I never seemed to mark no change
As I mooched on through life frum year to year;
An' yet, at times it seems to me dead strange
That me, uv old, is me, 'oo's sittin' 'ere.
Per'aps it ain't. 'E was a crook young coot,
While I'm a sturdy farmer, growin' froot.

But, all the same, 'e wouldn't back an' fill,
An' argue with 'imself, an' 'esitate,
Once 'e 'ad seen the way. 'E'd find the will
To go an' do the thing 'e 'ad to, straight.
That's 'ow I was; an' now-Ar, strike a light!
Life gits so mixed I can't git nothin' right.

But wot's the use? A bloke 'as got to own,
When once 'e 'as responsibility,
Ther's certin games is better left alone
Wot might be done if 'e was only free.
Ther's certin things - Oh, wot's the flamin' good?
A 'usband alwiz gits misun'erstood!

It's no use hintin'. If yeh want it straight,
Me an' me wife ain't seenin' eye to eye:
All ain't been peace an' 'armony uv late,
An' clouds is comin' up in our clear sky.
I ain't to blame, an' yet, no more's Doreen.
It's jist 'ard Fate 'as shoved 'is oar between.

All marrid blokes will understand me well.
I ain't addressin' no remarks to those
'0o've learnt but 'arf uv life. The things I tell
Is fer the ears uv fellermen that knows:
Them symperthetic 'usbands 'oo 'ave 'eard
The fog-'orn soundin' in the wifely word.

Fer when stern jooty grips a 'usband's 'eart
(That's me) an' eggs 'im on to start a scene
That's like to tear two 'appy lives apart,
In spite uv all 'er carin' (That's Doreen)
Why, there you 'ave a story that would make
A bonzer movie - with a bit uv fake.

But 'ere's the plot. When my pal, Ginger Mick,
Chucked in 'is alley in this war we won,
'E left things tangled; fer 'e went too quick
Fer makin' last requests uv anyone.
'E jist sez to the world, when last 'e spoke,
'Look after Rose!' . . . 'E was a trustful bloke.

Rose lives in Spadgers Lane. She lived, them days,
Fer Mick's returnin'. When 'e never came,
If she lost 'old, an' took to careless ways,
Well, I ain't sayin' she was much to blame.
An' I don't worry, till I 'ear she's took,
Or thinks uv takin' on to ways that's crook.

Although I'm vegetatin' on a farm,
I gets a city whisper now an' then.
An' when I 'ear she's like to come to 'arm
Amongst a push uv naughty spieler men,
I gets the wind up. This is all I see:
Mick was my cobber; so it's up to me.

That's all I see, quite clear, with my two eyes.
But marrid blokes will understand once more,
When I remarks that marrid blokes is wise
'Oo 'ave the sense to take a squint through four.
Four eyes is needed in reviewin' plans -
Their vision's broader than a single man's.

But when them four eyes sees two ways at once
Gets crossed - Ar, well, ther's things in marrid life
For which a hint's enough fer any dunce.
Ther's certin things between a man an' wife
That can't be quite - But take this fer a fack:
Don't start things uv a mornin'. It ain't tack.

That was me first bad break. I should 'ave seen
The supper things washed up, an' 'elped a bit,
An' then 'ave broke it gently to Doreen,
Promiscus, like I jist 'ad thought uv it.
But I done worse. I blurts wot I'd to say
Upon the mornin' uv a washin' day!

There's gumption fer yeh. eight years I been hitched
Eight years uv trainin', an' I fall down flat!
Like some poor, love-sick softy 'oo gets switched
Fer tellin' 'sweetie' 'e don't like 'er 'at,
When she's jist come frum 'avin' rows no end
About it's trimmin' with 'er dearest friend.

I owns me ta'tic's crook. But, all the same,
Ther' weren't no need fer certin things she said.
Wantin' to do good acts don't call fer blame,
Even on tackless 'usban's, eight years wed.
A bloke 'oo jist suggests a 'armless plan
Don't need remindin' 'e's a marrid man.

'Struth! Don't I know it? Can I well ferget
While I still 'ave two 'ealthy ears to 'ark?
Not that she torks an' mags a lot; but yet
Ther's somethin' in 'er choice uv a remark
That gets there, worse than yappin' all day long,
An' makes me pure intentions look dead wrong.

It seems it ain't right fer a marrid bloke
To rescue maids. I starts to answer back;
But got took up before I 'ardly spoke,
An' innercent designs is painted black.
I calls attention to the knights uv old;
But tin knights an' romance iist leaves 'er cold.

I read 'er meanin' plain in 'er cool eye.
Aw, strike! I ain't admirin' Rose!… Wot?… Me!
But when 'er look sez 'Rats!' where's the reply
A man can give, an' keep 'is dignity?
It can't be done. When they git on that lay,
Wise coves adjourns the meet, an' fades away.

That's wot I done. I gits out uv the 'ouse
All dignified. An', jist to show 'er 'ow
Reel unconcerned I am, I starts to rouse
Me neighbour, Wally Free, about 'is cow
Wot's got in to me cabbages, an' et
Close on a row uv 'em. I'll shoot 'er yet!

(A batchelor 'e is, this Wally Free
A soljer bloke that come this way last year
An' took the little farm nex' door to me.)
When I gets mad, 'e grins frum ear to ear,
An' sez, 'Cool orf,' 'e sez. 'It's plain your wool
'As been pulled 'ard this mornin'.' 'E's a fool!

If 'e don't mend that fence . . . Ar, wot's the good?
I lets 'im go, an' sneaks be'ind the shed,
An' sits there broodin' on a pile uv wood…
Ther's certin things she might 'ave left unsaid.
Ther' wasn't nothin' fer to make 'er go
An' dig up chance remarks uv years ago.

Me problem's this: Either I 'urts Doreen,
By doin' things with which she don't agree,
Or lets Rose slide, an' treats me cobber mean
Ole Ginger Mick, 'oo 'ad no friend but me.
I ain't a ringtail; but, by gum, it's tough.
I loves me wife too much to treat 'er rough.

If I was single . . . 'Struth! 'Oo wants to be?
Fool batchelors can larf their silly larf,
An' kid theirselves they got a pull on me.
I'm out uv sorts, that's all; an' more than 'arf
Inclined to give some coot a crack, right now
Fer pref'rince, some insultin' single cow!

A month ago the world grew grey fer me;
A month ago the light went out fer Rose.
To 'er they broke it gentle as might be;
But fer 'is pal 'twus one uv them swift blows
That stops the 'eart-beat; fer to me it came
Jist, 'Killed in Action,' an' beneath 'is name.

'Ow many times 'ave I sat dreamin' 'ere
An' seen the boys returnin', gay an' proud.
I've seen the greetin's, 'eard 'is rousin' cheer,
An' watched ole Mick come stridin' thro' the crowd.
'Ow many times 'ave I sat in this chair
An' seen 'is 'ard chiv grinnin' over there.

'E's laughed, an' told me stories uv the war.
Changed some 'e looked, but still the same ole Mick,
Keener an' cleaner than 'e wus before;
'E's took me 'and, an' said 'e's in great nick.
Sich wus the dreamin's uv a fool 'oo tried
To jist crack 'ardy, an' 'old gloom aside.

An' now - well, wot's the odds? I'm only one:
One out uv many 'oo 'as lost a friend.
Manlike, I'll bounce again, an' find me fun;
But fer Poor Rose it seems the bitter end.
Fer Rose, an' sich as Rose, when one man dies
It seems the world goes black before their eyes.

Ar, well; if Mick could 'ear me blither now,
I know jist wot 'e'd say an' 'ow 'e'd look:
'Aw, cut it out, mate; chuck that silly row!
There ain't so sense in takin' sich things crook.
I've took me gamble; an' there's none to blame
Becos I drew a blank; it's in the game.'

A parson cove he broke the noos to Rose
A friend uv mine, a bloke wiv snowy 'air,
An' gentle, soothin' sort o'ways, 'oo goes
Thro' life jist 'umpin' others' loads uv care.
Instid uv Mick - jist one rough soljer lad -
Yeh'd think 'e'd lost the dearest friend 'e 'ad.

But 'ow kin blows be sof'n'd sich as that?
Rose took it as 'er sort must take sich things.
An' if the jolt uv it 'as knocked me flat,
Well, 'oo is there to blame 'er if it brings
Black thorts that comes to women when they frets,
An' makes 'er tork wild tork an' foolish threats.

An' then there comes the letter that wus sent
To give the strength uv Ginger's passin' out
A long, straight letter frum a bloke called Trent;
'Tain't no use tellin' wot it's orl about:
There's things that's in it I kin see quite clear
Ole Ginger Mick ud be ashamed to 'ear.

Things praisin 'im, that pore ole Mick ud say
Wus comin' it too 'ot; fer, spare me days!
I well remember that 'e 'ad a way
Uv curlin' up when 'e wus slung bokays.
An' Trent 'e seems to think that in some way
'E owes Mick somethin' that 'e can't repay.

Well, p'raps 'e does,- an' in the note 'e sends
'E arsts if Mick 'as people 'e kin find.
Fer Trent's an English toff wiv swanky friends,
An' wants to 'elp wot Ginger's left be'ind.
'E sez strange things in this 'ere note 'e sends:
'He was a gallant gentleman,' it ends.

A gallant gentleman! Well, I dunno.
I 'ardly think that Mick ud like that name.
But this 'ere Trent's a toff, an' ort to know
The breedin' uv the stock frum which 'e came.
Gallant an' game Mick might 'a' bin; but then
Lord! Fancy 'im among the gentlemen!

'E wus a man; that's good enough fer me,
'Oo wus 'is cobber many years before
'E writ it plain fer other blokes to see,
An' proved it good an' pleny at the war.
'E wus a man; an', by the way 'e died,
'E wus a man 'is friend can claim wiv pride.

The way 'e died… Gawd! but it makes me proud
I ever 'eld 'is 'and, to read that tale.
An' Trent is one uv that 'igh-steppin' crowd
That don't sling pral'se around be ev'ry mail.
To 'im it seemed some great 'eroic lurk;
But Mick, I know, jist took it wiv 'is work.

No matter wot 'e done. It's jist a thing
I knoo 'e'd do if once 'e got the show.
An' it would never please 'im fer to sling
Tall tork at 'im jist cos 'e acted so.
'Don't make a song uv it!' I 'ear 'im growl,
'I've done me limit, an' tossed in the tow'l.'

This little job, 'e knoo - an' I know well
A thousand uv 'is cobbers would 'ave done.
Fer they are soljers; an' it's crook to tell
A tale that marks fer praise a single one.
An' that's 'ow Mick wopuold 'ave it, as I kow;
An', as 'e'd 'ave it, so we'll let it go.

Trent tells 'ow, when they found 'im, near the end,
'E starts a fag an' grins orl bright an' gay.
An' when they arsts fer messages to send
To friends, 'is look goes dreamin' far away.
'Look after Rose,' 'e sez, 'when I move on.
Look after… Rose… Mafeesh!' An' 'e wus gone.

'We buried 'im,' sez Trent, 'down by the beach.
We put mimosa on the mound uv sand
Above 'im. 'Twus the nearest thing in reach
To golden wattle uv 'is native land.
But never wus the fairest wattle wreath
More golden than the 'eart uv 'im beneath.'

An' so - Mafeesh! as Mick 'ad learned to say.
'E's finished; an' there's few 'as marked 'im go.
Only one soljer, outed in the fray,
'Oo took 'is gamble, an' 'oo 'a 'is show.
There's few to mourn 'im: an' the less they leave,
The less uv sorrer, fewer 'earts to grieve.

An' when I'm feelin' blue, an' mopin' 'ere
About h epal I've lorst; Doreen, my wifem
She come an' takes my 'and, an' tells me, 'Dear,
Ther's be more cause to mourn a wasted life.
'E proved 'imself a man, an' 'e's at rest.'
An' so, I tries to think sich things is best.

A gallant gentleman… Well, let it go.
They sez they've put them words above 'is 'ead,
Out there where lonely graves stretch in a row;
But Mick 'ell never mind it now 'e's dead.
An' where 'e's gone, when they weigh praise an' blame,
P'raps gentlemen an' men is much the same.

They fights; an' orl the land is filled wiv cheers.
They dies; an' 'ere an' there a 'eart is broke.
An' when I weighs it orl - the shouts, the tears -
I sees it's well Mick wus a lonely bloke.
'E found a game 'e knoo, an' played it well;
An' now 'e's gone. Wot more is there to tell?

A month ago, fer me the world grew grey;
A month ago the light went out fer Rose;
Becos one common soljer crossed the way,
Leavin' a common message as 'e goes.
But ev'ry dyin' soljer's 'ope lies there:
'Look after Rose. Mafeesh!' Gawd! It's a pray'r!

That's wot it is; an' when yeh sort it out,
Shuttin' yer ears to orl the sounds o' strife
The shouts, the cheers, the curses - 'oo kin doubt
The claims uv women; mother, sweet'eart, wife?
An' 'oos to 'ear our soljers' dyin' wish?
An' 'oo's to 'eed? . . . 'Look after Rose . . . Mafeesh!'

''Ere! 'Ave a 'eart!' 'e sez. 'Why, love a duck!
A 'uman bein' ain't a choppin' block!
There ain't no call fer you to go an' chuck
A man about when 'e 'as took the knock.
Gaw! Do yeh want to bust 'im all apart!
'Ere! 'Ave a 'eart!

'Aw, 'ave a 'eart!' 'e weeps. 'A fight's a fight;
But, strike me bandy, this is bloody war!
It's murder! An' you got no blasted right
To arst a 'uman man to come fer more.
'E 'ad no chance with you right frum the start.
Aw, 'ave a 'eart!

'Yeh've pulped 'is dile,' 'e whines; 'yeh've pinched 'is gun;
Yeh've bunged 'is eye 'an bashed in 'arf 'is teeth.
'Struth! Ain't yeh satisfied with wot yeh've done?
Or are you out to fit 'im fer a wreath?
The man's 'arf dead a'ready! Wot's yer dart?
Say, 'ave a 'eart!'

I never did 'ear sich a bloke to squeal
About a trifle. This 'ere pal uv Spike's
Don't seem to 'ave the stummick fer a deal
Uv solid stoush: rough work don't soot 'is likes.
'E ain't done much but blather frum the start,
''Ere 'ave a 'eart!'

A rat-face coot 'e is, with rat-like nerves
That's got all jangled with ixceedin' fright,
While I am 'andin' Spike wot 'e deserves.
But twice 'e tried to trip me in the fight,
The little skunk, now sobbin' like a tart,
'Aw, 'ave a 'eart!'

This 'ere's the pretty pitcher in Ah Foo's
Back privit room: Spite Wegg, well on the floor,
Is bleedin' pretty, with a bonzer bruise
Paintin' one eye, an' 'arf 'is clobber tore.
While me, the conq'rin' 'ero, stan's above
'Owlin' me love.

The rat-face mutt is dancin' up an' down;
Ah Foo is singin' jazz in raw Chinee;
The parson's starin' at me with a frown,
As if 'e thort sich things could never be;
An' I'm some bloke 'e's but 'arf rekernised
'E's 'ipnertised.

Foo's furniture is scattered any'ow,
Artisic like, in bits about the floor.
An' 'arf a dozen blokes, drawn by the row,
Nosey but nervis, 'overs near the door.
I ain't no pitcher orf no chocklit box.
I've took some knocks.

I ain't no pitcher. But - 0 Glory! - But
Ther's dicky-birds awarblin' in me soul!
To think that I ain't lost that upper-cut!
An' my left-'ook's still with me, good an' whole.
I feared me punch was dead; but I was wrong.
Me 'eart's all song!

Then, as Spike makes a move, I raised me mits
Fearin' a foul; an' Rat-face does 'is block.
'E loosens up a string uv epi-tits
That seem to jolt the parson with a shock.
Filthy an' free they was, make no mistakes.
Then Snowy wakes.

All through the fight 'e 'ad seemed kind uv dazed,
Ubsorbin' it like some saint in a dream.
But now 'e straightened up, 'is ole eyes blazed
An', as the filth flowed in a red-'ot stream,
'Is voice blew in like cool winds frum the south:
'Shut that foul mouth!'

'Shut your vile mouth, or, by the Lord! - ''Is 'and
Went up, an' there was anger on 'is face.
But Rat-face ducked. 'E weren't the man to stand
Agin that figger uv avengin' grace.
Ducked, or 'e might uv stopped one 'oly smite
Frum Snowy's right.

'Young friend,' 'E turns to me. An' then I 'ear
A yell: 'The cops! The cops is in the Lane!
'Parson,' I sez, 'we are de tropp, I fear.
Mid 'appier scenes I'll vencher to ixplain.
'Ang to me 'and, an' wave no fond farewell;
But run like 'ell!'

Some say wrong livin' reaps no good reward.
Well, I dunno. If I 'ad not cut loose
In Spadgers, in them days long, long deplored,
'Ow could I knowed the run uv Foo's caboose?
That back-way entrance, used fer Chiner's friends'
Un'oly ends.

Out by a green door; down a flight uv stairs;
Along a passige; up another flight;
Through 'arf a dozen rooms, broadcastin' scares
To twenty yellow men, pea-green with fright;
Me an' the parson, through that 'eathen land,
Trips 'and in 'and.

Out uv dark corners, voices 'ere an' there
Break sudden with a jabberin' sing-song,
Like magpies flutin' on the mornin' air.
We pays no 'eed to them, but plug along,
Twistin' an' turnin' through them secret ways,
Like in a maze.

I bust a bolted door. The parson gasps:
The air inside is 'eavy with the drug.
A fat Chow goggles at the broken hasps;
Another dreams un'eedin' on a rug.
Out by the other door-past piles uv fruit
'Ow we did scoot!

Red lanterns - lacquer-work - brass pots - strange smells
Silk curtains - slippers - baskets - ginger jars
A squealin' Chinee fiddle-tinklin' bells
Queer works uv art - filth - fowls - ducks - iron bars
To winders - All pass by us in a stream,
Like 'twuz a dream.

Down to a cellar; up agen, an' out
Bananers - brandy jars - we rush pell-mell,
Turnin' to left, to right, then round about
(The parson, after, said it seemed like 'ell)
Through one last orful pong, then up a stair
Into clean air.

We're in a little yard; no thing to stop
Our flight to freedom but a fence. 'Now, jump!'
I grabs 'is rev'rince, 'eaves 'im to the top,
An' bungs me own frame over with a bump.
'Dam!' sez the parson - or it sounded so
But I dunno.

Seems that 'is coat got 'itched up on a nail.
'E jerks it free an' gently comes to earth.
'Peter the 'ermit's 'ome!' I sez. 'All 'ail!'
An' makes punk noises indicatin' mirth.
The parson, 'e walks on, as still as death.
Seems out o' breath.

I walk beside 'im; but 'e sez no word.
To put it straight, I'm feelin' pretty mean
Feelin' a bit ashamed uv wot's occurred
But still, I never planned to 'ave no scene
With Spike. I didn't start the flamin' row,
Not any'ow.

I tells 'im so. But still 'e never spoke.
I arsts 'im 'ow else could the thing be done.
I tells 'im straight I'd let no flamin' bloke
Take pot shots at me with no flamin' gun.
'E stops, an' pats me shoulder with 'is 'and:
'I understand.

'Young friend.' 'Is face is orful stern an' grave.
'The brawl was not your seekin', we'll suppose.
But does it 'elp this girL we wish to save?
'Ow can sich mad brutality serve Rose?
May be, in anger, you fergot, young friend,
Our Christian end?'

'Not on yer life!' I tells 'im. 'Spike's in soak,
Whether the cops 'ave got 'im now or not.
An' that removes one interferin' bloke
Wot 'ad a mind to queer our 'oly plot.
Tomorrer we'll find Rose, an' work good works
With gentler lurks.'

'Gentler?' 'e sez. 'I 'ope so.' Still 'e's grave.'The ways uv 'Eaven's strange,' 'e sez, 'an' yours
Is stranger still. Yet all may work to save

One strugglin' soul, if 'Eaven's grace endures.'
'E's dreadful solemn.
'I must own I feel
Grieved a great deal.

'Your face,' 'e sez, 'is very badly cut -'
'Now, look,' I chips. ''Old on. Let's git this right.
'Oo was it tried to stoush that rat-face mutt?
'Oo was it barracked for me in the fight?
'Oo was it used that word uv evul sense
Up on that fence?'

'Young friend!' . . . Indignant? 'Struth! I see 'im try
To keep reel stern. But soon I rekernise
The little twinkle stealin' in 'is eye,
That won't keep out, no matter 'ow 'e tries.
An' then - 'is twitchin' lips smile wide apart:
'Aw, 'ave a 'eart!'

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.