Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis: Verses about Loss

Well (said the small, meek man) we look for change
In this sad world, for these are stirring days;
And men pin hopes to methods new and strange
And see lost happiness thro' altered ways.
And I, who many a bitter cup have quaffed,
Hailed with delight this cult of Fathercraft.

But (said the small, meek man) I've scanned the rules
And studied well all that this author says,
Oh, I have pinned such faith to modern schools,
Hoping one day to see a great light blaze.
And now, it seems, I'm rather at a loss;
For all I glean is that the wife should be boss.

If (said the small, meek man) yielding one's pay,
Yielding one's will, seems new to Fathercraft,
And letting woman have her own sweet way;
Then (said the small, meek man) the author's daft!
I had such hopes! But, far as I can see,
Things go on in the same old way. Ah, me!

Oh, we are the phantoms of rovers lost
See how the mocking mirages play!
Men who have ventured and paid the cost.
Lone, waiting women, 'tis vain to pray!
We dies unshriven, as rovers die,
And no man knows where our white bones lie.
Black birds gather when rovers stray,
Out where the mocking mirages play.

A maiden has waited a long year thro'.
Mark where a crow from the northward flies!
'Ah, can he be false that had sworn so true?'
They say that a wanderer woos with lies.
A maiden has waited and counted the days,
Since a lover went roving the northward ways.
What do they profit - unheeded sighs?
Mark where a crow from the northward flies!

Out in the desert a still thing lies.
Westward the sun is sinking low.
Who is to mourn when a rover dies?
Hark! 'Tis the caw of a sated crow.
Who is to tell of a mad'ning thrist
Of a lonely death in a land accurst?
Merciful God! Is she ne'er to know?
(Hark to the caw of a sated crow.)

Oh, we are the legion that never came back
Ever have rovers to count the cost.
Men who went out on the waterless track.
Curst is the plain that was ne'er recross'd!
Restless to roam o'er the desert our doom,
Till our end shall be known and our bones find a tomb.
Mourn for the souls of wanderers lost,
Ever have rovers to count the cost.

There on the quay sobbed Bones, A.B.,
And he took me by the hand.
Says he to me, 'I've quit the sea
An' I'm huntin' a berth on land.
‘Er doom ‘as come; an' the days o' rum,
Salt-‘orse an' tar is over;
For these is the days of the popinjays
An' the end of the deep-sea rover
Oh,
Them tough ole, rough ole, rollicking lads
The shell-back, deep-sea rover.

'They've finished with me,' says Bones, A.B.,
'For they've finished with seamanship.
What they're shippin' of late is a milliner's mate
With a housemaid's mop on the ‘ip.
But ask ‘im the rig of a barque or a brig,
Or the toons of the chanteys sung
By a buck he-male in the days of sail
When me an' me mates was young
Oh,
Them mad ole, bad ole, rollicking days
When mates an' the world was young.

'Before ‘e was born I'd rounded the Horn
Ten times in ships o' sail,
Close-reefed an' fast in the bellerin' blast
Of the mother-in-law of a gale.
Bare-decked I been, an' wrecked I been,
Mate-hazed, marooned, shanghai-ed.
But shiver me gob, I knoo me job
In the days when the seas was wide
Oh,
Them reckless, feckless, rollicking days
When faith and the seas was wide.

'So I'm leavin' the sea,' says Bones, A.B.,
'For the sea don't need me now.
An' I'm shapin' a course to valet a ‘orse
Or coddle a milkin' cow.
All that they asks of shipboard tasks
Is a dood of a doll's-eye weaver;
An' I'm missin' ‘em bad; them mates I ‘ad
So lovin' the sea they leave ‘er
Oh,
Them tearin', swearin', devil-may-carin',
Lovable lads wot leave ‘er.'

Hi, it's a funny world! This mornin' when I woke
I saw red robin on the fence, an' heard the words he spoke.
Red robin, he's a perky chap, an' this was his refrain:
'Dear, it's a pity that poor Jenny is so plain.'

To talk like that about his wife! It had me scandalized.
I'd heard him singin' so before, but never recognised
The meaning of his chatter, or that he could be so vain:
'Dear, it's a pity that poor Jenny is so plain.'

I don't know how, I don't know why, but this reminded me
I was promised to the widow for this Sunday night to tea.
I'd promised her for weeks an' weeks, until she pinned me down.
I recollects this is the day, an' gets up with a frown.

I was thinkin' of the widow while I gets me clobber on -
Like a feller will start thinkin' of the times that's past an' gone.
An', while my thoughts is runnin' so, that bird chips in again:
'Dear, it's a pity that poor Jenny is so plain.'

Now, the widow's name is Jenny, an' it strikes me sort of queer
That my thoughts should be upon her when that robin's song I hear.
She ain't so homely neither; but she never could compare
With a certain bonzer vision with the sunlight in her hair.

When I wander down that evenin', she come smilin' to the gate,
An' her look is calculatin', as she scolds because I'm late.
She takes my hat an' sits me down an' heaves a little sigh.
But I get a queer sensation from that glimmer in her eye.

She starts to talk about the mill, an' then about the strike,
An' then she digs Ben Murray up an' treats him nasty-like;
She treats him crool an' cattish, as them soft, sweet women can.
But I ups an' tells her plainly that I think Ben is a man.

First round to me. But she comes back, an' says Ben is a cad
Who's made a laughin'-stock of her, an' treated her reel bad.
I twig she's out for sympathy; so counters that, an' says
That Ben's a broken-hearted man about the mill these days.

The second round to me on points; an' I was havin' hopes.
(I might have known that widows were familiar with the ropes.)
'But he'd never make a husband!' says the widow, with a sigh.
An' again I gets a warnin' from that glimmer in her eye.

I says I ain't no judge of that; an' treats it with a laugh.
But she keeps the talk on 'usbands for a minute an' a half.
I can't do much but spar a bit, an' keep her out of range;
So the third round is the widow's; an' the fight takes on a change.

I'm longin' for a breather, for I've done my nerve a lot,
When suddenly she starts on 'Love,' an' makes the pace reel hot.
In half a jiff she has me on the ropes, an' breathin' hard,
With not a fight inside me - I can only duck an' guard.

She uppercuts me with a sigh, an' jabs me with a glance.
(When a widow is the fighter, has a single bloke a chance?)
Her short-arm blows are amorous, most lovin' is her lunge;
Until it's just a touch an' go I don't throw up the sponge.

I use my head-piece here a bit to wriggle from the fix;
For the widow is a winner 'less I fluke a win by tricks.
An' I lets a reel mean notion (that I don't seek to excuse),
when I interrupts her rudely with, 'But have you heard the news?'

Now, to a woman, that's a lead dead certain of a score,
An' a question that the keenest is unable to ignore.
An' good old Curiosity comes in to second me,
As I saw her struggle hopeless, an' 'What news is that?' says she.

An' here I spins a lovely yarn, a gloomy hard-luck tale
Of how I've done my money in, an' I'm about to fail,
How my house an' land is mortgaged, how I've muddled my affairs
Through foolin' round with racin' bets and rotten minin' shares.

I saw the fight was easy mine the minute I begun;
An', after half a dozen words, the time-keep counted 'One.'
An' when I finish that sad tale there ain't the slightest doubt
I am winner of the contest, an' the widow's down an' out.

But not for long. Although she's lost, the widow is dead game:
'I'm sorry, Mister Jim,' says she, 'for both your loss an' shame.
All things is changed between us now, of course; the past is dead.
An' what you were about to say you please will leave unsaid.'

. . . . . . . . . .

I was thinkin' in the evenin' over how I had escaped,
An' how the widow took it all - the way she stared an' gaped.
She looked her plainest at that time; but that don't matter now;
For, plain or fair, I know of one who's fairer, anyhow.

I tells meself that beauty ain't a thing to count with man,
An' I would never choose a wife on that unthinkin' plan.
No robin was awake, I swear; but still I heard that strain;
'Dear, it's a pity that poor Jenny is so plain.'