'This is the life!' said Dusty Dan
'This is the life to hand a man!
My happy way is strewn with flowers;
But why waste money on the showers?

'The hard cash wasted on that bath
Might yet make pleasanter my path,
If wisely spent on bottled beer
And motor cars to fetch us here!'

The Mercenary View

I knew a poor remittance man,
A decent chap, but funny,
In days when my ideas began
To be controlled by money
He wore a swank, patrician air;
But, oh, his life was filled with care,
For he had seldom cash to spare;
His mien was far from sunny.

I fear I was a snobbish youth
Who led a prig's existence.
I snubbed the chap, to tell the truth,
And kept him at a distance.
His clothes, well cut, were often worn
Threadbare. Tho' he was gently born
His friendship I refused with scorn
Despite his soft insistence.

But now the whirligig of time
Sees fit to elevate him.
While, lo, the money that was mine
Is shrinking, seriatim;
And faced by serious mishap.
While he reclines in Fortune's lap.
I'd like to find the dear old chap
I'd want to cultivate him.

The Farmer's Lament

'The backbone of the country and the salt of all the earth'
That was how they styled us when the farmer had his worth.
But what's his valuation now, when times are pretty thin?
Two bob a dozen, an' the garments given in.
We made the country's money an' we paid the country's way,
We raised the wealth for cities from the farm thro' many a day;
But what's the price of farmers now the profits disappeared?
Two bob a dozen, an' a bonus on the beard.
They'll pay to patch machinery or cure old Dobbin's sprain;
But they cannot spare a stiver when the farmer gets a pain;
For what's the use o' mendin' him when all he's valued at
Is two bob a dozen, if he's nice an' prime an' fat.
But the farmer ain't repinin', tho' his price is down an' out.
There's a good time comin' soon without the smallest doubt;
But, till the world wins sanity, he's got to be content
With two bob a dozen, cash with order ten per cent.

Advance Australia

Borrowin' over the water; I've seen it all before
Raisin' loans (said Old George Jones)
Was a trick we learned of yore.
Borrowin' over the water
In the old Australian way
Splash the cash an' cut a dash
An' leave the kids to pay.

Steel rails an' sausage skins, cotton goods an' fal-de-rals,
Drapery an' rollin'-stock an' pocket knives an' sich;
That was how we took it out
When we was but a growin' lout;
But sich-like habits calls for doubt
Now we are grown an' rich.

Borrowin' over the water for reproductive works
That ain't produced; sich habits used
To mark the crowd that shirks.
That's why we're heaped with taxes
In this sad year A.D.
Thro' the ancient tricks of politics
In borrowin' overseas.

Airyplanes an' motor-cars, guns an' bombs an' bayonits
The cash is here to buy the things an' meet the whole expense.
But seems we'll never mend our ways;
An' habits learned in olden days
Sticks hard; so we keep up the craze
An' borrow for defence.
Advance Australia! Pile the loans.
The kids'll pay (said Old George Jones).

Art Is Long - Hair Is Shorter

When artists wore a flowing mane,
Then, in a sentimental vein,
With pastorals they lured the eye,
Or sad, sweet scenes of sea and sky.
But now that hair sprouts from the face
They chuck their paint about the place
And, in the modern manner, seek
To baffle one with the unique.

I've often wondered if this surge
Of hirsute foam denotes some urge
Artistic that controls and sways
The hand and brain to newer ways.
For instance, might we not expect
An artist in dundrearies decked
In other manner to behave
From him who wore a monkey shave?

I've known but one of this quaint throng
Who wore both hair and whiskers long,
But he, poor bloke, was short of cash,
And wore a full beard and moustache
That he might draw on this supply
When price of brushes soared to high ...
But there are ways, it seems to me.
To test my novel theory.

If some brave man would range the land
And catch a few of this quaint band
And hold them captive for a while
Who knows what tricks of school and style
One might evolve if, to each man,
We gave a different hirsute plan?
You doubt, perhaps? But all the same,
There might be money in the game.

The Genesis Of Gloom [australian Variety]

Once upon a time, in days remote,
A politician bought a vote.
The price he paid is not quite clear,
But probably a pot of beer
Secured his end. But he got in;
So folk excused this venial sin.

Now if the thing had stayed right there,
We might have dodged a load of care.
But pots of beer soon failed to serve
The candidate of dash and nerve;
And, with cold cynicism, came
The urge to organise the Game.

Soon the political machine
Beheld the profit it might glean
Thro' gifts spread thro' electorates
To help the 'Outs' the 'Ins' frustrate;
While shrewd 'Ins', not to be outdone,
Increased the offers two to one.

Later, the craftiest M.P.'s
Perceived that loans from overseas
Might help them hand out cakes and ale
Upon a most colossal scale;
And Parties with each other vied
To spread their largesse far and wide.

Railways were built from here to there
That served no purpose anywhere,
And public works that did not pay
Like mushrooms, sprouted in a day,
With promises were issues fought,
And whole electorates were bought.

Millions and yet more millions flowed
To go the same old easy road. . . .
Till, with a dearth of easy cash
The game was up; and came the crash.
'Tis pitiful; but there you are.
With pots of beer in some back bar
This evil had its genesis

More For The Money

What are the wild waves saying now that their lengths are changed?
In a manner most dismaying are the stations now aranged.
And I twist and twirl and twiddle at the knobs, then, with a screech
Come sounds of a sobbing fiddle and a League of Nations speech,
Or the Abyssinian crisis with the football field's alarms,
Or the fat stock market prices mixed up with stuff by 'Brahms.'
More for my money truly in these daft days I get.
Since the waves become unruly and the solo's a duet:-
From 3HA and 3DB, or 3LO and 7NT,
From 3AR and 5CK. Sounds mingle in the cutest way:
'You are listening now . . . to a song by Bach . . .
On the Jersey cow . . . 'Hahk, Hahk, the Lahk!'
On the cult of the tomato . . .
My cutie says . . . Scratched for the Cup . . .
Von Plonken plays . . . Prime wethers up . . .
With a 'cello obligato . . .'

What are the wild waves saying, now that their paths o'erlap?
And the trumpet's brazen braying breaks in on the solemn chap
Who tell the listening nation how flames of war arise;
But a strident Sydney station yells, 'Smoke gets in your eyes.'
And you'll note if you're observant that, spite of all you say,
Your boss, the Civil Servant, goes on his own sweet way;
He deplores the sad disaster when your set so misbehaves;
But the servant rules the master, and choas rules the waves.
From 3HA and 3DB, from 3LO and 7NT,
From 3AR and 5CK. Sounds mingle in the quaintest way.
But in a while you cease to smile,
For the thing's no longer funny.
Listener, be wise. Pray, realise
You get more for your money.

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

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

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

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

Frank And His Little Bank

When he was quite a small boy, Frank
Was fond of useful playthings;
So he was given a toy bank
That he might learn the way things
Were done in the financial world;
So, on the playroom floor he curled,
Tho' short of pence, and had great dreams
Of wonderful financial schemes.

No lack of pennies grieved small Frank,
He simply took some paper
And posted slips into his bank
A cunning childish caper.
And soon he found that, with due care,
He could become a millionaire.
A happy child. And all day
He sang himself this little song:

'If papers I have not enough
Each standing for a penny
I take it out and tear the stuff,
And then I've twice as many.
And if my bank's not full, why then
I tear them all tn two again.
So all day long I tear and sing
And grow as rich as anything.'

In course of time Frank learned to walk
And his perambulations
Led to strange fields; he learned to talk
And made some fine orations.
He left his school, and went to work;
He sought the vote, and stood for Bourke
And, being voluble, was sent
For years and years to Parliament.

But, tho' he grew in many ways
And wondrously developed
His childish money complex stayed
Until it had enveloped
His whole attention. So that, when
Acute depression comes to men,
And things financial all go wrong,
He sings again his little song:

'When lack of money troubles brew
For any stricken nation
You simply tear your notes in two
By process of inflation.
And of this does not serve, why then
You just divide them up again
Until, with new financial health,
The whole land overflows with wealth.'

Walk up! Walk up to the Bureaucratic Fair!
All the tasters and the testers and the tallymen are there.
All the freaks and other fancies of the mighty tax machine.
A unique conglomeration not believed until it's seen.
Walk up! Walk up to the strangest show on earth!
And learn how the tax-collection costs near all a tax is worth;
Learn all about the latest departmental funny cracks.
Buy your tickets at the window. Two and six - plus tax.

Come and see the biscuit-biter. No performance could be brighter.
Learn how shortbread can affect the human girth.
Come and see the pastry chewer. Green complexioned, but a doer
Holds the cup for the most bilious bloke on earth!
Come and see the lip-stick licker. Quick as lightning - even quicker
Picks the British from the foreign at a lick.
Come and help the politician patch the country's sad condition.
With the latest catch-a-penny parlor trick.

Come and see the cove so pure that he bans the literature
That all Britain may devour, and stays serene.
Watch his calories increase as he scans a spicy piece,
While he gradually turns a sickly green.
Good, clean fun, but vastly funny. Every act is worth the money!
Every turn is full of merry harmless fun.
Come and see the dope-detectors, see unhappy sweet-inspectors
Testing chocolates for gin - and finding none!

Walk up! Walkup to the Bureaucratic Fair!
All the latest acquisitions of the Government are there;
All the testers and the tasters, all the poor dyspeptic blokes,
And so very, very earnest, tho' the public throw them jokes.
Walk up and see the show arranged especially for you,
And help the harried Government to earn more revenue
That stuff they spend so freely and the population lacks
Buy your tickets at the window - Two and sixpence - plus tax.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did you ever meet Bert? 'E's all over the town,
In offices, shops an' in various places,
Cocky an' all; an' you can't keep 'im down.
I never seen no one so lucky at races.
Backs all the winners or very near all;
Tells you nex' day when the races are over.
'E makes quite a pot, for 'is wagers ain't small;
An' by rights 'e 'ad ought to be livin' in clover.

But, some'ow or other - aw, well, I dunno.
You got to admit that some fellers is funny.
'E don't dress too well an' 'is spendin' is low.
I can't understand wot 'e does with 'is money.
'E ought to be sockin' a pretty fair share;
An' tho' 'e will own 'e's a big money-maker,
'E don't seem to save an' 'e don't seem to care
If 'e owes a big wad to 'is butcher an' baker.

'E don't tell you much if you meet on the course;
But after it's over 'e comes to you grinnin',
Shows you 'is card where 'e's marked the first 'orse,
An' spins you a wonderful tale of 'is winnin'.
Can't make 'im out, 'e's so lucky an' that.
Knows ev'ry owner an' trainer an' jockey:
But all of 'is wagerin's done on 'is pat.
Won't spill a thing, even tho' 'e's so cocky.

Oyster, that's Bert. 'E's as close as a book.
But sometimes I've come on 'im sudden an' saw 'im
Lip 'angin' down an' a reel 'aggard look,
Like all the woes in the world come to gnaw 'im.
But, soon as 'e sees you, 'e brightens right up.
'Picked it again, lad!' 'e sez to you, grinnin'.
'A fiver at sevens I 'ad in the Cup!
That's very near sixty odd quid that I'm winnin'.'

Mystery man - that's 'is style for a cert,
Picks the 'ole card, yet 'e's shabby and seedy;
'E must 'ave some sorrer in secrit, ole Bert
Some drain on 'is purse wot is keepin' 'im needy.
A terrible pity. Some woman, no doubt.
No wonder 'e worries in secrit an' souses.
If I 'ad 'is winnin's, year in an' year out,
Why I'd own a Rolls Royce an' a terris of 'ouses.

A city clerk was Henry Brown,
Whose suburb knew nor tram nor train;
And ev'ry morn he walked to town.

From nine till five, with busy brain,
He labored in an office dim.
Each eve he walked out home again.

And all this tramping seemed to him
A waste of time, for, 'mid the strife,
He could not keep his lawn in trim.

It clouded his domestic life -
This going early, coming late -
And much distressed his little wife.

Then some wise man declared the State
Should put in trams, and for this scheme
Brown was a red-hot advocate.

At last he realised his dream;
And daily in and out of town
He trammed it with content supreme.

For, though it cost him half-a-crown
A week in fares, the time he saved
Meant much to him and Mrs. Brown.

And so they lived and pinched and slaved
And their suburban happiness
Seemed all that they had ever craved.

The little wife began to bless
The trams; nor grieved their meagre dole
Was weekly two and sixpence less.

Then Brown's employer, kindly soul,
Learned of this tram-car luxury,
And promptly rose to take his toll.

He sent for Brown and said that he
Should now contrive to come at eight
Since trams blessed his vicinity.

He also deemed it wise to state
That idleness begat much ill,
And it was wrong to sleep in late.

Yet Brown contrived to tram it still,
And trim his lawn with tender care,
And pay his rent and baker's bill.

His little wife vowed it unfair;
But bowed to stern, relentless fate,
And smiled and sewed and worked her share.

Just here, the landlord wrote to state,
Since trams improved his property,
He'd raise the rent as from that date.

'Three shillings weekly will not be
Too much - an equitable rise,
Considering the trams,' wrote he.

What profit oaths or women's sighs?
His 'sacred rights,' of wealth the fount,
A landlord has to recognise.

To what do poor clerks' lives amount?
An extra hour of slavery
Swells an employer's bank account.

The wealthy boss thanks God that he
Has saved some money out of Brown.
The landlord smiles contentedly.

The trams run gaily up and down,
A sight Brown sadly notes as he
Plods daily in and out of town.

The unsoiled hand, the sleek, black coat,
The senile, ledger-haunted hours,
The knowledge that my freeman's vote
Is humbly cast to please 'the powers,'
A futile spite against the mass,
A small, weak hate of Labor's side,
These privileges of Our Class
I cherish with a puny pride.

The sycophancy of the snob,
The day-long cringe, the life-long fear
That I may lose a steady job
That 'job genteel' I hold so dear
These be the splendid attributes
Of one who yearns to emulate
His master; and all work-soiled brutes
Regards with mean, reflected hate.

Not mine the arrogance of wealth,
No pride in honest labor mine;
But while I still hold life and health
My pet ambition is to shine
A small, pale star that faintly glows
In Fat's impressive firmament,
The while I earn mere food and clothes,
And help the boss to cent. per cent.

Ambition? E'en my timid soul
Dreams of a day when I shall rule;
When I may heckle and control
The trembling slaves of desk and stool;
When I shall be of Fat myself
Who now but dangles at his skirt.
A magnate! Armed with pow'r and pelf.
Meet recompense for eating dirt.

I mark the lowly toiler rage.
'Resist!' he cries. 'Resist! Unite!'
The while I sue for patronage -
A deferential parasite.
Then to my aid comes Pride of Class,
I take my stand beside the Boss.
I earn his praise! .... Although, alas,
His gain, mayhap, will be my loss.

For who would risk a master's ire
That deity who rules my life,
That god who may, in vengeance dire,
Snatch happiness from 'child' and wife?
'Rights!' shout the horny-handed. 'Rights!'
The dolts defy the pow'rs that be.
While I watch through the restless nights
And tremble for my salary.

Oh. what rash madness moves these clods?
E'en my own fellow serfs, alas,
Speak treason 'gainst the money-gods
And turn black traitors to Our Class.
Our Class! That genteel, cultured band,
Well-dressed, respectable, elite
The servile mind, the soft white hand
Patrician class of Collins~street!

Cohorts of Collins-street, arise!
O legions, wake in Finders-land!
Let each pale hero rcognise
His class, and fight with might and mian.
Fight for the master sturdily!
What though his profit be our loss?
And let our watchword ever be,

The sleek, black coat, the unsoiled hand,
The proud assertion of the worm.
Behold the Class! Oh, noble band!
Mild, desk-worn yoemen of 'The Firm.'
With swagger of the over-dressed.
With meekness of the underpaid,
They flout the plaint of the oppressed,
And stare at Liberty, afraid.

The Mooch O' Life

This ev'nin' I was sittin' wiv Doreen,
Peaceful an' 'appy wiv the day's work done,
Watchin', be'ind the orchard's bonzer green,
The flamin' wonder of the settin' sun.

Another day gone by; another night
Creepin' along to douse Day's golden light;
Another dawning when the night is gone,
To live an' love - an' so life mooches on.

Times I 'ave thought, when things was goin' crook,
When 'Ope turned nark an' Love forgot to smile,
Of somethin' I once seen in some old book
Where an ole sorehead arsts, 'Is life worf w'ile? '

But in that stillness, as the day grows dim,
An' I am sittin' there wiv 'er an' 'im-
My wife, my son! an' strength in me to strive,
I only know - it's good to be alive!

Yeh live, yeh love, yeh learn; an' when yeh come
To square the ledger in some thortful hour,
The everlastin' answer to the sum
Must allus be, 'Where's sense in gittin' sour? '

Fer when yeh've come to weigh the good an' bad -
The gladness wiv the sadness you 'ave 'ad -
Then 'im 'oo's faith in 'uman goodness fails
Fergits to put 'is liver in the scales.

Livin' an' loving learnin' day be day;
Pausin' a minute in the barmy strife
To find that 'elpin' others on the way
Is gold coined fer your profit - sich is life.

I've studied books wiv yearnings to improve,
To 'eave meself out of me lowly groove,
An' 'ere is orl the change I ever got:
''Ark at yer 'eart, an' you kin learn the lot.'

I gives it in - that wisdom o' the mind -
I wasn't built to play no lofty part.
Orl such is welkim to the joys they find;
I only know the wisdom o' the 'eart.

An' ever it 'as taught me, day be day,
The one same lesson in the same ole way:
'Look fer yer profits in the 'earts o' friends,
Fer 'atin' never paid no dividends.'

Life's wot yeh make it; an' the bloke 'oo tries
To grab the shinin' stars frum out the skies
Goes crook on life, an' calls the world a cheat,
An' tramples on the daisies at 'is feet.

But when the moon comes creepin' o'er the hill,
An' when the mopoke calls along the creek,
I takes me cup o' joy an' drinks me fill,
An' arsts meself wot better could I seek.

An' ev'ry song I 'ear the thrushes sing
That everlastin' message seems to bring;
An' ev'ry wind that whispers in the trees
Gives me the tip there ain't no joys like these:

Livin' an' loving wand'rin' on yeh way;
Reapin' the 'arvest of a kind deed done;
An' watching in the sundown of yer day,
Yerself again, grown nobler in yer son.

Knowin' that ev'ry coin o' kindness spent
Bears interest in yer 'eart at cent per cent;
Measurin' wisdom by the peace it brings
To simple minds that values simple things.

An' when I take a look along the way
That I 'ave trod, it seems the man knows best,
Who's met wiv slabs of sorrer in 'is day,
When 'e is truly rich an' truly blest.

An' I am rich, becos me eyes 'ave seen
The lovelight in the eyes of my Doreen;
An' I am blest, becos me feet 'ave trod
A land 'oo's fields reflect the smile o' God.

Livin' an' lovin'; learnin' to fergive
The deeds an' words of some un'appy bloke
Who's missed the bus - so 'ave I come to live,
An' take the 'ole mad world as 'arf a joke.

Sittin' at ev'nin' in this sunset-land,
Wiv 'Er in all the World to 'old me 'and,
A son, to bear me name when I am gone....
Livin' an' lovin' - so life mooches on.

Brothers O' Mine

Brothers o' mine, brothers o' mine,
All the world over, from pole to pole
All of them brothers of mine and thine
Every wondering, blundering soul.
Banded together by grace divine,
Brothers o' mine, brothers o' mine.

Good Brother Green at the service sat
Sat in the chapel and bowed his head;
Praying most fervently into his hat;
Bending his knee when The Word was read.
For good Brother Green was a godly man
A godly keristian; and what be more,
He loved all sinners, and carefully ran
A worldy and prosperous grocery store.

'Brothers o' mine, brothers o' mine,'
Quoted the preacher, with dolorous drone:
'The Lord He hath given thee all that is thine.
Love ye not gold for itself alone.
E'er to the fallen thy mercy incline,
Love thou thy neighbour! O, brothers o' mine.'

Good comrade Hal in the tavern sat
Sat in the tavern and tossed his head,
Tilting a glass to the brim of his hat;
Bending his arm when the toast was said.
But comrade Hal was a godless man
A godless sinner; and what be more,
He loved good liquor, and carelessly ran
A long, long bill at the grocery store.

'Brother o' mine, brother o' mine,'
Shouted the tippler in riotous tone,
'Toiled thou, and sweated for all that is thine;
But love not gold for itself alone.
Gold bringeth gladness and red, red wine.
Fill up another! O, brother o' mine.'

Every Sabbath, since childhood years,
Good Brother Green at the service sat
A traveller stern in this vale of tears
Breathing his piety into his hat;
Praying for guidance and praying for light;
Vowing unworthiness more and more;
With a nice warm feeling that all was right
With the business of Green's Cash Grocery Store.

'Brothers o' mine, brothers o' mine,'
Turn not away from thy brother in sin.
Afar let the light of your righteousness shine,
A beacon to gather the wanderer in.
Lovers of wickedness, lovers of wine,
All,' said the worshipper, 'brothers o' mine.'

Every Sabbath, since childhood's years,
Comrade Hal in the tavern sat
A rioter gay in this vale of tears,
Tilting his glass to the brim of his hat;
Drinking from morn to the fall of night;
Vowing good-fellowship more and more;
With a nice warm feeling that all was right,
And a curse for the bill at the grocery store.

Brothers o' mine, brothers o' mine,
Seek ye a pew or a pewter to-day?
Where is the brotherhood vaunted divine
Here, in the tavern - or over the way?
Drink is a snare, and a mocker is wine;
But the world? - Nay, forget it, O brothers o' mine!

Monday morn, with a soul for work,
Good Brother Green stood rubbing his hands
Rubbing his hands with an oily smirk;
Seeking the trade a good name commands.
Came there a widow who pleaded for time
For a month, for a week! Ah, what would it mean!
'Sell up her sticks. This pretence is a crime!
And business is business,' quoth good Brother Green.

Brothers o' mine, brothers o' mine!
Cover your drunkenness, cover your spite!
Brother in piety, brother in wine
Are we a brotherhood? Lord give us light!
Lover of cant, or the lover of wine
Which lov'st thou of these brothers o' thine?

Heavy and dull on the Monday morn,
Comrade Hal went rubbing his head
Rubbing his head with an air forlorn;
Seeking the tavern where wine is red.
Passed he a beggar who aid invoked.
'Catch, then, brother,' he merely cried,
Spinning a coin as he smiled and joked.
'Now I go thirsty,' the tippler sighed.

Brothers o' mine, brothers o' mine
Brothers in purple, brothers in rags
Who can the bonds of your kin define?
Plead ye beggars, and jest ye wags!
'Nay, beggar brother, why dost thou whine?
All these good people are brothers o' thine.'

The Corpse That Won'T Lie Still

Aye, call it murder is ye will!
'Tis not the crime I fear.
If his cold curse would but lie still
And silent in its bier,
Then would I be indeed content,
And count it folly to repent.

With these two hands I've slain the knave;
I've watched the red blood drop;
I've rammed him tight into his grave,
And piled the clods atop,
And tramped them down exultingly....
Now back he comes to grin at me.

Once have I slain him in his bed,
Twice by the midnight blaze;
Thrice have I looked upon him dead
All in these seven days.
Yet here, this night, I've seen him stand
And pluck the pen from out my hand.

Nay, never spook nor sprite is he,
But solid flesh and blood,
Who schemes with deep malignity
To stint my livelihood.
And he had vowed a vow my name
Shall never grace the scroll of fame.

My name he bears, my garb he wears,
My pipes he idly smokes;
And, friend-like, he but rarely cares
To praise my sorry jokes.
He spends my money lavishly
With ne'er a thrifty thought for me.

And when my ready cash is gone
He runs me into debt.
Stern duty he will harp upon
When I would fain forget.
But when, through toil, I would be free
He soothes me with rank sophistry.

Whene'er with resolutions stern
I sit me down to work,
And mighty thoughts within me burn,
Then forth comes he to lurk
Here at my elbow, where he clings
And whispers of forbidden things.

So when I woo some lofty theme
Of deep religious tone,
He lures me on to idly dream,
As we sit there alone.
Of girls I have and have not kissed,
Of favors won and chances missed.

He whispers of that tempting book
I have no time to read;
'One peep,' he pleads: 'one hasty look!
Where is the harm, indeed?'
And when I speak of work, and sigh,
''Twill do to-morrow!' is his cry.

And oft - too well I know how oft
Beneath his subtle spell
I fall, and dream of living soft
Who know - aye, none so well
That living soft is but for him
Who earns his ease with labor grim.

Dreams, dreams, and ever idle dreams!
His glowing art I hate!
Yet pleasant for the hour it seems,
His soothing opiate.
And, though I slay him, this I dread:
He oftener alive than dead.

Oh, I have to be so very sure,
No later than last night,
That I had pinned the knave secure,
And I was free to write
Those mighty masterpieces which
To pen my fingers ever itch.

But, with his slouch and lazy leer,
Lo, came back he to-day:
With wheedling lips against mine ear
He tempted me to play
At tennis all the afternoon.
Work and resolve forgot so soon!

Yet, spite his faults, he is, I swear,
A merry knave withal;
And when I have the time to spare
That's seldom, if at all
I'd roam with him 'mid fields and flow'rs
If he'd be still in business hours.

Each morn I bash him on the head
And hide him out of sight.
Full, sure, indeed, that he is dead;
But back he comes each night,
And on the lotus buds we feed
When bread and butter is my need.

Though many ways his death I've planned
And slain him, as I've said,
He takes a lot of killing and
He'll never stay long dead.
And, though, each day i cause his death,
I know he'll live while I have breath.

But let me vow the vow again
The vow I know by heart
And, here and now, with hasty pen,
Stab to some vital part.
And, mocked by his departing laugh,
Rewrite his oft-writ epitaph.

'Here lies the man I should not be
By all stern rules of life.
The man who's plagued and hampered me
All through this mundane strife.
A lazy, loafing knave was he....
But, sooth, he was fine company.'

Now the Wobble went out on the roaring tide,
With a dry dog trotting along by its side;
Went over the sea - and I vow right here
That the Wobble went out with its views as clear
As ever the views of a Wobble could be;
And the Wobble went out and over the sea.

Went over the sea for to represent
The folk of our island continent;
Went over to England where dukes and lords,
And princes, and barons, and earls in hordes,
And bankers, and boodlers, and scores of Jews
Were burning to hear of Australia's views.

0, the Wobble went over to advertise
(For it was a Wobble of goodly size)
The things that we grow and the things that we breed
Our eggs and our bacon and butter and seed,
The health of our air and the worth of our earth
(For it was a Wobble of generous girth)
And it's quite a true saying, as ev'ryone knows,
A Wobble's a Wobble wherever it goes.

The Wobble went forth from its native land,
And when they espied it adrift on the Strand
All the American tourists laff't:
'Why, if that ain't the double of our old TAFT!'
And when it appeared later on in The Row,
All the duchiest duchesses viewed the show,
And they said: 'There is nothing can advertise
A country so well as a Wobble of size.'

And they asked it along for a feed and a swill,
And a talk after dinner, as Englishmen will,
And there's nothing on earth like a gabble and gobble
Appeals to a healthy and well-bred Wobble.
And when it arose at the festive board
The barons and aldermen loudly roared.
With the dukes and the generals, 'That's the bloke!
That's the famous and only Australian Joke!

'It's the Globular Jest with the Monocled Eye
That makes the Australians 1augh till they cry
The bankers and boodlers and Park Lane Jews
Wept great, glad teara in the jellies and stews;
The Lord High Chancellor spllt his vest,
While the baronets, admirals, peers and the rest
Agreed with the bishops and Irish M.P.'s
That no funnier Wobble came over the seas.

The Wobble gazed solemnly round the board,
While England's nobility shouted and roared
But it didn't enlarge on the things that we grow
Or the things that we breed or we dig, 0 no;
But it struck a delightfully humorous note
As it dealt with the things we, at intervals, float.
And it gravely declared that, as ev'ryone knows,
A feller's far better without any clothes.

'For a man,' said the Wobble, 'that uses his cash
For his personal needs is exceedingly rash.
He should gather his money and bury it in
A bit of old bagging or kerosene tin
At the end of the garden, then hasten to pop
His garments and things at his relative's shop.
He should hurry to Uncle and cheerfully float
A loan on his boots and his hat and his coat.

'And when you have blewed all that little advance
Don't dig up your money - not by any chance;
But pawn your etceteras, weskit and socks,
And the spare shirt and collars you keep on the box;
For it's better for Uncle and better for you,
And better by far for the little ones too.
And the whole darn family's more content
When the wardrobe is soaking at four per cent.'

O, every baton and duke and lord
He clung to the table and shrieked and roared;
And the Lord Chief Justice was heard to declare
That a Wobble so droll was exceedingly rare;
And all the financiers, COHEN and MOSES,
Laughed till the tears trickled over their noses;
And ev'ryone shouted, with hearty 'Ho, ho's,'
'Just fancy a Wobble without any clothes!'

The Baron of Bath threw a fit, and his Grace
The Bishop of Brixton went black to the face.
And I put it to you, as a man to a man:
Do you honestly think that Australia can
Ever hope to be blessed with another such prize
As a humorous Wobble to advertise?
For it's quite a true saying, as ev'ryone knows,
A Wobble's a Wobble wherever it goes.

Charity, Charity - parson and priest
Ever in church and in chapel have taught
'Give ye in charity e'en to the least,
So may the favor of Heaven be bought.
Strive ye in Virtue, for Him that we call
Master has named it the greatest of all.
Strive ye in holiness;
Owner of acres and breeder of sheep.
Cleaning his wealth with a masterful hand,
Scheming for profit with schemes that are deep.
Yet is the squatter a generous soul
A generous donor, and this be more:
He never begrudges - nor misses - the dole
Of gratuitous guineas he flings from his store.

Charity, Charity - purchase your fame!
All the world honours a giver of alms.
Noble philanthropist! Publish his name!
Scatter his gift to the suppliant palms.
Nay! Would you ask how his guineas are won?
Mark his beneficence? See what he's done!
Thank him, ye lowly ones;
Bless him you holy ones.
Charity, Charity - worthily done!

Humble BILL HODMAN is ag├Ęd and poor;
Owning no riches and owning no lands,
Living the life of a labouring boor,
Earning his bread by the toil of his hands.
Yet is the toiler an obstinate soul
An obstinate pauper, and this be more:
He'd answer with curses if offered a dole
In charity out of a rich man's store.

Charity, Charity - ignorant clowns!
What should ye know of personal pride?
Shame on your surliness! Shame on your frowns!
Spurring the gifts that the wealthy provide!
Are they not generous? Are they not kind?
Pride is their privilege, why should ye mind?
Study servility;
Practise humility.
Charity, Charity - fools, ye are blind!

Proud Squatter REX has a charming wife
Queen of society, lady of birth;
Nurtured in luxury, smiling thro' life,
Ever enjoying the sweets of the earth.
Ah, but she pities the poor o' the land
Sweet benefactress, as kind as her lord.
Patroness she of a slum-working band,
President, too, of a hospital board.

Charity, Charity - down in the slums
Misery stalks 'mid the lean o' the land.
Angel beneficent! See where she comes,
Scattering gifts with a generous hand.
Sweet Lady Bountiful, draw in your skirt;
Shrink from the misery squalor and dirt.
Pity is lured to it?
Nay, they're inured to it.
Charity, Charity is their desert.

Labourer BILL has a toil-worn wife
Drudge of the lower class, cradled in care;
Nurtured in poverty, struggling through life,
Knowing too well all the bitterness there.
Ah, but she nurses a foolish old pride
Wife of a labourer barren of lands
Knowing the 'comforts' they humbly divide
Are earned, doubly earned, by the toil of their hands.

Charity, Charity - nay, foolish drudge!
Why should you slave till the end of your day?
Think of the wealthy who never begrudge
Gifts to the 'Home' where the indignent stay.
Why should mendicity shame such as you?
Indigence, beggary - these are not new.
Where is the blame for it?
What's in the name of it?
Charity, Charity - it is your due.

Proud Squatter REX, does your lordly soul
Shrink from the thought of a mendicant whine?
Are you too proud to solicit a dole
Won by the sweat of a fellow of thine?
What of the subsidy sued for and paid?
Paid at a word from a tool of the 'class';
Earned, hardly earned, at a labourer's trade
Charity wrung from the toil of the mass.

Charity, Charity - what's in a name?
Whine for a subsidy, lo, and it comes!
Still it is charity ever the same
Begged from a palace or cadged from the slums.
Call it a clever political game
Yours is the sordidness, yours is the shame.
Moneyed mendacity,
Skilled in duplicity.
Charity, Charity! - this is its name.

Sweet lady Bountiful, queen of your set,
Selfish for pleasure and greedy for show,
When come the toys and the treasures you get/
Have you considered or wanted to know?
Nay, would you stoop to take pence from the poor,
Soiled with the sweat of an overworked wife
Loaf on the toil of a labouring boor,
Squander his pittance to lighten your life?
Charity, Charity - cover your face!
This is your charity, this is your pride:
To laugh, and to live, and to know the disgrace
Of squandering pence that the needy provide.
Some toiling sister, some work-weary soul,
Is slaving the harder to eke out your dole.
Blush for the shame of it!
Shrink form the name of it!
Blush for your name upon Charity's roll!

Now, this ain't a loocid story, but it 'as a 'igh-class moral.
I can mop up all the praises hurled at me by them it soots.
An' with them it don't appeal to I don't seek to pick a quarrel;
But I pause to say in passin', that I hold 'em brainless coots.

Well it mighter been a nightmare or it mighter been a vision.
Why or 'ow or where it 'appened, or 'ow long or shot ago
These are items I am shy of; but I've come to this decision:
It all 'appened some'ow somewhere, an' I'm tellin' all I know.

With this lengthy introduction - which I'm trustin', inter-arlier,
Will be paid for, cash, at space rates, to assist a bard in need
(For the lot of jingle-writers in our own sun-kissed Australier
Ain't so sunny as it might be, on the 'ole) - I'll now proceed.

There was me - who's most important, bein' here to tell the story
There was Kodak's gloomy lodger, an' a 'Enry Lawson bloke,
Also E.J. Brady's pirate, full of husky oaths and gory,
An' a plump and pleasin' female from an Ambrose Dyson joke.

Likewise with us at the geth'rin' Was Grant 'Ervey's Strong Australian.
An' a curly Souter peach; it was a treat the way she dressed;
An' a Louis Esson dryad, sparsely gowned an' somewot alien
(For which rhyme I point to many precedents amongst the best).

Also there were many others, far too noomerous to mention;
Bron men, somwot out of drorin', but exceedin' terse an' keen;
Yeller pups, George Reids an' dry dogs - but it is not my intention
To innoomerate the items in a Chris'mas BULLYTEEN.

Where we were I 'ave no notion, tho' it mighter been Parnassus.
Any'ow - but I'm forgettin' one small guest that came unbid;
Standin' in a corner sulkin', seldom speakin', 'cept to sass us,
Rubbin' 'is thin calves together, stood a Norman Lindsay kid.

But the main point of this story is that all of us was stony;
An' we needed money badly for to give ourselves a treat.
An' we wanted to present the editor with somethin' toney
In the shape of clubs or rest cures, just to try an' get 'im sweet.

'Mates, alas, there's nothin'left us,' ses the gloomy Lawson native.
'We can only look for other castaways from other wrecks.'
When the Wild Cat, on 'is windlass, scratched 'is left ear contemplative
An' remarked, 'I think I've gotter scheme to land the fatted cheques.

'We are valuable assets,' 'e went on, in tones finanshul.
'We are also reproductive, an' I think I see a chance
To relieve the present tension, an' secure a sum substanshul,
Which all comes of my acquaintance with low schemes an' 'igh finance.

'If we borrer twenty thousand on our natcheral resourses
On all BULLETTEEN creations - it will purchase many beers.
We can maffick, an' pay int'rest - which is a triflin' thing of course is
With a sinkin' fund extendin' over ninety-seven years.'

Well! To say we was elated is to put th ematter mildly.
I can still 'ear Brady's pirate yellin', 'Bite mates, let us bite!'
I can still see Kodak's lodger kick 'is slippered feet, and wildly
Try to borrer two-an'-sixpence on the spot....But oh, that night!

'Where do I come in?' a squeaky voice arose above our shoutin',
Rose an' squeaked, shrill an' insistent, over all our joyous din.
'Twas the kid, the Lindsay youngster, standin' in 'is corner poutin'.
'Take a pull, yer bloomin' wasters! Blime, where do i come in?

'Nice lot, ain't yer? Garn, yer loafers! Let the comin' generation
Suck their theumbs an' watcher yer jag, an' 'ump the bill when it comes due;
Slave an' work when you 'ave snuffed it. An' you look for veneration
From us kids! Why, blime, who could venerate the likes of you?

'As THE BULLYTEEN been preachin' years an' years an' years for nuffin'
On the vice of floatin' loans ab' gettin' in the 'ands of Yids?
Playin' up yer borrered money! Eatin' drinkin', swillin', stuffin'!
Then, when you 'ave checukced a seven, what a picnic for the kids!'

Spare me! You could 'ear a pin dropp when that little kid 'ad finsihed.
We just 'ung our 'eads in silence, till the Strong Australian spoke.
(Brady's pirate tore 'is whiskers, with 'is lust for jags dimished;
An' the Souter peach was sobbin' on the breast of Lawson's bloke.)

'Comrades,' ses the Strong Australian, 'see our star all glory litten!
Heed the ancient, beer-stained story! Heed the warning of the kid!
Lo, the way of ink's before us! Ringing verses shall be written
In which I shall figure largely. Yes, I shall.' An', 'struth, 'e did!

Ses the pirate, with the remnants of 'is whiskers fiercely bistlin'.
'In the war of life together we must take each wound and sear.'
'Now, we care not where we're bound for,' ses the Lawson native, whistlin'
For 'is dawg. 'It's up Matilda.' As for me, I ses, ''Ear, 'ear.'

As I sed, this yarn ain't loocid, but its moral should not fail yer.
I shall ne'er fergit that ev'nin' or the voice above the din.
It's the cry of all the kiddies, born an' unborn, in Australyer,
When we flash our borrered millyuns: 'Blime, where do we come in?'

The Growth Of Sym

Now Sym was a Glug; and 'tis mentioned so
That the tale reads perfectly plain as we go.
In his veins ran blood of that stupid race
Of docile folk, who inhabit the place
Called Gosh, sad Gosh, where the tall trees sigh
With a strange, significant sort of cry
When the gloaming creeps and the wind is high.

When the deep shades creep and the wind is high
The trees bow low as the gods ride by:
Gods of the gloaming, who ride on the breeze,
Stooping to heaften the birds and the trees.
But each dull Glug sits down by his door,
And mutters, ' 'Tis windy!' and nothing more,
Like the long-dead Glugs in the days of yore.

When Sym was born there was much to-do,
And his parents thought him a joy to view;
But folk not prejudiced saw the Glug,
As his nurse remarked, 'In the cut of his mug.'
For he had their hair, and he had their eyes,
And the Glug expression of pained surprise,
And their predilection for pumpkin pies.

And his parents' claims were a deal denied
By his maiden aunt on his mother's side,
A tall Glug lady of fifty-two
With a slight moustache of an auburn hue.
'Parental blither!' she said quite flat.
'He's an average Glug; and he's red and fat!
And exceedingly fat and red at that!'

But the father, joi, when he gazed on Sym,
Dreamed great and wonderful things for him.
Said he, 'If the mind of a Glug could wake
Then, Oh, what a wonderful Glug he'd make!
We shall teach this laddie to play life's game
With a different mind and a definite aim:
A Glug in appearance, yet not the same.'

But the practical aunt said, 'Fudge! You fool!
We'll pack up his dinner and send him to school.
He shall learn about two-times and parsing and capes,
And how to make money with inches on tapes.
We'll apprentice him then to the drapery trade,
Where, I've heard it reported, large profits are made;
Besides, he can sell us cheap buttons and braid.'

So poor young Sym, he was sent to school,
Where the first thing taught is the Golden Rule.
'Do unto others,' the teacher said . . .
Then suddenly stopped and scratched his head.
'You may look up the rest in a book,' said he.
'At present it doesn't occur to me;
But do it, whatever it happens to be.'

'And now,' said the teacher, 'the day's task brings
Consideration of practical things.
If a man makes a profit of fifteen pounds
On one week's takings from two milk rounds,
How many . . .' And Sym went dreaming away
To the sunlit lands where the field-mice play,
And wrens hold revel the livelong day.

He walked in the welcoming fields alone,
While from far, far away came the pedagogue's drone:
'If a man makes . . .Multiply . . . Abstract nouns . . .
From B take . . .Population of towns . . .
Rods, poles or perches . . . Derived from Greek
Oh, the hawthorn buds came out this week,
And robins are nesting down by the creek.

So Sym was head of his class not once;
And his aunt repeatedly dubbed him 'Dunce.'
But, 'Give him a chance,' said his father, Joi.
'His head is abnormally large for a boy.'
But his aunt said, 'Piffie! It's crammed with bosh!
Why, he don't know the rivers and mountains of Gosh,
Nor the names of the nephews of good King Splosh!'

In Gosh, when a youth gets an obstinate look,
And copies his washing-bill into a book,
And blackens his boot-heels, and frowns at a joke,
'Ah, he's getting sense,' say the elderly folk.
But Sym, he would laugh when he ought to be sad;
Said his aunt, 'Lawk-a-mussy! What's wrong with the lad?
He romps with the puppies, and talks to the ants,
And keeps his loose change in his second-best pants,
And stumbles all over my cauliflower plants!'

'There is wisdom in that,' laughed the father, Joi.
But the aunt said, 'Toity!' and, 'Drat the boy!'
'He shall play,' said the father, 'some noble part.
Who knows but it may be in letters or art?
'Tis a dignified business to make folk think.'
But the aunt cried, 'What! Go messing with ink?
And smear all his fingers, and take to drink?
Paint hussies and cows, and end in the clink?'

So the argument ran; but one bright Spring day
Sym settled it all in his own strange way.
''Tis a tramp,' he announced, 'I've decided to be;
And I start next Monday at twenty to three . . .'
When the aunt recovered she screamed, 'A tramp?
A low-lived, pilfering, idle scamp,
Who steals people's washing, and sleeps in the damp?'

Sharp to the hour Sym was ready and dressed.
'Young birds,' sighed the father, 'must go from the nest.
When the green moss covers those stones you tread,
When the green grass whispers above my head,
Mark well, wherever your path may turn,
They have reached the valley of peace who learn
That wise hearts cherish what fools may spurn.'

So Sym went off; and a year ran by,
And the father said, with a smile-masked sigh,
'It is meet that the young should leave the nest.'
Said the aunt, 'Don't spill that soup on your vest!
Nor mention his name! He's our one disgrace!
And he's probably sneaking around some place
With fuzzy black whiskers all over his face.'

But, under a hedge, by a flowering peach,
A youth with a little blue wren held speech.
With his back to a tree and his feet in the grass,
He watched the thistle-down drift and pass,
And the cloud-puffs, borne on a lazy breeze,
Move by on their errand, above the trees,
Into the vault of the mysteries.

'Now, teach me, little blue wren,' said he.
''Tis you can unravel this riddle for me.
I am 'mazed by the gifts of this kindly earth.
Which of them all has the greatest worth?'
He flirted his tail as he answered then,
He bobbed and he bowed to his coy little hen:
'Why, sunlight and worms!' said the little blue wren.

Brothers, have you observed the calm?
Even the leaves of that symbolic palm
That denotes peace, political and otherwise, are scarcely stirred
By the faintest breath of controversy. Not a word
Is heard,
Excepting, here and there, the belated spouting
Of some overcharged politician giving his vocabulary an outing.
Brothers, what does this denote?
Is there no longer any competition for your precious vote?
Nay, have you ever heard that alleged political axiom over which the
wily old campaigners oft make goodly sport:
'The memory of the sap-headed elector is short.'
Do you believe the allegation, brothers, or do you doubt it?
And, anyhow, what are you going to do about it?

Brothers, if ever you hope to know enough to come in out of the wet,
Mark this: They are giving you time to forget!
What of those great National Questions,
Those fine, broad, far-seeing and statesman-like suggestions,
Those urgent matters of life and death,
About which the politicians were so busy talking a while ago that they
had hardly time to draw breath?
Are they dead?
Have they been fatally bashed on the head?
Have they been decently interred attended by those solemn obsequies
usually afforded the remains of respectable and right-thinking
persons who impressed us in this life with their top-hats?
What of the settlement of the Northern Territory?
Is this an abandoned story?
What of our sea defence?
Has this question been cast hence
Into the outer darkness and the gloom
Of the tomb?
What of efficient Protection?
Is this now merely a matter for maundering retrospection.
Amongst senile and toothless old parties whose minds ever dwell amongst
the dead and mouldy things of the past?
Oh, Blast, brothers! BLAST!
Blast those rocks of apathy that bind your sense of true citizenship!
Get a fresh grip.
Spring off your tall!
Give your political perspicaciousness a ball,
Revive it with a long, cool, refreshing drink,
And sit down and THINK....

Do you imagine for one moment that old 'Party Government' is asleep?
Do you picture it sunk in slumbers deep?
If you do, brothers, you never made a bigger mistake.
It is very, very wide awake.
That fine, old British institution, Party Government, that was
introduced into this suffering country before the thistle and
previous to the rabbit,
And nursed so assiduously by politicians till our acceptance of it has
become a sinful habit -
This pestiferous System, my brothers, never sleeps;
Watch and ward it keeps.
And while you are mooning, sporting, smoodging, drinking, dreaming,
It is engineering, planning, plotting, scheming.
The Hon. Mr. Black is aiming at the political downfall of the Hon. Mr.
While the Hon. Mr. White is playing for the shoving of the Hon. Mr.
Black and his friends into the darkness and gloom and solitude of
political night.
But both, my brothers, both are toiling with the energy of a 200-h.p.
triple cylinder motor,
With the object of eventually and effectively sprinkling a little salt
upon the tail of that dull but desirable bird, the free and independent
Brothers, do ye feel like taking tickets on yourselves? Do ye feel
flattered and exalted?
For, behold, ye are to be numbered among the salted!
And, while these plots and plans are brewing,
What, my brothers, are ye doing?
Whilst the wily politician is chewing
The cud of sinful reflection, with his eye upon your votes,
Are uou acting otherwise than after the manner and fashion of unreflective
While you, brother, are canoodling with a soft and fluffy person, in a
Magyarblouse, upon the silvery beach,
Striving to convince her that you think she is a perfect peach;
And while you, brother, are vainly endeavoring at the races,
To watch the impossible nags you back run into places;
And while you, brother, are sinking the long 'un, and the gin-squash, and
the soder-with-dash.
And recklessly doing in your cash;
Sly old Party Government and its minions
Are busy manufacturing your political opinions.
Yes, you, the intelligent electors, fine fellows of quite unusual
brain and brawn,
Are each of you regarded merely as a puppet, a pawn
In the Game.

Attention, and I shall tell you exactly what old Party Government is doing
at this precise moment, if you wish.
He is busily engaged in the manufacture of fish.
Fish, brothers, herrings, red herrings which it is his intention to draw
across the track
Of great National Issues, because he is too tired to deal with them, and
work gives him a pain in the back.
And in full cry, like a foolish and deluded pack
Of unintelligent beagles, you will chase wildly after the remains of that
unpleasant, defunct and odorous fish.
And you will think you are doing it because it is your own free wish.
You will open your mouths and howl, and go and record your votes at the
And fondly imagine that you are expressing the earnest convictions of your
inmost and invincible souls.
I fear me, my brothers, that the tart, and the prad, and the long beer, and
the midnight cray that bringeth early indigestion
Have far more attraction for you than any great National Question.
Go to!
There is no fun and small profit in attempting to act Diogenes to such as

Brothers, I bid ye a sad farewell.
So many poor, misguided people, who grabbed their opinions ready-made at the
last moment, have gone before us that there is, nowadays, some difficulty
in keeping the lid on Hell.
Brothers, with that innate dignity that is characteristic, I retire
To contemplate further insults, which I shall deliver as occasion may

Blokes ~ 'Erb
Do you know 'Erb? Now, there's a dinkum sport.
If football's on your mind, why, 'Erb's the sort
To put you wise. It's his whole end and' aim.
Keen? He's as keen as mustard on the game.
Football is in his blood. He thinks an' schemes
All through the season; talks of it an' dreams
An' eats an' sleeps with football on his mind.
Yes: 'Erb's a sport - the reel whole-hearted kind.

'A healthy, manly sport.' That's wot 'Erb says.
You ought to see his form on football days:
Keyed up, reel eager, eyes alight with joy,
Full of wise schemes for his team to employ.
Knows all about it - how to kick a goal,
An' wot to do if they get in a hole.
Enthusiasm? Why, when 'Erb gets set
He is a sight you couldn't well forget.

There ain't a point about it he don't know
All of the teams and players, top to toe.
The rules, the tricks - it's marvellous the way
He follers - Wot? Good Lord, no, he don't play.
'Erb? Playin' football? Blimey! have a heart!
Aw, don't be silly. 'Erb don't have to play;
He knows more than them players any day.

He's never had a football in his hand,
'Cept once, when it was kicked up in the stand.
No, 'Erb ain't never played; he only sits
An' watches 'em, an' yells, an' hoots and splits
His sides with givin' mugs some sound advice
An' tellin' umpires things wot ain't too nice.
Aw, look; your ejication ain't complete
Till you know 'Erb. You reely ought to meet.
Blokes ~ Fred
Do you know Fred? Now there's a man to know
These days when politics are in the air,
An' argument is bargin' to an' fro
Without a feller gittin' anywhere.
Fred never argues; he's too shrewd for that.
He's wise. He knows the game from A to Z.
All politics is talkin' thro' the hat;
An' everyone is wrong - exceptin' Fred.

Fred says there ain't no sense in politics;
Says he can't waste his time on all that rot.
Trust him. He's up to all their little tricks,
You'd be surprised the cunnin' schemes he's got.
Fred says compulsory voting is a cow.
He has to vote, or else he would be fined,
But he just spoils his paper anyhow,
An' laughs at' em with his superior mind.

But when a law comes in that hits Fred's purse,
You ought to hear him then. Say, he does rouse;
Kicks up an awful row an' hurls his curse
On every bloomin' member in the House.
He gives 'em nothin'; says they all are crook,
All waitin' for a chance to turn their coats;
Says they are traitors; proves it by the book.
An' can you wonder that he never votes?

Aw, say, you must know Fred. You'll hear his skite
Upon street corners all about the place.
An' if you up an' say it serves him right,
He answers that it only proves his case:
Them politicians wouldn't tax him so
Unless they were all crooked, like he said,
Where is the sense in votin' when they go
An' rob a man like that. Hurray for Fred!
Blokes ~ Gus
Do you know Gus? Now, he should interest you.
The girls adore him - or he thinks they do.
He owns a motor bike, not of the sort
That merely cough a little bit, or snort.
His is a fiery, detonating steed
That makes the town sit up and take some heed
A thunderous thing, that booms and roars a treat,
With repercussions that awake the street.

That's Gus. Dead flash. One of the rorty boys,
Whose urge is to express themselves with noise,
He wakes the midnight echoes, when to sleep
We vainly strive, with detonations deep.
And Gus has visions, as he thunders by,
Of maidens who sit up in bed, and sigh,
'It's Gus! It's Gus, the he-man. What a thrill!
'Mid Jovian thunders riding up the hill!'

You can't blame Gus. He has to make a row.
He's got to get publicity somehow.
How else could he stir consciousness in us
That in this world there really is a Gus?
You can't blame Gus. But oft I long, in bed,
That some kind man would bash him on the head -
A hard, swift blow to give him pain for pain.
It would be quite safe. It couldn't hurt his brain.
Blokes ~ Bert
Did you ever meet Bert? 'E's all over the town,
In offices, shops an' in various places,
Cocky an' all; an' you can't keep 'im down.
I never seen no one so lucky at races.
Backs all the winners or very near all;
Tells you nex' day when the races are over.
'E makes quite a pot, for 'is wagers ain't small;
An' by rights 'e 'ad ought to be livin' in clover.

But, some'ow or other - aw, well, I dunno.
You got to admit that some fellers is funny.
'E don't dress too well an' 'is spendin' is low.
I can't understand wot 'e does with 'is money.
'E ought to be sockin' a pretty fair share;
An' tho' 'e will own 'e's a big money-maker,
'E don't seem to save an' 'e don't seem to care
If 'e owes a big wad to 'is butcher an' baker.

'E don't tell you much if you meet on the course;
But after it's over 'e comes to you grinnin',
Shows you 'is card where 'e's marked the first 'orse,
An' spins you a wonderful tale of 'is winnin'.
Can't make 'im out, 'e's so lucky an' that.
Knows ev'ry owner an' trainer an' jockey:
But all of 'is wagerin's done on 'is pat.
Won't spill a thing, even tho' 'e's so cocky.

Oyster, that's Bert. 'E's as close as a book.
But sometimes I've come on 'im sudden an' saw 'im
Lip 'angin' down an' a reel 'aggard look,
Like all the woes in the world come to gnaw 'im.
But, soon as 'e sees you, 'e brightens right up.
'Picked it again, lad!' 'e sez to you, grinnin'.
'A fiver at sevens I 'ad in the Cup!
That's very near sixty odd quid that I'm winnin'.'

Mystery man - that's 'is style for a cert,
Picks the 'ole card, yet 'e's shabby and seedy;
'E must 'ave some sorrer in secrit, ole Bert
Some drain on 'is purse wot is keepin' 'im needy.
A terrible pity. Some woman, no doubt.
No wonder 'e worries in secrit an' souses.
If I 'ad 'is winnin's, year in an' year out,
Why I'd own a Rolls Royce an' a terris of 'ouses.