Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis: Verses about Morning

She milked the cow; and all the morn was hushed
(It was a beast that never kicked or rushed)
The startled dicky-birds of early Spring
Sat up amazed to mark this splendid thing,
Nigh fainting with delight upon the bough . . . .
She milked the cow.

She milked the cow; nor all the glory rare
Of that October morning could compare
With that sweet sylvan scene; the grace, the charm
The rhythmic movement of her dimpled arm,
Would make a poor bloke feel just anyhow . . . .
She milked the cow.

She milked the cow. 'Twas at South Sassafras
(Which is a cruel word to rhyme,alas)
And all who gazed thereon decalred, with force,
It was sublime - except the cow, of course
Who wore a patient frown upn her brow . . . .
She milked the cow.

She milked the cow - at least, she said she did.
There was the milk in proof; and God forbid
That I should doubt the statement in the least,
(I sympathised in private with the beast
Who said - but still, what does it matter now?)
She milked the cow.

Singing morning has begun.
Where the wooded ranges run
To far summits, there the snow
Lingers yet. But down below
In the quiet, green-girt places,
Where full many a swift creek races
From the snow-lands to the sea,
Now breaks sudden harmony.

Where this tree-waned clearing dreams,
First a rosy promise be
As young dawn steels up the sky
Where the frozen ramparts lie.
Now, from dew-wet leaves a-glitter,
Comes a little drowsy twitter,
And the first swift spear of light
Wounds at last the stubborn Night.

Flashing now, bright javelins
Pierce the murk; and now begins
As Day's gleaming ranks deploy
Morning's canticle of joy.
First a sleepy chuckle, breaking,
Tells of Laughing Jack awaking,
Pausing; then, from tree to tree,
Leaps unbound hilarity.

Here's the signal .... Morning's hush
Sweetness shatters, as Grey Thrush,
Veiling with the seraphim,
Lifts his liquid matin hymn.
Golden Whistler joins him then,
Now Red Robin, now Blue Wren;
Magpie's trumpet, sounding, swelling,
Caps the eager chorus welling,
As a wealth of varied notes
Pours now from a hundred throats
Up to greet their lord, the Sun,
Morning, morning has begun!

I often pause to contemplate
The sadly barren mental state
Of persons whom it is my fate
To meet on Monday morning.
They should be, after Sunday's rest,
Alert, clear-minded, full of zest;
But everywhere they are oppressed,
Bad-tempered, dull and yawning.

But I? I'm always strangely bright,
Primed with ideas and full of fight,
With brain alert and eye alight
With rare exhilaration:
All due, no doubt to my wise bent
To do no thing I should repent,
And to a Sunday wisely spent
In pious contemplation.

I do not wish to set myself
Upon some loft moral shelf
And treat my brother man, poor elf,
To haughty patronising.
And yet I feel I have to say
That I regard the laggard way
That men approach their work this day
As utterly surprising.

Oh, I could write, this gladsome morn,
With vigour of a man new-born
Rare verses, full of lilting scorn
About my fellow's failings;
Or I could write on politics
And heave a hundred verbal bricks,
Using the rhymster's thousand tricks
In homilies and railings.

But I resist; for, being kind
I know that human nature's blind
And weak and frail; I have no mind
To call down envious curses.
And, tho' I tremble on the verge,
I manfully resist the urge,
And sing, where I might shout and splurge,
These rather halting verses.

Day after day, week after burning week,
A ruthless sun has sucked the forest dry.
Morn after anxious morn men's glances seek
The hills, hard-etched against a harder sky.
Gay blossoms droop and die.
Menace is here, as day draws to its peak,
And, 'mid the listless gums along the creek,
Hot little breezes sigh.

To-day the threat took shape; the birds were dumb.
Once more, as sullen, savage morning broke,
The silence told that trembling fear had come,
To bird and beast and all the forest folk.
One little wisp of smoke
Far in the south behind the listless gum
Grew to a purple pall. Like some far drum,
A distant muttering broke.

Red noon beheld red death come shouting o'er
These once green slopes-a leaping, living thing.
Touched by its breath, tree after tall tree wore
A fiery crown, as tho' to mock a king -
A ghastly blossoming
Of sudden flame that died and was no more.
And, where a proud old giant towered of yore,
Stood now a blackened thing.

Fierce raved the conquering flame, as demons rave,
Earth shook to thunders of the falling slain.
Brambles and bushes, once so gay and brave,
Shrank back, and writhed, and shrieked and shrieked again
Like sentient things in pain.
Gone from the forest all that kind spring gave…
And now, at laggard last, too late to save,
Comes soft, ironic rain.

You are growing convalescent
As pain's fingers are withdrawn;
And you waken in a strange, white room at last;
Yet your thought is aught but pleasant
In the cold, grey winter dawn,
As you realise a weakness not yet past.
Then a little sound comes creeping
From some distant inner shrine,
And you bid farewell to sleeping
At that trebly welcome sign.

'Tis the tink-clink-tinkle of a teacup,
From morbid thought imagination stirs;
And with sharp anticipation you await the glad libation
The draught of draughts the thristing tongue prefers.
And you listen for that soul-uplifting gurgle,
As from the precious pot you hear them pour
The golden brew you're craving . . . Then a weak, white hand is waving
To the white capped Sister smiling at the door.

More than all that Juno's daughter
Bore to tables of the great,
Sweeter far than all Olympian Hippocrene,
More than all man's heady water
Is the nectar you await,
Now to nibble bred-and-butter in between.
Say, can this be stuff man gobbles
Listlessly some afternoon?
Or, to sound of bells and bobbles,
Underneath a bright bush moon?

Hear that tink-clink-tinkle of the teacup,
And the rattle of the spoon against the cup.
Was cup-bearer ever sweeter? Then you meekly smile to greet her
And most valiantly struggle to sit up.
So, having quaffed, your head sinks to the pillow,
And you know contentment, lately past belief,
As, your heavy eyelids closing, once again you fall to dozing
While you bless all China and the precious leaf.

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

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

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

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

VOICE OF THE PEOPLE (wailing dismally):
'Who can deliver us, Lord of our destiny!
Out of the depths comes our passionate cry,
Wrung from the soul of us. Aid for the whole of us!
Tell us, we pray, that our succor is nigh.


'Where is the super-man? Where the deliverer?
Where is the Captain to win us relief
Surcease from sorrowing, respite from borrowing?
Oh, for a philtre to deaden our grief!'


ANXIOUS VOICE FROM RIGHT WING:
'Patience, 0 populace! Wait for a little while!
Labor shall succor you - cleave to your Jim!
James and the rest of them, sure, are the best of them
Jimmy, the agable, trust ye to him!


'Lo, from the Chosen lures he the capital.
Bright golden, capital! Glorious loans!
Millions and mill-i-ons! Soon 'twill be bill-i-ons!
Patience awhile till he floats 'em.' (Loud groans.)


VOICE OF THE PEOPLE (irritably):
'Jim? Oh, be d-d to him. Doors are all slammed to him
Cohen's and Isaac's and old Ikey Mo's.
We would live decently! Up the spout recently
He has shoved everything barring our clothes.


(Again dolefully)
'Who can deliver us? Is there no saviour?
Is there no Chief with a Will and a Plan?
Not in a city-full? Oh, it is pitiful!
The hour it is striking - but where is the man?'


VOICE FROM LEFT WING (eagerly)
'Cheer up, my countrymen! Here is your Gregory!
Long he!s been shut from the councils of State.
He'll banish care for you; he'll do and dare for you.
Wade is the captain to fashion your fate.


'Long was he languishing, sunk in obscurity;
Now his wise counsel the populace seeks.
He is the man for you; he'll plot and plan for you.
Rest on his Liberal bosom.' (Wild shrieks.)


VOICE OF THE PEOPLE (petulantly)
'Out on your Gregory! Visions of beggary
Haunt us whenever we bear of his name.
Labor or Liberal, Jimmy or Gregory.
Wade or McGowen, they're both much the same.


(With increasing anguish):
'Who can deliver us? Who is to win for us
Money at four per cent., five per cent., ten?
In what futurity, out of obscurity,
Shall there arise this great leader of men?'


GREASY VOICE FROM THE FLIES:
'Sufferin' Solomon! Vot is dis howl aboudt?
Hary to yer Uncle, he'll tole yer vot's right;
Not more at four per shent. - no, nor at more per shent
Can you get capital! Monish is tight.


'Listen, goot beobles, your beano is finished mit;
Und obligations you neffer can shirk.
Monish vos tight, my tears; dot vos all right, my tears.
Loans vas maturin'. You'll haf to get vork.'


VOICE OF THE PEOPLE (howling):
'Work? O preposterous! What are we coming to?
Is there no super-man armed with a scheme
Scheme to win capital? Is there no chap at all
Willing to plan for us? Work! Do we dream?


(Desperately):
'Who can deliver us? Who can win ease for us?
Rescue us out of this ocean of debt?
We've come to wreck in it; up to the neck in it
Won't someone help us get out of the wet?'


(With gloomy reiteration):
'Who can deliver us? Who can deliver us?
Are none to pit such desperate elves?
Here or in other State? Oh, the poor Mother State!'....
CHORUS FROM THE GALLERY (in disgust):
'Aw, turn it up, an' deliver yerselves.'

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.

He was tall and tough and stringy, with the shoulders of an axeman,
Broad and loose, with greenhide muscles, and a hand shaped to the reins;
He was slow of speech and prudent, something of a nature student,
With the eye of one who gazes long across the saltbush plains.

Smith by name, but long forgotten was his legal patronymic,
In a land where every bushman wears some unbaptismal tag;
And, through frequent repetition of a well worn requisition,
'Smith' had long retired in favor of the title, 'Got-a-Fag.'

Not until the war was waging for a month, or may be longer,
Did the tidings reach the station, blest with quite unfrequent mails;
And, though still a steady grafter, Smith grew restless ever after,
And he pondered long o' evenings, seated on the stockyard rails.

Primed with sudden resolution, he arose one summer morning,
Casually mentioned fighting as he deftly rolled his swag;
Then, in accents almost hearty, bade his mate, 'So long, old Party!
Goin' to do some Square-head huntin'. See you later. Got a fag?'

Six long, sunburned days in saddle, down through spinifex and saltbush,
Then a two-days' railroad journey landed him at last in town,
Charged with an aggressive feeling, heightened by his forthright dealing
With a shrewd but chastened spieler who had sought to take him down.

'Smart and stern' describes the war-lord who presided at recruiting.
To him slouched an apparition, drawling, 'Boss, I've got a nag -
Risin' four. Good prad he's counted. Better shove me in the mounted.
Done a little bit o' shootin' - gun an' rifle. Got afag?'

Two months later, drilled and kneaded to a shape approaching martial,
Yet with hints of that lithe looseness discipline can never kill,
With that keen eye grown yet shrewder, and example to the cruder,
Private Smith (and, later, Sergeant) stinted speech and studied drill.

'Smith,' indeed, but briefly served him; for his former appellation
In its aptness seized the fancy of the regimental wag,
When an apoplectic colonel gasped, 'Of all the dashed infernal'....
As this Private Smith saluted, with 'Ribuck, boss! Got a fag?'


What he thought, or how he marvelled at the familiar customs
Of those ancient and historic lands that met his eyes,
He was never heard to mention; though he voiced one bold contention -
That the absence of wire fences marked a lack of enterprise.

Soon his shrewd resourse, his deftness, won him fame in many places;
Things he did with wire and whipcord moved his Company to brag,
And when aught concerning horses called for knowledge in the forces
Came a hurred, anxious message: 'Hang the vet! Send Got-a-Fag!'

Then, one morning, he was missing, and a soldier who had seen him
Riding for the foe's entrenchments bade his mates abandon hope.
Calm he seemed, but strangely daring: some weird weapons he was bearing
Built of twisted wire and iron, and a dozen yards of rope.

In the morn a startled sentry, through the early morn-mists peering,
Saw a dozen shackled foemen down the sand dunes slowly drag.
Sore they seemed, and quite dejected, while behind them, cool, collected,
Swearing at a busy sheep-dog, rode their drover, Got-a-Fag.

To the Colonel's tent he drove them, bransishing a stockwhip featly,
Bristly calling, 'Heel 'em, Laddie!' While the warrior of rank
Sniffed, and then exclaimed with loathing: 'what's this smell of clothing buring?'
Said the drover: 'Got 'em branded: 'A - Broad Arrow,' off-side flank.'

'A,' he drawled, stan's for Australia, an' the Gov'ment brand's in order.
'Crown - G.R.' upon the shoulder marks 'em for the King an' flag.
Roped the blighters same as how we fix the calves on Kinchacowie.
But it's dead slow sorter must'rin',' he concluded. 'Got afag?'

When the weary war is over, back to his old cattle station,
If luck holds, he'll one day journey, casually dropp his swag,
Drawling, 'Been up yonder - fightin'....Not much doin'....Mostly skitin'....
Gi' me drovin' for excitement...Want rain dreadful....Got a fag?'

But in that historic country, with its store of ancient legend,
When they sit to talk at even, and grey geards begin to wag,
Then among traditions hoary they will count the wondrous story
Of that wild Australian savage known to man as Got-a-Fag.

Smith is a very stupid man;
He lives next door to me;
He has no settled scheme or plan
Of domesticity.
He does not own a gramophone,
Nor rush for morning trains;
His garden paths are overgrown,
He seldom entertains.

In all our staid suburban street
He strikes the one false note.
He goes about in slippered feet,
And seldom wears a coat.
He shows no taste in furniture,
He never goes to church;
His ways our district prim and pure
seem, somehow, to besmirch.

I don't know how he earns his bread;
'Tis said he paints or writes;
And frequently, I've heard it said,
He works quite late at nights.
His servant told the girl we've got
He makes a lot of pelf.
It seems a pity he will not
Strive to improve himself.

She's quite a pretty girl, his wife.
Our women-folk declare
It is a shame she spoiled her life
With such a perfect bear.
And yet she seems quite satisfied
With this peculiar man;
And says, with rather foolish pride,
He is Bohemian.

He has the crudest views about
Respectability;
I've often heard him laugh and shout
On Sundays after tea;
While our select suburban clan
Pass him the stony stare.
Smith is a very stupid man,
He doesn't seem to care.

He will not join our tennis club,
Nor come to may'ral balls,
Nor meet the neighbours in a rub
At bridge, nor pay them calls.
He just delights to scoff and sneer,
And feigns to be amused
At everything we hold most dear
What wonder he's abused?

Although he's ostracised a deal
He never makes a fuss;
I sometimes think he seems to feel
He ostracises us!
But that, of course, is quite absurd;
And, risking the disgrace,
I sometimes say a kindly word
When I pass by his place.

But still, although one likes to keep
One's self a bit select,
And not be, so to speak, too cheap,
I'm broad in that respect.
So oft, on sultry summer eves,
I waive all diffidence,
And chat across the wilted leaves
That garb our garden fence.

But, oh, his talk is so absurd!
His notions are so crude.
Such drivel I have seldom heard;
His mode of speech is rude.
He mentions 'stomach' in a bark
You'd hear across the street.
He lacks those 'little ways' that mark
A gentleman discreet.

And when I speak of great affairs
His mind becomes a blank.
He shows no interest in the cares
Of folk of noble rank.
And should we chat of politics
He sneers at parliament,
And says the modern party tricks
Were by the Devil sent.

It seems he has some foolish scheme
To right all social wrong;
Some silly plan, some idle dream
To raise the fallen throng.
It tell him if we change our plan
All enterprise must end
Smith is a very stupid man;
He does not comprehend.

Good books, as I have often said,
He mentions with disdain.
Marie Corelli he's not read
Garvice, nor yet Hall Caine.
He talks of writers most obscure:
Like Virgil, Carlyle, Kant,
Whose works no scholar could endure.
His reading must be scant.

In art he is a perfect dunce.
That's plainly evident.
I recollect I showed him once
A Christmas supplement.
He asked me if it was a joke,
Although the thing was grand!
I knew the moment that he spoke
Smith didn't understand!

He lacks all soul for music, too;
He hates the gramophone;
And when we play some dance-tune new
I've often heard him groan.
He says our music gives him sad,
Sad thoughts of slaughtered things.
I think Smith is a little mad;
Nice thoughts to me it brings.

Now, I have quite a kindly heart;
Good works I do not stint;
Last week I spoke to Smith apart,
And dropped a gentle hint.
He will be snubbed, I told him flat,
By neighbours round about,
Unless he wears a better hat
On Sundays, when he's out.

Last Sunday morn he passed my place
About the hour of four;
A smile serence was on his face,
And on his head he wore
The most dilapidated hat
That I have ever seen.
'This ought to keep 'em off the mat,'
He said. What did he mean?

I wish that Smith was not so dense.
He seems to have no vice;
He's educated - in a sense
And could become quite nice.
Still, there's a certain 'genteel' brand
That marks the cultured man.
Smith doesn't seem to understand;
He's such a stupid man!

Now Mr. Jeremiah Bane
He owned a warehouse in The Lane,
An edifice of goodly size,
Where, with keen private enterprise,
He sold imported napery
And drapery - and drapery.
His singlets and his socks were sent
Out over half the continent;
In clothing for the nursery
And mercery - and mercery
He plied a most extensive trade,
And quite enormous prodfits made,
And barracked, with much fervency,
For foreign-trade - described as 'Free.'
He said,
Indeed,
It was
His creed.
The trade described as Free.

And this good man was known to fame
For charity; indeed, his name
Shone often in the daily press.
When needy folk were in distress
He aided - (with publicity)
Mendicity - mendicity.
And though much cash he thuswise spared
There still were people who declared
His act of private charity
A rarity - a rarity.
Donations, duly advertised,
From business point of view, he prized;
But 'good by stealth' he ne'er could see
Was any use to such as he.
But still,
The press,
With much
Success,
Declared his hand was free.

Now Mr. Bane's employees were
Wont to address the boss as 'Sir,'
To show him most intense respect;
And there were few who would neglect
To couple with civility
Humility - humility.
They dressed in cheap but pretty clothes,
And ev'ry man turned up his nose
And scorned familiarity
Or parity - or parity
With ill-dressed toilers who 'combined.'
They thought proceedings of that kind
Were of a very 'low' degree,
For they were 'cultured,' don't you see.
'Tis true
Their pay
Was mean,
But they
Felt proud to be so free.

Though they were vilely underpaid
They were too proud - or else afraid
To advertise the fact abroad
Or see to get a Wages Board.
Besides their meek servility,
Gentility - gentility
Forbade so rash an act; but still
One man there was - (his name was Bill)
Who vowed their fool propensity
Was density - was density
An unenlightened state of mind,
A lack of wit that made them blind.
'You're but a lot of worms,' said he.
'If you were men you'd clearly see
Until
You band
And make
A stand
You never can be free.'

And ev'ry day this person, Bill,
Conversed with them of unions till
They owned his arguments were true,
And one by one waxed eager to
Embrace an opportunity
For unity - for unity.
They talked about a Wages Board
Which, formerly, they had abhorred,
And girded at their slavery
With bravery - with bravery.
Each man began to feel 'The Firm'
No longer owned it for its worm;
Their independence they could see
Achieved by simple unity;
Forgot
Their clothes
And mixed
With those
Who battle to be free.

When Mr. Bane one morning heard
About his thing he cried, 'Absurd!
They'll never get my clerks to horde
With those who seek the Wages Board,
And lose respectability!
Futility! - Futility!
My clerks are gentlemen who'd scorn
To mingle with the lowly born.
Such bosh I've never heard!' said he.
'Absurd!' said he - 'Absurd!' said he.
'As for their pay, they're quite content
They've never asked an extra cent!
And in
The morn
They'll mark
Their scorn,
And show you they are free.'

And on the morrow Mr. Bane
Called them together to 'explain':
'I have a small petition here
But first, I wish to make it clear,'
Said he, with simple gravity
And suavity - and suavity,
'That no man here is asked to sign.'
(His voice was gentle and benign)
'I trust to your humanity
And sanity - and sanity
To guide you; but I feel quite sure
That Wages Boards you can't endure.
I leave it all to you,' said he.
'It makes no difference to me.
My views
Are known,
But still,
I've shown
Your choice in this is free.'


The staff it looked at Mr. Bane,
And in his eye it read, quite plain,
'Neath that expression so benign,
The fate of him who did not sign
A vision of futurity
Obscurity - obscurity
A dearth of work - in short, the sack.
They knew that he who answered back
Would earn, by his temerity,
Severity - severity.
So one and all, with shaky pen,
Signed this refusal to be men....
But surely, as you must agree,
Their choice was free as it could be,
They said
The Board
They all
Abhorred,
Preferring to be free.

Still Mr. Bane grows fat and sleek,
And still, at thirty bob a week,
His clerks slave on from morn till night,
No hope of better things in sight.
But Bane, with much benignity
And dignity - and dignity,
When talk of Wages Board is heard,
Declares the notion is absurd:
'My clerks with prompt celerity
And verity - and verity
Refused the thing with one accord.
The clerks themselves don't want the Board!
It is preposterous,' says he,
'To force it on who don't agree
And still
His men
With brain
And pen
To fatten him are free.