Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis: Verses about Silence

A word out of season
Of vapid unreason
May seem mere political twaddle at best;
But this thing needs abatement
If, with each wild statement
It mean's that a cool quarter million's gone West.


What millions are pouring
While, raving and roaring,
Not only John Lang, but a dozen or more
Political brothers
Outshouting the others
With rhetoric costly are taking the floor?


In mood apathetic
We hear energetic
But futile economists voicing their views;
And little attention
We give the dissension
Until we awoke to this dread bit of news.

Now, what are we paying
For all this dull braying?
Beyond computation the vast millions heap,
Till we're yearing to shackle
This mad, costly cackle
With curses for him who said talking was cheap.

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.

Oh, is there not one place on earth
Where man's goodwill has gone from birth
Thro' adolescence, with its rage,
Into a kindly, mellow age
A tolerant maturity
Mayhap some tropic coral isle
Where even man no more is vile.
If such a place be anywhere,
Ah, take me there! Ah, take me there!
And let me know security.

Is there no haven, heaven-bent,
Where economic argument
Falls flat; where war and talk of
Are with forgotten things of yore
Anachronistic oddities
Where mankind's mental food is peace,
And bliss and brotherhood increase.
If such a place be anywhere,
Ah, take me there! Ah, take me there!
And feed me such commodities.

Where phonograph or wireless blare
Is never on the ambient air,
And calm night follows placid day
As silent seasons steal away
Tuned to a sweet tranquillity,
Where never, 'mid the traffie's roar
Red Death claims yet one victim more
If such a place be anywhere,
Ah, take me there! Ah, take me there!
I go with meek docility.

Where tender sky to placid sea
Bends down in perfect harmony;
Where mute nymphs, in a smiling bandy
Come, as I loll on silvery sand,
And, bent upon adoring me,
Pass soothing fingers thro' my hair
Were such a land, and were I there,
I should arise, and yawn, and say,
'Take me away! Take me away!
This deadly dump is boring me!'

MA-A-AMMY! Ma-a-ammy!
The sun's gone east
And he's left out west
Where, in old days, the sun shone best.
Ma-a-ammy! Ma-a-ammy!
What have you done to poor ole Uncle Sammy?
You would go talkin'
In them dear ole silent days.
You would go squawkin'
Them silly ole jazz-time lays.
Ma-a-ammy! Ma-a-ammy!
Since you introdooced the din
We have done the dollars in -
Ma-Ma-Ma-a-ammy!

Say, ole lady, you did start sump'in' when you began shootin' off your mouth in the fillums. Here we was, sittin' pretty, when Al had to go an' hand you that sob-stuff an' shoot up the whole works. Say, ain't you never heard Shakespeare's wisecracks about silence being golden? I'll say it was.

The fourth largest industry in good ole U.S.A. while it kept its mouth shut! But from the minute the first squawks came out of them ole amplifiers the Britishers put the skids under us, an' we ain't stopped slidin' yet.

Who was it said that it was not until Hollywood started to say sump'in' that she proved herself plumb dumb? say, isn't that the truth?

MA-A-AMMY! Ma-a-ammy!
We was perched right up
On the world's high top,
But you spoke your piece an' we done a flop.
Ma-a-mmy! Ma-a-ammy!
Why didn't you stay in good ole Alabamy?
Ma-a-am -

Aw! What's the use? Hand us a snort of rye someone. What's the sense of talkin' to try to prove talkin' ain't good business? We been horsewoggled!

They must not talk....That strong and silent creature,
The male of homo sapiens, bears the ban
With calm aplomb. Speech is a trivial feature
In any sport conducted by mere man.
Thus, when our flannelled Knights go forth to battle,
They dumbly concentrate upon the game.
But must athletic Eve refrain from prattle
Because of that? No, no! 'Tis not the same.


Sauce for the goose, 'tis said, is sauce for gander,
And vice versa. Futile euphony!
To differentiate, defer and pander
Was e'er the rule when dealing with the 'She.'
Sharp hooks in ears of elephants may steer them
Quite painlessly. But what sane man would try
To harness doves, or bring a halter near them,
Or bit and bridle to a butterfly?


They must not talk....Such order to a shrinking,
Press-dodging cricketer brings small distress,
But, listen girls, what sort of sloppy thinking
Seeks to extend it to the cricketress?
Go, tell the bee she may not buzz in summer
'Mid honeyed bloom. Go, bid the bush birds 'Hush!'
Emus are dumb indeed - could scarce be dumber;
But who, for that, would gag the singing thrush?


So, when you note the agonised expression
On Short-stop's flower-like face, the look of pain
That lurks 'neath Long-on's lip-stick, 'tis repression
That irks them temporarily; but in vain.
For, soon or late, the prisoned flood, o'erflowing
Each carmined lip, down thro' the land shall spill
To what far field man ne'er had means of knowing.
They must not talk? ... Sez you! ... They must - and will.

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.

Listening (said the old, grey Digger) . . .
With my finger on the trigger
I was listening in the trenches on a dark night long ago,
And a lull came in the fighting,
Save a sudden gun-flash lighting
Some black verge. And I fell thinking of lost mates I used to know.

Listening, waiting, stern watch keeping,
I heard little whispers creeping
In from where, 'mid fair fields tortured, No-man's land loomed out before.
And well I knew good mates were lying
There, grim-faced and death-defying,
In that filth and noisome litter and the horror that was war.

List'ning so, a mood came o'er me;
And 'twas like a vision bore me
To a deeper, lonelier darkness where the souls of dead men roam;
Where they wander, strife unheading;
And I heard a wistful pleading
Down the lanes where lost men journey: 'Come ye home! Ah, come ye home!'

'Ye who fail, yet triumph failing'
Ye who fall, yet falling soar
Into realms where, brother hailing
Brother, bids farewell to war;
Ye for whom this red hell ended,
With the last great, shuddering breath.
In the mute, uncomprehended,
Dreamful dignity of death;
Back to your own land's sweet breast
Come ye home, lads - home to rest.'

Listening in my old bush shanty
(Said grey Digger) living's scanty
These dark days for won-out soldiers and I'd not the luck of some
But from out the ether coming
I could hear a vast crowd's humming
Hear the singing, then - the Silence. And I knew the Hour had come.

Listening, silent as I waited,
And the picture recreated,
I could see the kneeling thousands by the Shrine's approaches there.
Then, above those heads low-bending,
Like an orison ascending,
Saw a multitude's great yearning rise into the quivering air.

Listening so, again the seeming
Of a vision came; and dreaming
There, I saw from out high Heaven spread above the great Shrine's dome,
From the wide skies overarching
I beheld battalions marching -
Mates of mine! My comrades, singing: Coming home! Coming home!

'We who bore the cost of glory,
We who paid the price of peace,
Now that, from this earth, war's story
Shall, please God, for ever cease,
To this Shrine that you have lifted
For a symbol and a sign
Of men's hearts, come we who drifted
Thro' long years, oh, mates of mine!
To earth, my brothers' grieving blest
Now come we home, lads - home to rest.'

He lived in Mundaloo, and Bill McClosky was his name,
But folks that knew him well had little knowledge of that same;
For he some'ow lost his surname, and he had so much to say –-
He was called 'The Silent Member' in a mild, sarcastic way.

He could talk on any subject -- from the weather and the crops
To astronomy and Euclid, and he never minded stops;
And the lack of a companion didn't lay him on the shelf,
For he'd stand before a looking-glass and argue with himself.

He would talk for hours on literature, or calves, or art, or wheat;
There was not a bally subject you could say had got him beat;
And when strangers brought up topics that they reckoned he would baulk,
He'd remark, 'I never heard of that.' But all the same -- he'd talk.

He'd talk at christ'nings by the yard; at weddings by the mile;
And he used to pride himself upon his choice of words and style.
In a funeral procession his remarks would never end
On the qualities and virtues of the dear departed friend.

We got quite used to hearing him, and no one seemed to care --
In fact, no happ'ning seemed complete unless his voice was there.
For close on thirty year he talked, and none could talk him down,
Until one day an agent for insurance struck the town.

Well, we knew The Silent Member, and we knew what he could do,
And it wasn't very long before we knew the agent, too,
As a crack long-distance talker that was pretty hard to catch;
So we called a hasty meeting and decided on a match.

Of course, we didn't tell them we were putting up the game;
But we fixed it up between us, and made bets upon the same.
We named a time-keep and a referee to see it through;
Then strolled around, just casual, and introduced the two.

The agent got first off the mark, while our man stood and grinned;
He talked for just one solid hour, then stopped to get his wind.
'Yes; but --' sez Bill; that's all he said; he couldn't say no more;
The agent got right in again, and fairly held the floor.

On policies, and bonuses, and premiums, and all that,
He talked and talked until we thought he had our man out flat.
'I think --' Bill got in edgeways, but that there insurance chap
Just filled himself with atmosphere, and took the second lap.

I saw our man was getting dazed, and sort of hypnotized,
And they oughter pulled the agent up right there, as I advised.
'See here -' Bill started, husky; but the agent came again,
And talked right on for four hours good -- from six o'clock to ten.

Then Bill began to crumple up, and weaken at the knees,
When all at once he ups and shouts, 'Here, give a bloke a breeze!
Just take a pull for half a tick and let me have the floor,
And I'll take out a policy.' The agent said no more.

The Silent Member swallowed hard, then coughed and cleared his throat,
But not a single word would come –- no; not a blessed note.
His face looked something dreadful –- such a look of pained dismay;
Then he have us one pathetic glance, and turned, and walked away.

He's hardly spoken since that day –- not more than 'Yes' or 'No'.
We miss his voice a good bit, too; the town seems rather slow.
He was called 'The Silent Member' just sarcastic, I'll allow;
But since that agent handled him it sort o' fits him now.

I'm sittin' 'ere, Mick - sittin' 'ere today,
Feelin' 'arf glum, 'arf sorter - reverent,
Thinkin' strange, crooked thorts of 'ow they say:
'The 'eads is bowed thro' all a continent';
An' wond'rin - wond'rin 'in a kind of doubt
If other coves is feelin' like I do,
Tryin' to figure wot it's all about,
An' - if it's meanin' anythin' to you.

Silence... The hour strikes soon thro' all the land
An 'eads bend low. Old mate, give me your 'and.
Silence - for you, Mick, an' for blokes like you
To mark the Day - the Day you never knoo.

The Day you never knoo, nor we forget...
I can't tell why I'm sittin' 'ere this way,
Scrawlin' a message that you'll never get -
Or will you? I dunno. It's 'ard to say.
P'raps you'll know all about it, where you are,
An' think, 'Ah, well, they ain't too bad a lot.'
An' tell them other digs up on your star
That now, or nevermore, they ain't fergot.

Silence... Not ere alone, Mick - everywhere -
In city an' in country 'eads are bare.
An', in this room, it seems as if l knoo
Some friend 'oo came - Ole cobber! Is it you?

Me 'eart is full,
Mick... 'Struth! I ain't the bloke,
As you well know, to go all soft an' wet.
Fair's fair, lad. Times I've known when you 'ave spoke
Like you was tough an' 'ard as 'ell - an' yet
Somethin' be'ind your bluff an' swagger bold
Showed all them narsty sentiments was kid.

It was that thing inside yeh, lad, wot told.
It made you go an' do the thing you did.

Silence... There's mothers, Mick. You never knoo
No mother. But they're prayin' for you too.
In every heart - The Boys! The Boys are there,
The Boys... That very name, lad, is a pray'r.

The Boys! Old cobber, I can see 'em still:
The drums are rollin' an' the sunlight gleams
On bay'nits. Men are marchin' with a will
On to the glory of their boy'ood's dreams.
Glory? You never found it that, too much.
But, lad, you stuck it - stuck it with the rest,
An' if your bearin' 'ad no soulful touch,
'Twas for OUR souls that you went marchin' - West.

Silence... The children too, Mick - little kids,
Are standin'. Not becos their teacher bids:
They've knoo no war; but they 'ave stopped their play
Becos they know, they feel it is The Day.

So may it be thro' all the comin' years.
But sorrow's gone, lad. It's not that we know.
The sobbin's passed, 'ole cobber, an' the tears,
An' well we un'erstand you'd 'ave it so.

But somethin' deeper far than that 'as come,
Somethin' a mind can't get within its bound,
Somethin' l can't explain. A man is dumb
When 'e thinks... Listen! 'Ear the bugles sound!

Silence!

* * * *

Well, Mick, ole cock, I dunno why I've wrote,
It's just to ease a thing inside wot says
'Sit down, you sloppy coot, an' write a note
To that ole cobber of the olden days.
'E'll know - for sure 'e'll know'. 'So, lad, it's done,
Work's waitin', an' a man can't get in wrong:
Our goal is still ahead. But yours is won:
That's the one thing we know, lad, an - So long.

Silence... It's over, Mick; so there you are.
I know you're 'appy up there on yer star.
Believe us, lad; that star shall never fall
While one is left to say, 'Gawd keep 'em all!'

Follow the river and cross the ford,
Follow again to the wobbly bridge,
Turn to the left at the notice board,
Climbing the cow-track over the ridge;
Tip-toe soft by the little red house,
Hold your breath if they touch the latch,
Creep to the slip-rails, still as a mouse,
Then . . . run like mad for the bracken patch.

Worm your way where the fern fronds tall
Fashion a lace-work over your head,
Hemming you in with a high, green wall;
Then, when the thrush calls once, stop dead.
Ask of the old grey wallaby there
Him prick-eared by the woollybutt tree
How to encounter a Glug, and where
The country of Gosh, famed Gosh may be.

But, if he is scornful, if he is dumb,
Hush! There's another way left. Then come.

On a white, still night, where the dead tree bends
Over the track, like a waiting ghost,
Travel the winding road that wends
Down to the shore on an Eastern coast.
Follow it down where the wake of the moon
Kisses the ripples of silver sand;
Follow it on where the night seas croon
A traveller's tale to the listening land.

Step not jauntily, not too grave,
Till the lip of the languorous sea you greet;
Wait till the wash of the thirteenth wave
Tumbles a jellyfish out at your feet.
Not too hopefully, not forlorn,
Whisper a word of your earnest quest;
Shed not a tear if he turns in scorn
And sneers in your face like a fish possessed.

Hist! Hope on! There is yet a way.
Brooding jellyfish won't be gay.

Wait till the clock in the tower booms three,
And the big bank opposite gnashes its doors,
Then glide with a gait that is carefully free
By the great brick building of seventeen floors;
Haste by the draper who smirks at his door,
Straining to lure you with sinister force,
Turn up the lane by the second-hand store,
And halt by the light bay carrier's horse.

By the carrier's horse with the long, sad face
And the wisdom of years in his mournful eye;
Bow to him thrice with a courtier's grace,
Proffer your query, and pause for reply.
Eagerly ask for a hint of the Glug,
Pause for reply with your hat in your hand;
If he responds with a snort and a shrug
Strive to interpret and understand.

Rare will a carrier's horse condescend.
Yet there's another way. On to the end!

Catch the four-thirty; your ticket in hand,
Punched by the porter who broods in his box;
Journey afar to the sad, soggy land,
Wearing your shot-silk lavender socks.
Wait at the creek by the moss-grown log
Till the blood of a slain day reddens the West.
Hark for the croak of a gentleman frog,
Of a corpulent frog with a white satin vest.

Go as he guides you, over the marsh,
Treading with care on the slithery stones,
Heedless of night winds moaning and harsh
That seize you and freeze you and search for your bones.
On to the edge of a still, dark pool,
Banishing thoughts of your warm wool rug;
Gaze in the depths of it, placid and cool,
And long in your heart for one glimpse of a Glug.

'Krock!' Was he mocking you? 'Krock! Kor-r-rock!'
Well, you bought a return, and it's past ten o'clock.

Choose you a night when the intimate stars
Carelessly prattle of cosmic affairs.
Flat on your back, with your nose pointing Mars,
Search for the star who fled South from the Bears.
Gaze for an hour at that little blue star,
Giving him, cheerfully, wink for his wink;
Shrink to the size of the being you are;
Sneeze if you have to, but softly; then think.

Throw wide the portals and let your thoughts run
Over the earth like a galloping herd.
Bounds to profundity let there be none,
Let there be nothing too madly absurd.
Ponder on pebbles or stock exchange shares,
On the mission of man or the life of a bug,
On planets or billiards, policemen or bears,
Alert all the time for the sight of a Glug.

Meditate deeply on softgoods or sex,
On carraway seeds or the causes of bills,
Biology, art, or mysterious wrecks,
Or the tattered white fleeces of clouds on blue hills.
Muse upon ologies, freckles and fog,
Why hermits live lonely and grapes in a bunch,
On the ways of a child or the mind of a dog,
Or the oyster you bolted last Friday at lunch.

Heard you no sound like a shuddering sigh!
Or the great shout of laughter that swept down the sky?
Saw you no sign on the wide Milky Way?
Then there's naught left to you now but to pray.

Sit you at eve when the Shepherd in Blue
Calls from the West to his clustering sheep.
Then pray for the moods that old mariners woo,
For the thoughts of young mothers who watch their babes sleep.
Pray for the heart of an innocent child,
For the tolerant scorn of a weary old man,
For the petulant grief of a prophet reviled,
For the wisdom you lost when your whiskers began.

Pray for the pleasures that he who was you
Found in the mud of a shower-fed pool,
For the fears that he felt and the joys that he knew
When a little green lizard crept into the school.
Pray as they pray who are maddened by wine:
For distraction from self and a spirit at rest.
Now, deep in the heart of you search for a sign
If there be naught of it, vain is your quest.

Lay down the book, for to follow the tale
Were to trade in false blame, as all mortals who fail.
And may the gods salve you on life's dreary round;
For 'tis whispered: 'Who finds not, 'tis he shall be found !'

Nobody knew why it should be so;
Nobody knew or wanted to know.
It might have been checked had but someone dared
To trace its beginnings; but nobody cared.
But 'twas clear to the wise that the Glugs of those days
Were crazed beyond reason concerning a craze.


They would pass a thing by for a week or a year,
With an air apathetic, or maybe a sneer:
Some ev'ryday thing, like a crime or a creed,
A mode or a movement, and pay it small heed,
Till Somebody started to laud it aloud;
Then all but the Nobodies followed the crowd.


Thus, Sym was a craze; tho', to give him his due,
He would rather have strayed from the popular view.
But once the Glugs had him they held him so tight
That he could not be nobody, try as he might.
He had to be Somebody, so they decreed.
For Craze is an appetite, governed by Greed.


So on Saturday week to the Great Market Square
Came every Glug who could rake up his fare.
They came from the suburbs, they came from the town,
There came from the country Glugs bearded and brown,
Rich Glugs, with cigars, all well-tailored and stout,
Jostled commonplace Glugs who dropped aitches about.


There were gushing Glug maids, well aware of their charms,
And stern, massive matrons with babes in their arms.
There were querulous dames who complained of the 'squash,'
The pushing and squeezing; for, briefly, all Gosh,
With its aunt and its wife, stood agape in the ranks
Excepting Sir Stodge and his satellite Swanks.


The Mayor of Quog took the chair for the day;
And he made them a speech, and he ventured to say
That a Glug was a Glug, and the Cause they held dear
Was a very dear Cause. And the Glugs said, 'Hear, hear.'
Then Sym took the stage to a round of applause
From thousands who suddenly found they'd a Cause.

We strive together in life's crowded mart,
Keen-eyed, with clutching hands to over-reach.
We scheme, we lie, we play the selfish part,
Masking our lust for gain with gentle speech;
And masking too - O pity ignorance!
Our very selves behind a careless glance.


Ah, foolish brothers, seeking e'er in vain
The one dear gift that liesso near at hand;
Hoping to barter gold we meanly gain
For that the poorest beggar in the land
Holds for his own, to hoard while yet he spends;
Seeking fresh treasure in the hearts of friends.


We preach; yet do we deem it worldly-wise
To count unbounded brother-love a shame,
So, ban the brother-look from out our eyes,
Lest sparks of sympathy be fanned to flame.
We smile; and yet withhold, in secret fear,
The word so hard to speak, so sweet to hear -


The Open Sesame to meanest hearts,
The magic word, to which stern eyes grow soft,
And crafty faces, that the cruel marts
Have seared and scored, turn gentle - Nay, how oft
It trembles on the lip to die unppoke,
And dawning love is stifled with a joke.


Nay, brothers, look about your world to-day:
A world to you so drab, so commonplace
The flowers still are blooming by the way,
As blossom smiles upon the sternest face.
In everv hour is born some thought of love;
In every heart is hid some treasure-trove.

With a modified clapping and stamping of feet
The Glugs mildly cheered him, as Sym took his seat.
But some said 'twas clever, and some said 'twas grand
More especially those who did not understand.
And some said, with frowns, tho' the words sounded plain,
Yet it had a deep meaning they craved to explain.


But the Mayor said: Silence! He wished to observe
That a Glug was a Glug; and in wishing to serve
This glorious Cause, which they'd asked him to lead,
They had proved they were Glugs of the noble old breed
That made Gosh what it was . . . and he'd ask the police
To remove that small boy while they heard the next piece.

'Now come,' said the Devil, he said to me,
With his swart face all a-grin,
'This day, ere ever the clock strikes three,
Shall you sin your darling sin.
For I've wagered a crown with Beelzebub,
Down there at the Gentlemen's Brimstone Club,
I shall tempt you once, I shall tempt you twice,
Yet thrice shall you fall ere I tempt you thrice.'


'Begone, base Devil!' I made reply -
'Begone with your fiendish grin!
How hope you to profit by such as I?
For I have no darling sin.
But many there be, and I know them well,
All foul with sinning and ripe for Hell.
And I name no names, but the whole world knows
That I am never of such as those.'

'How nowt' said the Devil. 'I'll spread my net,
And I vow I'll gather you in!
By this and by that shall I win my bet,
And you shall sin the sin!
Come, fill up a bumper of good red wine,
Your heart shall sing, and your eye shall shine,
You shall know such joy as you never have known.
For the salving of men was the good vine grown.'

'Begone, red Devil!' I made reply.
'Parch shall these lips of mine,
And my tongue shall shrink, and my throat go dry,
Ere ever I taste your wine!
But greet you shall, as I know full well,
A tipsy score of my friends in Hell.
And I name no names, but the whole world wots
Most of my fellows are drunken sots.'


'Ah, ha!' said the Devil. 'You scorn the wine!
Thrice shall you sin, I say,
To win me a crown from a friend of mine,
Ere three o' the clock this day.
Are you calling to mind some lady fair?
And is she a wife or a maiden rare?
'Twere folly to shackle young love, hot Youth;
And stolen kisses are sweet, forsooth!'


'Begone, foul Devil!' I made reply;
'For never in all my life
Have I looked on a woman with lustful eye,
Be she maid, or widow, or wife.
But my brothers! Alas! I am scandalized
By their evil passions so ill disguised.
And I name no names, but my thanks I give
That I loathe the lives my fellow-men live.'


'Ho, ho!' roared the Devil in fiendish glee.
''Tis a silver crown I win!
Thrice have you fallen! 0 Pharisee,
You have sinned your darling sin!'
'But, nay,' said I; 'and I scorn your lure.
I have sinned no sin, and my heart is pure.
Come, show me a sign of the sin you see!'
But the Devil was gone . . . and the clock struck three.

With an increase of cheering and waving of hats
While the little boys squealed, and made noises like cats
The Glugs gave approval to Sym's second rhyme.
And some said 'twas thoughtful, and some said 'twas prime;
And some said 'twas witty, and had a fine end:
More especially those who did not comprehend.


And some said with leers and with nudges and shrugs
That, they mentioned no names, but it hit certain Glugs.
And others remarked, with superior smiles,
While dividing the metrical feet into miles,
That the thing seemed quite simple, without any doubt,
But the anagrams in it would need thinking out.


But the Mayor said, Hush! And he wished to explain
That in leading this Movement he'd nothing to gain.
He was ready to lead, since they trusted him so;
And, wherever he led he was sure Glugs would go.
And he thanked them again, and craved peace for a time,
While this gifted young man read his third and last rhyme.

(To sing you a song and a sensible song is a worthy and excellent thing;
But how could I sing you that sort of a song, if there's never a song to sing?)
At ten to the tick, by the kitchen clock, I marked him blundering by,
With his eyes astare, and his rumpled hair, and his hat cocked over his eye.
Blind, in his pride, to his shoes untied, he went with a swift jig-jog,
Off on the quest, with a strange unrest, hunting the Feasible Dog.
And this is the song, as he dashed along, that he sang with a swaggering swing
(Now how had I heard him singing a song if he hadn't a song to sing?)

'I've found the authentic, identical beast!
The Feasible Dog, and the terror of Gosh!
I know by the prowl of him.
Hark to the growl of him!
Heralding death to the subjects of Splosh.
Oh, look at him glaring and staring, by thunder!
Now each for himself, and the weakest goes under!

'Beware this injurious, furious brute;
He's ready to rend you with tooth and with claw.
Tho' 'tis incredible,
Anything edible
Disappears suddenly into his maw:
Into his cavernous inner interior
Vanishes evrything strictly superior.'



He calls it 'Woman,' he calls it 'Wine,' he calls it 'Devils' and 'Dice';
He calls it 'Surfing' and 'Sunday Golf' and names that are not so nice.
But whatever he calls it-'Morals' or 'Mirth'-he is on with the hunt right quick
For his sorrow he'd hug like a gloomy Gllig if he hadn't a dog to kick.
So any old night, if the stars are right, vou will find him, hot on the trail
Of a feasible dog and a teasable dog, with a can to tie to his tail.
And the song that he roars to the shuddering stars is a worthy and excellent thing.
(Yet how could you hear him singing a song if there wasn't a song to sing?)

'I've watched his abdominous, ominous shape
Abroad in the land while the nation has slept,
Marked his satanical
Methods tyrannical;
Rigorous, vigorous vigil I kept.
Good gracious! Voracious is hardly the name for it!
Yet we have only our blindness to blame for it.

'My dear, I've autoptical, optical proof
That he's prowling and growling at large in the land.
Hear his pestiferous
Clamour vociferous,
Gurgles and groans of the beastliest brand.
Some may regard his contortions as comical.
But I've the proof that his game's gastronomical.

'Beware this obstreperous, leprous beast -
A treacherous wretch, for I know him of old.
I'm on the track of him,
Close at the back of him,
And I'm aware his ambitions are bold;
For he's yearning and burning to snare the superior
Into his roomy and gloomy interior.'


Such a shouting and yelling of hearty Bravoes,
Such a craning of necks and a standing on toes
Seemed to leave ne'er a doubt that the Tinker's last rhyme
Had now won him repute 'mid the Glugs for all time.
And they all said the rhyme was the grandest they'd heard:
More especially those who had not caught a word.


But the Mayor said: Peace! And he stood, without fear,
As the leader of all to whom Justice was dear.
For the Tinker had rhymed, as the Prophet foretold,
And a light was let in on the errors of old.
For in every line, and in every verse
Was the proof that Sir Stodge was a traitor, and worse!


Sir Stodge (said the Mayor), must go from his place;
And the Swanks, one and all, were a standing disgrace!
For the influence won o'er a weak, foolish king
Was a menace to Gosh, and a scandalous thing!
'And now,' said the Mayor, 'I stand here to-day
As your leader and friend.' And the Glugs said, 'Hooray!'


Then they went to their homes in the suburbs and town;
To their farms went the Glugs who were bearded and brown.
Portly Glugs with cigars went to dine at their clubs,
While illiterate Glugs had one more at the pubs.
And each household in Gosh sat and talked half the night
Of the wonderful day, and the imminent fight.


Forgetting the rhymer, forgetting his rhymes,
They talked of Sir Stodge and his numerous crimes.
There was hardly a C3lug in the whole land of Gosh
Who'd a lenient word to put in for King Splosh.
One and all, to the mangiest, surliest dog,
Were quite eager to bark for his Worship of Quog.


Forgotten, unnoticed, Sym wended his way
To his lodging in Gosh at the close of the day.
And 'twas there, to his friend and companion of years
To his little red dog with the funny prick ears
That he poured out his woe; seeking nothing to hide;
And the little dog listened, his head on one side.


'O you little red dog, you are weary as I.
It is days, it is months since we saw the blue sky.
And it seems weary years since we sniffed at the breeze
As it hms thro' the hedges and sings in the trees.
These we know and we love. But this city holds fears,
O my friend of the road, with the funny prick ears.
And for what me we hope from his Worship of Quog?'
'Oh, and a bone, and a kick,' said the little red dog.