Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis: Verses about Success

Another milestone gained and passed,
Another 'rakkud' broken,
And this year's deaths exceed the last,
Which is a hopeful token.

America can ne'er look back;. . . .
She is the land progressive
She keeps along the onward track
With 'vim' and pep excessive.

For they who meet and meekly sing,
To mark a celebration,
Such trifles as 'God Save the King'
Make no real 'he-man' nation.

The U.S.A., from south to north,
Recounts the splendid story,
For it sure is one Glorious Fourth,
When hundreds go to glory.

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).

Here she bides, a buxom lady,
Blest by peace and great content;
Dwelling by her byways shady,
Where the elm trees boughs are bent;
Shutting out the world's wild clamor,
Lending to her streets a glamour,
Gracious and beneficent.


Fortune came to her full easy,
Asking little of man's toil;
So she prospered in those breezy
Days when wealth sprang from the soil
And kind earth, munificently,
As the placid seasons passed,
For man's fortune proffered gently
Rich and gracious gifts in plenty,
Drawn from out her storehouse vast.


Portly dame, untuned to trouble,
Destined through the years to be
While the ills of earth redouble
Sheltered in tranquility,
Asking neither fame nor glory,
And with quiet dilligence
Tending earth that tells the story
Of an age long gone and hoary,
And the young world's turbulence.


Brown hills, broody in the diatnce,
Fecund fields that won their worth
Out of nature's mad insistence
To remould her tortured earth
These have left their age-old traces
In the glacier's graven trail,
Thro' the wondrous green oasis
Where the pleasant river races
To the sea from this calm vale.

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!

A lady plump and pleasing
And generous and free,
Her life is spent in sleek content
Beside her inland sea;
And, round its pleasant waters,
Her pastures, rich and green,
Their treasures yield from many a field
To make her way serene.

A placid, laughing lady,
And prone to placid ways;
But yet, withal, she heeds the call
0f labor all her days
Of kind, congenial labor,
That holds nor fret nor stress
A farmer's wife whose busy life
Brings full, free happiness.

Men say the ocean covered
These fields in some dim age;
And seas, long fled, vast riches spread
To be the heritage
Of this plump Aphrodite,
Now risen from the wave
To thrive apace and wax in grace
On all the wealth they gave.

A happy, hearty lady,
She turns the gift to good,
And wins in toil from this rich soil
A fine fat livelihood.
Now, where seas long since thundered,
Her cars ply up and down
To evidence sound thrift and sense
In Colac's smiling town.

Her land of lakes and pastures
Could never harbor here,
In this lush place, a dour, hard race
Wed to an outlook drear.
And so she smiles and prospers,
A happy, hearty wife,
Whose ample charms, whose thriving farms
Reveal her zest in life.

She knows the Mallee's tragedy
Of thwarted hope, of pain,
Of promise wrecked, when weak men flee
And strong men pray in vain;
While day on burning day drifts by
Beneath a brazen, cloudless sky.

She knows the bane of Mallee dust
When Mallee droughts come down
To filch the last of lingering trust
And darken her small town
Darken men's hearts and minds until
Nought serves her, save a stubborn will.

All this she knows. Yet she knows, too
On thro' the tale of years
The changing luck of gamblers, who
Undaunted, scorning fears
Strive on, till fickle fortune rains
A wondrous gift of sudden gains.

And then she knows that mystic thing
Her jealous earth concealed
The glory of a Mallee spring
And many a fruitful yield
Of green corn quickened by sweet showers,
And kine that flatten mid the flowers.

So has she lived beside her lake
The good and bad years thro';
Till man-made streams now flow to slake
Her thirsty earth anew,
And man's unconquered will has planned
New life for this unstable land.

And who shall say no day may dawn
When, from the Mallee's soil
Drought's fingers are at last withdrawn,
Seeking no more their spoil;
And, man and Nature in accord,
Win, year by year, toll's meet reward

A golden maid whose golden voice
Calls to the northern lands,
Of riches she has had her choice.
Twin treasures to make men rejoice
Came easy to her hands:
The golden harvest of broad fields,
Or that dark gift of sudden yields
Won from her golden sands.

But men have scorned her worthier pride
In rich and fruitful soil;
And, spreading desolation wide,
Ranged all her verdant countryside
To ravage and despoil.
And now grey wastes of tortured earth
Await the glory of rebirth
Thro' nature's patient toil.

She has the wish, she has the will
To gather beauty round.
Though gold's fierce lure stays with her still,
She lives to plan and strive until
Springs from this barren ground
Earth's only treasure, scorned of yore,
And smiling verdure clothes once more
Full many a bare, bleak mound.

She guards the gateway of the north
The broad lands of the sun.
Hospitably her hand goes forth,
Eager to vindicate the worth
Of happier tasks begun,
And in gay gardens to express
A newer urge to loveliness
And kinder virtues won.

A virile lass, in no wise strange,
Of true Australian breed:
Where drab days into sunlight charge
Across the Great Dividing Range
She scatters now the seed
That shall bring yields a thousandfold
When gardens count for more than gold
And peace outvalues greed.

Here in my garden at the long day's close
I sing again her Majesty the Rose.
The Rose who can with magic most complete
Bring worshippers again about her feet
Forsaking other loves, who, thro' the year
Had won them by sheer beauty, shining clear.
Now, where the Queen beside the trellis grows,
Courtiers acclaim, 'Her Majesty the Rose!'

The Rhododendron by her side appears
With all that magic quality of tears;
Patrician truly, yet still lacking, she,
That touch of rare imperial majesty.
Viola, violet worship at her feet;
Proudly the flaunting poppy would compete,
Yet fails, for all her striving, to disclose
The grace that guards her Majesty the Rose.

Oh, we have walked 'mid many lovely things
In lovely gardens - walked where Lilac swings
Her jewelled censers, wreathed in wondrous scent;
Where Gladiolus, giving great content,
Holds up her prideful head to so outshine
The meeker charm of Phlox and Columbine.
And yet, how soon, how swift their threldom goes
When once we greet her Majesty the Rose.

City of Roses, herein lies your wealth
This beauty, stealing in, almost by stealth
As garden after garden springs from earth
To bless the gardener with fresh beauty's birth.
A gift most grand, a miracle to see
Of rich content and meet prosperity
Wealth dwells in beauty, as each liegeman knows
Who bows before her Majesty the Rose.

'In good time, when I am ready,
Wondrous schemes shall I unfold;
But we must be cautious, steady,
Cleaving to the safe and old.
Patience, prudence must prevail;
They who venture often fail.'

Thus the politician, weakly
Of the big things of the State;
While the patient public, meekly
Wait, and ever hopeful, wait;
While he slyly woos their vote
With shrewd turnings of his coat.

But, in time, when other people
Populate this troubled world,
Lo, from housetop and from steeple,
Futile curses will be hurled
Curses on the shiftless ones,
Feckless robbers of their sons.

When the last good tree has withered
In an arid, rainless clime,
Then the weary soul who blithered
Of the verdancy of Time
Will grow restless in his grave,
While his baulked descendants rave.

They will curse the generation
That has beggared them by stealth;
Curse the mad procrastination
That has robbed the land of wealth
Wealth their foolish fathers spent,
Reckless and improvident.

'What care we?' declare the spoilers.
'We have ample for to-day!
Other ages, other toilers
Let them suffer as they may.
Let the nation's hope be killed,
That our bellies may be filled!

'If to-day our wealth be doubled,
If to-day our trade be good,
Why should we be plagued and troubled
With vague dreams of nationhood?
For our selfish purpose we
Gaily rob prosperity.'

Robbers of coming race,
Glibly crying 'In good time.'
If one good ye had to face
Sons, and answer for your crime,
With that cry still in your throats,
How, then, would ye scheme for votes?

Old Pete Parraday, he isn't very wise
Or so the local gossips say - They love to criticise
His crazy views and values, and the things he counts worth while.
'Better had he saved his money,' say his critics, with a smile;
'And not become a pensioner with all his silly chat
Of finches, wrens and robins, and such trivial thngs as that.
It's livin' lonely all these years has filched his brains away.'
'An' left me kind o' peacefuller,' grins old Pete Parraday.

Old Pete Parraday, he sits beside the road
Resting from the hefting of his week-end load:
Bread and meat and groceries to serve his simple need,
And a tiny paper packet with the tag, 'Bird Seed.'
'I allus gits three-pennyworth - I've never needed more
For them there little Pommy-birds wot hops about me door
Goldfinches, starlings an' stranger-folk like they
Wot ain't brung up to grubs an' things,' says old Pete Parraday.

'The robins likes their meal-worms; the blue-wrens tackles grubs;
Grey thrushes goes for take-alls like the boozers goes for pubs;
But the little vegetarians for food has far to roam;
An' so I buys 'em bird-seed to make 'em feel at 'ome
Goldfinches, sichlike, them little stranger-folk . . .
I know 'ow people counts me soft an' reckons I'm a joke
When I talks about me bird friends. I've seed 'em nudge an' wink.
But I valyers them there mates o' mine. Cos why? They makes me think.

'They makes me think of beauty, of the glory of the earth,
An' they leads me on to dreamin'. An' wot is dreamin' worth?
Some folk might call it crazy; but it's heaven's gift to me.
Aye, vision sich as never is or was by land or sea.
Man cannot live by bread alone, nor dreams be put in words;
An', if I'm mad, I'm happy mad, an' talkin' to me birds.
Three-pennyworth o' bird-seed counts more to me that way
Then all the wealth of Sheba's queen,' says old Pete Parraday.

Ye are the Great White People, masters and lords of the earth,
Spreading your stern dominion over the world's wide girth.
Here, where my fathers hunted since Time's primordial morn,
To our land's sweet, fecund places, you came with your kine and corn.
Mouthing your creed of Culture to cover a baser creed,
Your talk was of White Man's magic, but your secret god was Greed.
And now that your generations to the second, the third have run,
White Man, what of my country? Answer, what have you done?

Now the God of my Simple People was a simple, kindly God,
Meting his treasure wisely that sprang from this generous sod,
With never a beast too many and never a beast too few,
Thro' the lean years and the fruitful, he held the balance true.
Then the White Lords came in their glory; and their cry was: 'More! Yet more!'
And to make them rich for a season they filched Earth's age-old store,
And they hunted my Simple People - hunters of yester-year -
And they drove us into the desert - while they wrought fresh deserts here.

They ravaged the verdant uplands and spoiled wealth ages old,
Laid waste with their pumps and sluices for a gunny-bag of gold;
They raided the primal forests and the kind, rain-bringing trees
That poured wealth over the lowlands thro' countless centuries;
They fed their kine on the grasslands, crowding them over the land,
Till blade and root in the lean years gave place to hungry sand.
Then, warned too late of their folly, the White Lords grew afraid,
And they cried to their great god Science; but Science could not aid.

This have you done to our country, lords of the air and the seas,
This to the hoarded riches of countless centuries -
Life-yielding loam, uncovered, unsheltered in the drought,
In the floods your hand unbridled, to the age-old sea drifts out.
You have sold man's one true birthright for a White Man's holiday,
And the smothering sands drift over where once green fields turn grey -
Filched by the White Man's folly to pamper the White Lords' vice;
And leave to your sons a desert where you found a paradise.

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.'

Lo, I listened to the bleating of the sheep
Squatters' sheep
And I sat me down and pondered long and deep.
And a cloud of gloom came o'er me
At the empty leagues before me
Yea, I marked the virgin grass-lands' mighty sweep
Land that called for cultivation;
Cried aloud for population
Land that carried trees and fences, grass and sheep.

0, I listened to their bleating on the plain
Virgin plain
And I spoke to them with epithets profane.
In the valley, on the hill,
Yet were sheep, and more sheep still.
(Which annoyed me very much, I must explain.
For one sheep may he a blessing,
But a million are depressing.)
And I cursed them, but I knew I cursed in vain.

Lo! and then I fell a-dreaming where I sat
Sadly sat
Till I didn't see what I was looking at.
And my dream was most alluring.
Ah ! But, had it been enduring,
What a reckoning it would have been for Fat!
What a blessing for Australia
If my dream - but inter alia,
I'll explain to you what I am driving at.

Lo! (excuse this weird redundancy of 'lo,'
Soulful 'lo';
But I want to be impressive, you must know).
Lo! instead of jumbucks bleating,
I could hear the reaper's beating;
And I saw abundant milk and honey flow.
I espied snug homesteads dotted
O'er the plain. I also spotted
Towns, with factories and workshops, rise and grow.

Ay, at busy line of commerce filled the place
Desert place
And mine eyes beheld a happy populace
Wresting from the land its treasure
Loving work and earning leisure.
Industry and population grew apace.
I could hear the hammers ringing;
Happy housewives blithely singing;
And I read Prosperity in every face.

Then I saw a file of troops go marching past
Bravely past.
Adown the plain I heard the bugle's blast.
I beheld the banners streaming,
And I fancied in my dreaming
That our happy country owned an army vast.
As each patriot marched proudly
By, he cried, exulting loudly,
'Fair Australia is safely ours at last!'

Then a large, red man rode up upon a horse,
(Large roan horse),
And spoke to me in strident tones and coarse.
And his discourse was (diluted)
'Wanderers are prosecuted
On this crimson run. Now get!' I got - of course.
As I've said, the man was bulky,
And he seemed morose and sulky;
And it just occurred to me he might use force.

But, in spite of him, my dream I still may keep
Fondly keep.
And from out it sprouts the wisdom that I reap
For the benefit of all men,
But especially of little men.
(Meaning men whose wealth does not exceed one heap.)
Ay, the lesson is before you
Pray forgive me if I bore you;
But, my brothers, heed the lesson of the sheep!

For, hark ye, hear the bleating of the sheep
Human sheep!
(O, my brothers, but their sheephood makes me weep!)
Mark ye, how they flock togeth
After some old, sly bell-wether
One that Fat finds it convenient to keep;
Watch them how they follow, follow.
See the verbal weeds they swallow,
And the squatter keeps his grass for paying sheep.

O, the squatter has of woolly sheep a lot
Quite a lot;
But they're not the only sort of sheep he's got.
How he profits by their fleeces
And, when price of meat decreases
Human meat - the butcher, Fat, will take the lot.
O, ye farmers and selectors!
Landless voters! Free electors!
Think, my brothers: are ye sheep, or are ye not?

In the neolithic age of our Australia, long ago,
There dwelt a wise old chieftain, as you probably don't know;
His royal tastes and habits I won't venture to describe,
But his plain horse-sense was noted and applauded by his tribe.

Now, this chief was not a despot, as you will, perhaps, conclude;
For, though debate was noisy and procedure somwhat crude,
There did exist a Parliament, elected in due form,
With a Premier and Ministry - which made things pretty warm.

For the style of Party Government, in vogue about that time,
Was inclined to lead to discord - not to mention down-right crime.
For boomerangs and waddies were used freely in debate;
And, as a rule, ex-Ministers were spoken of as 'late.'

For the salaries of Ministers were not to be despised;
And 'emoluments of office ' were, indeed, most highly prized.
The Premier got five 'possums and ten fat grubs a day,
While a snake and three gohannas were his colleagues' daily pay.

Then other perks and privileges happened such aa these;
The Minister controlling Rain and State Corroborees
Got all his ochre on the nod - in other words, his clothes.
So portfolios were coveted, as you may well suppose.

In consequence, the whole procedure of the House was 'fight.'
No Ministry created in the morning saw the night.
And all the posts were sinecures the shorthand writers filled;
For the press-reports read briefly: 'Sixteen wounded; seven killed.'

Now, the practical King Billy could not fail to recognise
That this bad old Party system was not either right or wise.
Public works were at a standstill, and the tribe was losing wealth.
Not to mention that the House's sittings menaced public health.

The Department of Smoke-Signalling was in a shocking state;
And Defence had been forgotten in the noise of the debate.
The Flint and Sandstone Bonus Bill was shelved time and again;
And the tribe was getting very short of able-bodied men.

The commoon-sensed old chief sat down and pondered hard and long;
And thought him out a simple scheme to right this crying wrong.
Then he dissolved the Parliament and called his tribe around,
And told his plan; and all agreed his arguments were sound.

'But then,' they said, 'it's most unconstitutional, you know.
Besides, we have no precedent; therefore you have no show.'
But Bill dispensed with precedent and substituted sense -
Whereat the anger of the tribal Tories was immense.

'The nation's welfare,' said the chief, 'is what I have in mind;
And this bad old Party Government must all be left behind.
Henceforth I set my Parliament a task it may not shirk,
And members will, please, understand that fighting isn't work.

'We'll have Elective Ministries, and they shall rule unharmed
For forty moons; and members must attend the House unarmed.
Next election you may club them, should their actions prove unwise;
And for the second term the victors may enjoy the prize.'

They called it 'socialistic'; but King Billy had his way.
For forty moons each Minister enjoye dhis place and pay.
Since only once within that time the chance of office came,
The members took to making laws, and ceased to 'play the game.'

Peace and prosperity henceforth smiled on the chieftain's reign;
And, ere he died, he said, 'Behold, I have not ruled in vain.
Down through the future ages shall my Great reform descend.
Australia shall bless my Simple Notion till the end.'

But, if you study recent history, you'll note King Bill
Was most forlonly out of it; for they are at it still.
The daily fight for fatted grubs excites the same old gang;
And debate is mainly waddy, and division boomerang.

'My sort,' she sez, 'don't meet no fairy prince.'
I can't 'elp 'earin' part uv wot was said
While I am sortin' taters in the shed.
They've 'ad these secret confabs ever since
Rose came. 'Er an' Doreen's been 'eart to 'eart,
'Oldin' pow-wows in which I got no part.
'My sort,' sez Rose, 'don't meet no fairy prince.'
'Er voice seems sort uv lonely like an' sad.
'Ah well,' she sez, 'there's jobs still to be 'ad
Down in the fact'ries. I ain't one to wince
Frum all the knocks I've 'ad - an' will 'ave. Still,
Sometimes I git fed-up against me will.

'Some women 'ave the luck,' she sez; 'like you.
Their lives seem made fer love an' joy an' sport,
But I'm jist one uv the unlucky sort.
I've give up dreamin' dreams: they don't come true.
There ain't no love or joy or sport fer me.
Life's made me 'ard; an' 'ard I got to be.'

'Oh, rubbidge!' sez Doreen. 'You've got the blues,
We all 'ave bad luck some times, but it mends.
An' you're still young, my dear; you 'ave your friends.
Why should you think that you must alwiz lose?
The sun's still shinin'; birds still sing, an' court;
An' men still marry.' Rose sez, 'Not my sort.

An' then - Aw, well, I thort I knoo me wife,
'Ow she can be so gentle an' so kind,
An' all the tenderness that's in 'er mind;
As I've 'ad cause to know through married life.
But never 'ave I 'Eard 'er wisdom speak
Sich words before. It left me wond'rin' - meek.

Yes, meek I felt - an' proud, all in the one:
Proud fer to know 'ow fine my wife can be;
Meek fer to think she cares fer sich as me.
''Ope lasts,' I 'ear 'er say, 'till life is done.
An' life can bring us joy, I know it can.
I know; fer I've been lucky in my man.'

There's a wife for yeh! Green! Think in the 'ead!
To think she'd go an' tork be'ind me back,
Gossip, an' paint me character that black!
I'm glad I can't 'ear more uv wot was said.
They wander off, down by the creek somewhere.
Green! Well, I said that women talk 'ot air.

I thinks uv Danny Dunn, an' wot I've planned.
Doreen don't know wot I got up me sleeve;
An' Rose don't know that she won't 'ave to leave,
Not once I come to light an' take a 'and.
Block'ead won't be the name they'll call me then.
Women can tork; but action needs us men.

Yet, I dunno. Some ways it ain't so fine.
Spite uv 'is money, Danny ain't much catch.
It seems a pity Rose can't make a match
That's reel romantic, like Doreen's an' mine;
But then again, although 'e's old an' plain,
Danny's a kinder fate than Spadgers Lane.

Bit later on I see Rose standin' by
That bridge frum where Mick waved 'is last farewell
When 'e went smilin' to the war, an' fell.
'Ow diffrint if 'e 'ad n't come to die,
I thinks. Life's orful sad, some ways.
Though it's 'ard to be sad on these Spring days.

Doreen 'as left, fer reasons uv 'er own;
An' Rose is gazin' down into the stream,
Lost, like it seems, in some un'appy dream.
She looks perthetic standin' there alone.
Wis'ful she looks. But when I've turned away
I git a shock to 'ear 'er larfin' gay.

It's that coot Wally Free; 'e's with 'er now.
Funny 'ow 'is fool chatter makes 'er smile,
An' shove 'er troubles under fer a while.
(Pity 'e don't pay more 'eed to 'is cow
Instid uv loafin' there. 'E's got no sense.
I'm sick uv tellin' 'im to mend that fence.)

'Er sort don't meet no fairy prince… Ar, well.
Fairy gawdfathers, p'raps, wot once was knights,
Might take a turn at puttin' things to rights.
Green? Block'ead, am I? You can't alwiz tell.
Wait till I wave me magic mit at Rose,
An' turn 'er into 'Mrs. Stone-the-crows.'

It was thus in the beginning: With a sporting chance of winning,
Jones contested an election years ago.
He was young, enthusiastic, and maintained that measures drastic
Were imperative to save the land from Woe.
For the laudable admiration of this budding politician,
Who with zeal to serve his bleeding country burned,
Was to make a reputation as a saviour of the nation,
And a clean and honest statesman - if returned.

The electors took a fancy to the youngster, and the chance he
Had of winning was improved where'er he went.
His high motives were respected, and, in short, he was elected;
And an Honest Man went into Parliament.
Went in to strive for glory where there held a system hoary,
Founded on the good old English party plan.
Wherefore Jones, half understanding things, submitted to the branding,
And became, perforce, a solid party man.

But when he heard a mention of the Whip
Party Whip,
He gave answer, as he curled a scornful lip,
And his honest zeal upbore him,
That his course was plain before him,
Just the clean, straight course of earnest statesmanship.
For young Jones held notions utterly absurd;
And the old campaigners sniggered when they heard
That young patriot unfolding
His stern views, and Truth upholding,
But he meant it, when he said it, ev'ry word.

For a time, in all debating, Jones was famed for boldly stating
Plain, blunt truths and keen uncomfortable facts;
Till his colleagues grew uneasy, for, in fashion bland and breezy,
He proposed to back his burning words with acts.
And they told him, with much cunning, that he might be in the running
For the leadership if he'd consent to hedge.
He was bold, ambitious, clever, but advance, they said, he'd never
While he clung to childish notions of his pledge.

Brave young Jones at first was scornful; but, ere long, with visage mournful,
He sat down to think on what he stood to lose.
And his party friends, with caution, hinted honours were his portion
If he'd but consent to water down his views.
And they e'en suggested slyly that, although they valued highly
His great services, defiance was not meet.
Till, his splendid dream departing, Jones saw plainly that a parting
With his party meant a parting with his seat.

It was then he heard the cracking of the Whip
Party Whip!
And he found the System had him in its grip,
On the one hand was devotion
To his duty, with promotion
On the other, and the hope of leadership.
For he'd come unto the parting of the ways,
And he hearkened to the voice of fulsome praise
To the promise of preferment,
And - there happened the interment
Of the self-respecting Jones of other days.

Step by step he climbed the ladder: now a wiser if a sadder
And a meaner politician, till he led,
And his party, though erratic, was lukewarmly democratic;
Thus he strove to soothe his conscience on this head.
But there came a day of clamour when his colleagues vowed the glamour
Of his visions was all bunkum and a myth;
For these champions of the nation had perceived their sole salvation
Lay in fusing with the Tory leader, Smith.

Jones at first held out, refusing all suggestions of his fusing
With this person he had hitherto abused.
But he marked his sullen backing, and he heard the whip a-cracking,
Then he abjectly surrendered all, and - 'fused' ...
Jones is now a semi-leader. O, consider, gentle reader;
Think, how many politicians can you name
Who, though starting straight and cleanly, have surrendered weakly, meanly,
When their party bid them fuse and 'play the game'?

How they shudder at the cracking of the Whip
Tory whip.
How they tremble lest the slightest fault or slip
Should offend their august master,
And upon them bring disaster,
And deprive them of their cherished membership.
'Twas to save their bleeding country in they went,
And to bleed it save themselves in Parliament;
Ev'ry worthy cause neglecting,
Their own worthless skins protecting,
And a fig for all the 'views' they 'represent.'
O, the 'freedom' of the Fusion Party man!
Noble man!
Abject creature of the grim old Tory clan,
Waiting, watching, shuffling, veering,
Scheming, plotting, engineering
Sorry product of the 'Good old Party Plan.'

Once on a time, a party by the name of Mr. BULL
Discovered that with many schemes his hands were pretty full.
His cares of family were great. Four fine young sons he'd got;
They were, indeed, of goodly breed, a strong and hefty lot.
But Mr. BULL's domestic cares (as shortly will be seen)
Were not with them, but with his wife, whose name was JINGOPHINE.
A foolish fad this lady had that all the boys were ninnies;
And, though they grew,
As children do,
She dressed them all in pinnies.


Now, while her boys were young, JOHN BULL engaged in business strife
Took little heed of their affairs, and left them to his wife;
And JINGOPHINE, who loved her lord, impressed them, noon and night.
With tales of his magnificence, his wisdom, wealth and might.
But when they talked of growing up, and 'helping pa' some day,
She shook her finger at them in her stern, maternal way.
'Your pa's a great, big man,' she said. 'You never, never, NEVER
Can hope to be
As big as he,
Or half so wise and clever.


Now, JINGOPHINE, like other dames of fussy, frilly kind,
Delighted to have round her folk of weak and narrow mind.
Pet persons were her weakness. also aldermen and those
Who held the very strictest views, and wore the nicest clothes.
They cheered her when she praised her lord, and listened, with a frown.
To tales of BILL; and all agreed he'd have to be 'kept down.'
'He is a naughty child,' they said, 'a mostprecocious brat.
To think good Mr. BULL should have an offspring such as that!'
But BILL despite the stern rebukes of aldermen and Wowsers,
Defied the crowd.
And shouted loud:
'Shut up! I want my trousers!'


Now, in the course of time, JOHN BULL awakened to the fact
That, in the interests of his sons, 'twas time for him to act.
'My dear,' he said, 'these sons of ours are growing quite immense;
We ought to have a business talk - I'11 call a conference.
They're nearly men; and they must learn, each one, to stand alone.
Each with responsibilities, and a household of his own.
They can't always be at our skirts, like great, big, awkward gabies.'
'Why, Mr. BULL!'
She cried. 'You fool!
Those boys are only babies!'


But at the meeting Mr. BULL spoke plainly to his lads.
'My sons,' said he, 'I don't agree with all your mother's fads.
You can't be always little boys; like other lads, you've grown;
And now 'tis time to face the world, and learn to stand alone.
We still remain one family; and none will fail, I know,
To aid another in distress, against a common foe.
Dear lads, I know, you'll recollect - despite success and riches -
Your father still.'
'Hear. hear!' said BILL
'Hooray! I've got me breeches!'


From out that solemn conference BILL marched in highest glee,
With more mopeef for Mr. BULL, now that his limbs were free.
'The old man, he's an all-right sort, and talks sound, common sense,
It's time we learned to act like men, and chucked this fool-pretence.
We've done with apron-strings at last. But what will Ma say now?
Her Wowsers and her aldermen? LORD, won't there be a row!
They've pecked at me quite long enough; it's up to me to scare 'em.
They'll howl for weeks!
But here's me breeks;
An', spare me days, I'll wear 'em!'


The Wowsers and the aldermen and Mrs. JING0PHINE
Were seated in the drawing-room when BILL came on the scene.
'He's got 'em on!' a Wowser cried. 'He's disobeyed his ma!'
'Help! Murder!' shrieked the aldermen. 'He'll kill his pore, dear vp!'
Pell-mell they rushed to Mr. BULL - 'Oh, sir, that dreadful BILL!
He'll murder you! He stole yer pants! He's got 'em on 'im still! Mr. BULL said. 'Is he?
There, there, good folk,
You've had your joke.
Now, go away; I'm busy.'


But, up and down the land they went, the Wowsers and the rest;
And BILL, besides the trousers, sported now a coat and vest.
'He's dressin' like a man!' they shrieked. 'He's going to resist
His dear, kind pa! Oh, who'll restrain this rank disloyalist?
He won't take sops from 'is fond ma; 'er pore 'art's nearly broke!
He's even gone at scoffed at us; an' treats us as a joke!' ....
And if you chance to come across those aldermen and Wowsers
You'll find them still
Abusing BILL
Who grins, and wears the trousers.

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 agèd 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!

Government muddles, departments dazed,
Fear and confusion wherever he gazed;
Order insulted, authority spurned,
Dread and distraction wherever he turned
Oh, the great King Splosh was a sad, sore king,
With never a statesman to straighten the thing.


Glus all importunate urging their claims,
With selfish intent and ulterior aims,
Glugs with petitions for this and for that,
Standing ten-deep on the royal door-mat,
Raging when nobody answered their ring -
Oh, the great King Splosh was a careworn king.


And he looked to the right, and he glanced to the left,
And he glared at the roof like a monarch bereft
Of his wisdom and wits and his wealth all in one;
And, at least once a minute, asked, 'What's to be done?'
But the Swanks stood around him and answered, with groans,
'Your majesty, Gosh is half buried in stones!'


'How now?' cried the King. 'Is there not in my land
One Glug who can cope with this dreadful demand:
A rich man, a poor man, a beggar man, thief
I reck not his rank so he lessen my grief
A soldier, a sailor, a - ' Raising his head,
With relief in his eye, 'Now, I mind me!' he said.


'I mind me a Tinker, and what once befel,
When I think, on the whole, he was treated not well.
But he shall be honoured, and he shall be famed
If he read me this riddle. But how is he named?
Some commonplace title, like-Simon?-No-Sym!
Go, send out my riders, and scour Gosh for him.'


They rode for a day to the sea in the South,
Calling the name of him, hand to the mouth.
They rode for a day to the hills in the East,
But signs of a tinker saw never the least.
Then they rode to the North thro' a whole day long,
And paused in the even to hark to a song.

'Kettles and pans! Kettles and pans!
Oh, who can show tresses like Emily Ann's?
Brown in the shadow and gold at the tips,
Bright as the smile on her beckoning lips.
Bring out your kettle! 0 kettle or pan!
So I buy me a ribband for Emily Ann.'



With his feet in the grass, and his back to a tree,
Merry as only a tinker can be,
Busily tinkering, mending a pan,
Singing as only a merry man can . . .
'Sym!' cried the riders. ' 'Tis thus you are styled?'
And he paused in his singing, and nodded and smiled.


Said he: 'Last eve, when the sun was low,
Down thro' the bracken I watched her go
Down thro' the bracken, with simple grace
And the glory of eve shone full on her face;
And there on the sky-line it lingered a span,
So loth to be leaving my Emily Arm.'


With hands to their faces the riders smiled.
'Sym,' they said - 'be it so you're styled
Behold, great Splosh, our sorrowing King,
Has sent us hither, that we may bring
To the palace in Gosh a Glug so named,
That he may be honoured and justly famed.'


'Yet,' said Sym, as he tinkered his can,
'What should you know of her, Emily Ann?
Early as cock-crow yester morn
I watched young sunbeams, newly born,
As out of the East they frolicked and ran,
Eager to greet her, my Emily Arm.'


'King Splosh,' said the riders, 'is bowed with grief;
And the glory of Gosh is a yellowing leaf.
Up with you, Tinker! There's work ahead.
With a King forsaken, and Swanks in dread,
To whom may we turn for the salving of man?'
And Sym, he answered them, 'Emily Ann.'


Said he: 'Whenever I watch her pass,
With her skirts so high o'er the dew-wet grass,
I envy every blade the bruise
It earns in the cause of her twinkling shoes.
Oh, the dew-wet grass, where this morn she ran,
Was doubly jewelled for Emily Ann.'


'But haste!' they cried. 'By the palace gates
A sorrowing king for a tinker waits.
And what shall we answer our Lord the King
If never a tinker hence we bring,
To tinker a kingdom so sore amiss?'
But Sym, he said to them, 'Answer him this:


'Every eve, when the clock chimes eight,
I kiss her fair, by her mother's gate:
Twice, all reverent, on the brow-
Once for a pray'r, and once for a vow;
Twice on her eyes that they may shine,
Then, full on the mouth because she's mine.''


'Calf!' sneered the riders. 'O Tinker, heed!
Mount and away with us, we must speed.
All Gosh is agog for the coming of Sym.
Garlands and greatness are waiting for him:
Garlands of roses, and garments of red
And a chaplet for crowning a conqueror's head.'

'Listen,' quoth Sym, as he stirred his fire.
'Once in my life have I known desire.
Then, Oh, but the touch of her kindled a flame
That burns as a sun by the candle of fame.
And a blessing and boon for a poor tinker man
Looks out from the eyes of my Emily Ann.'


Then they said to him, 'Fool! Do you cast aside
Promise of honour, and place, and pride,
Gold for the asking, and power o'er men
Working your will with the stroke of a pen?
Vexed were the King if you ride not with us.'
But Sym, he said to them, 'Answer him thus:

'Ease and honour and leave to live
These are the gifts that a king may give
'Twas over the meadow I saw her first;
And my lips grew parched like a man athirst
Oh, my treasure was ne'er in the gift of man;
For the gods have given me Emily Ann.'


'Listen,' said they, 'O you crazy Sym.
Roses perish, and eyes grow dim.
Lustre fades from the fairest hair.
Who weds a woman links arms with care.
But women there are in the city of Gosh -
Ay, even the daughters of good King Splosh. . .'

'Care,' said Sym, 'is a weed that springs
Even to-day in the gardens of kings.
And I, who have lived 'neath the tent of the skies,
Know of the flowers, and which to prize . . .
Give you good even! For now I must jog.'
And he whistled him once to his little red dog.


Into the meadow and over the stile,
Off went the tinker man, singing the while;
Down by the bracken patch, over the hill,
With the little red dog at the heel of him still.
And back, as he soberly sauntered along,
There came to the riders the tail of his song.

'Kettles and pots! Kettles and pans!
Strong is my arm if the cause it be man's.
But a fig for the cause of a cunning old king;
For Emily Ann will be mine in the Spring.
Then nought shall I labour for Splosh or his plans;
Tho' I'll mend him a kettle. Ho, kettles and pans!'