C. J. Dennis

“ Nay, keep your temper; for I can Withal admire a clever man. "Who rhymes with such a subtle art May never claim a simple part. I'll make of you a Glug of rank, With something handy in the bank, And fixed opinions, which, you know, With fixed deposits always go. "I'll give you anything you crave: A great, high headstone to your grave, A salary, a scarlet coat, A handsome wife, a house, a vote, A title, or a humbled foe." But Sym said, "No," and ever, "No." "Then," shouted Quog, "your aid I claim For Gosh, and in your country's name I bid you fight the Cause of Quog, Or be for ever named a dog! ”

“ They say the eagle is a bird That sees some splendid sights When he soars high into the sky Upon his dizzy flights: He sees the ground for miles around Our house, and Billy Johnson's; But we cannot be eagles, for That would, of course, be nonsense. But you and I, some summer day, Providing we're allowed, Will go up in an aeroplane And sail right through a cloud. But, if they say we may not go, We'll stay upon the ground With other things that have no wings, And watch them walk around. They say the bottom of the sea Is beautiful to view ”

“ But Joi was a Glug with a twisted mind Of the nasty, meditative kind. He'd meditate on the modes of Gosh, And dared to muse on the acts of Splosh; He dared to speak, and, worse than that, He spoke out loud, and he said it flat. "Why climb?" said he. "When you reach the top There's nowhere to go, and you have to stop, Unless you drop. And the higher you are the worse you flop." And every cricket that chirps at eve, And scoffs at the folly of fools who grieve, And the furtive mice who revel at night, All know the Glugs quite well by sight. ”

“ This land that you are fooling with must be cut up. Now go!"
They gazed at him in wonder, then they slowly backed away;
For "throwing" things was novel in that neolithic day;
'Twas the prehistoric "argument," the first faint gleam of "art,"
Yet those mammoths seemed to take it in exceedingly bad part.
Then a hoary, agéd bunyip rose, and spluttered loud and long;
He said the black man's arguments were very, very wrong.
"You forget," he said, indignantly, "the land is ours by right,
And to seek to wrest it from us would be—well, most impolite." ”

“ THE ANT EXPLORER Once a little sugar ant made up his mind to roam-- To fare away far away, far away from home. He had eaten all his breakfast, and he had his ma's consent To see what he should chance to see and here's the way he went-- Up and down a fern frond, round and round a stone, Down a gloomy gully where he loathed to be alone, Up a mighty mountain range, seven inches high, Through the fearful forest grass that nearly hid the sky, Out along a bracken bridge, bending in the moss, Till he reached a dreadful desert that was feet and feet across. ”

“ For yesterday's Glug is the Glug of to-day. And they climb the trees when the thunder rolls, To solemnly salve their shop-worn souls. For they fear the coals That threaten to frizzle their shop-worn souls. They climbed the trees. 'Tis a bootless task To say so over again, or ask The cause of it all, or the reason why They never felt happier up on high. For Joi asked why; and Joi was a fool, And never a Glug of the fine old school With fixed opinions and Sunday clothes, And the habit of looking beyond its nose, And treating foes With the calm contempt of the One Who Knows. ”

“ Neville called loudly to him, but the man did not even look up. Now he was far beyond that farm-house and above an orchard, where he saw the fruit-trees standing in straight rows; and a few seconds later the mountain range was beneath him, and Neville knew that the cloud that looked like a horse was making straight for the golden gateway, which was now glowing dully in a grey sky. He was riding into the sunset. Swiftly as the wind that drove it, the Cloud Horse drifted over the mountain range. ”

“ Then I'll cuddle my girl and I'll quaff my ale
As we sit on the leafy floor;
And when the book and the beer jug fail,
I'll cuddle my girl some more.
For jugs give out and books get slow,
But you take my tip for square—
Though the bough and the book and the beer jug go,
The girl, she's always there. ”

“ And Sym sits him down by his little wife's knee, With his feet in the grass and his back to a tree; And he looks on the Valley and dreams of old years, As he strokes his red dog with the funny prick ears. And he says, "Still they climb in their whimsical way, While we stand on earth, yet are higher than they. Oh, who trusts to a tree is a fool of a man! For the wise seek the mountains, my Emily Ann." So lives the queer tinker, nor deems it a wrong, When the spirit so moves him, to burst into song. 'Tis a comical song about kettles and pans, And the graces and charms that are Emily Ann's. ”

“ Suddenly there was a great clattering and stamping inside the Little House, and Sym began to sing his Tinker's song. "Kettles and pans! Kettles and pans! All the broad earth is the tinkering man's-- The green leafy lane or the fields are his home, The road or the river, where'er he way roam. He roves for a living and rests where he can. Then bring out your kettle! ho! kettle or pan!" There's a nice thing for you!" said the Little Red House bitterly. "What kind of a song do you call that? Any old place is good enough for his home, and I am just nothing!" ”

“ When the deep shades creep and the wind is high The trees bow low as the gods ride by: Gods of the gloaming, who ride on the breeze, Stooping to heaften the birds and the trees. But each dull Glug sits down by his door, And mutters, " 'Tis windy!" and nothing more, Like the long-dead Glugs in the days of yore. When Sym was born there was much to-do, And his parents thought him a joy to view; But folk not prejudiced saw the Glug, As his nurse remarked, "In the cut of his mug." ”

“ Some scale a tree that they fear to name, For it bears great blossoms of scarlet shame. But they eat of the fruit of the nameless tree, Because they are Glugs, and their choice is free. But every eve, when the sun goes West, Over the mountain they call The Blest, Whose summit looks down on the city of Gosh, Far from the reach of the great King Splosh, The Glugs gaze up at the heights above, And feel vague promptings to wondrous love. And they whisper a tale of a tinker man, Who lives in the mount with his Emily Ann. ”

“ Steadily, surely, on he goes, Shaking the tree with his mighty blows: There's never a pause and there's never a stop. (Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!) Out from the bush beyond is heard The swaggering song of the butcher-bird Seeking a joint for his butcher's shop. (Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!) Deeper and deeper the cut creeps in, While the parrots shriek with a deafening din, And the chips fly out with a flip and a flop. (Chip! Chop! Chip! Chop!) Yellow robins come flocking round, Watching the chips as they fall to ground, Darting to catch the grubs that drop. ”

“ When you see them squat on the tree-tops high,
Scanning for ever that heedless sky,
⁠Lie flat on your back on the good, green earth
⁠And roar till the great vault echoes your mirth."
As he walked in the city, to Sym there came
⁠Sounds envenomed with fear and hate,
Shouts of anger and words of shame,
⁠As Glug blamed Glug for his woeful state.
"This blame?" said Sym, "Is it mortal's right
⁠To blame his fellow for aught he be?"
But the father said, "Do we blame the night
⁠When darkness gathers and none can see?" ”

“ Each boot was broken at the toe, And he'd a swag upon his back. His billy-can, as black as black, Was just the thing for making tea At picnics, so it seemed to me. 'Twas hard to earn a bite of bread, He told me. Then he shook his head, And all the little corks that hung Around his hat-brim danced and swung And bobbed about his face; and when I laughed he made them dance again. He said they were for keeping flies-- "The pesky varmints"--from his eyes. He called me "Codger". . . "Now you see The best days of your life," said he. ”

“ He flirts and he flutters, his wife by his side, With his share of content and forgiveable pride. And he keeps to the earth, 'mid the bushes and shrubs, And he dines very well upon corpulent grubs. But the little blue wren with a grievance in life, He was rude to his neighbours and short with his wife. For, up in the apple-tree over his nest, There dwelt a fat spider who gave him no rest: A spider so fat, so abnormally stout That he seemed hardly fitted to waddle about. But his eyes were so sharp, and his legs were so spry, That he could not be caught; and 'twas folly to try. ”

“ But when they fell on seasons bad, Oh, then the Swanks, the bustled Swanks, The hustled Swanks went mad-- The minute-writing, nation-blighting, Skiting Swanks went mad. The tall trees sway like boys at play, And mock him when he grieves, As one by one, in laughing fun, They pelt him with their leaves. And the gay green trees joke to the breeze, As the Swank struts proudly by; But every Glug, with reverence, Pays homage to his pride immense-- A homage deep to lofty rank-- The Swank! ”

“ 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 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. ”

“ For the way with a Glug is to tickle his ears.
"O, speak to us, Tinker! Your wisdom we crave!"
They'd cry when they saw him; then Sym would look grave.
⁠And remark, with an air, " 'Tis a very fine day."
⁠"Now ain't he a marvel?" they'd shout. "Hip, Hooray!"
"To live," would Sym answer, "To live is to feel!"
"And ain't he a poet?" a fat Glug would squeal. ”

“ And the Swanks are all crazed with this trading in stone."
Said the Mayor of Quog: "This has long been foretold
In a prophecy penned by the Seer of old.
⁠We must search, if we'd banish the curse of our time.
⁠For a mender of pots who's a maker of rhyme.
'Tis to him we must look when our luck goes amiss,
But, Oh, where in all Gosh is a Glug such as this?" ”

“ There's a gay little garden, a tidy white gate, And a narrow brown pathway that will not run straight; ⁠For it turns and it twists and it wanders about ⁠To the left and the right, as in humorous doubt. 'Tis a humorous path, and a joke from its birth Till it ends at the door with a wriggle of mirth. ⁠And here in the mount lives the queer tinker man ⁠With his little red dog and his Emily Ann. ”

“ 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. ”

“ He calls it "Woman." he calls it "Wine." he call 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 Glug if he hadn't a dog to kick.
So any old night, if the stars are right, you 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. ”

“ And, once in a while, when the weather is clear, When the work is all over, and even is near, ⁠They walk in the garden and gaze down below ⁠On the Valley of Gosh, where the young rivers go; Where the houses of Gosh seem so paltry and vain, Like a handful of pebbles strewn over the plain; ⁠Where tiny black forms crawl about in the vale, ⁠And stare at the mountain they fear them to scale. ”