Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis - Poems

Classic Poetry Series Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis - poems - Publication Date: 2012 Publisher: Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 1 Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis(7 September 1876 - 22 June 1938) Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis, better known as C. J. Dennis, was an Australian poet known for his humorous poems, especially "The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke", published in the early 20th century. Though Dennis's work is less well known today, his 1916 publication of The Sentimental Bloke sold 65,000 copies in its first year, and by 1917 he was the most prosperous poet in Australian history. Together with Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson, both of whom he collaborated with, he is often considered among Australia's three most famous poets. When he died at the age of 61, the Prime Minister of Australia Joseph Lyons suggested he was destined to be remembered as the "Australian Robert Burns". <b>Biography</b> C. J. Dennis was born in Auburn, South Australia. His father owned hotels in Auburn, and then later in Gladstone and Laura. His mother suffered ill health, so Clarrie (as he was known) was raised initially by his great-aunts, then went away to school, Christian Brothers College, Adelaide as a teenager. At the age of 19 he was employed as a solicitor's clerk. It was while he was working in this job that, like banker's clerk <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/andrew-barton-paterson-2/">Banjo Paterson</a> before him, his first poem was published. He later went on to publish in The Bulletin. C. J. Dennis is buried in Box Hill Cemetery, Melbourne. The Box Hill Historical Society have attached a commemorative plaque to the gravestone. Dennis is also commemorated with a plaque on Circular Quay in Sydney which forms part of the NSW Ministry for the Arts - Writers Walk series, and by a bust outside the town hall of the town of Laura. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2 A Ballad For Elderly Kids Now this is the ballad of Jeremy Jones, And likewise of Bobadil Brown, Of the Snooks and the Snaggers and Macs and Malones, And Diggle and Daggle and Down. In fact, 'tis a song of a fatuous throng. Which embraces 'the man in the street,' And the bloke on the 'bus, and a crowd more of us. And a lot of the people we meet. Yes, this is the story of Jack and of Jill, Whose surnames are Snawley or Smith, And of Public Opinion and National Will, And samples of Popular Myth. For Jeremy Jones, as a very small boy, Was encouraged to struggle for pelf, And to strive very hard in his own little yard, But never to think for himself. Then, Hi-diddle-diddle, the cat and the fiddle, Come, sing us a nursery rhyme. For, in spite of our whiskers, we elderly friskers Are kiddes the most of our time. So this is the song of the juvenile throng, And its aunts and its big brother Bill, Its uncles and cousins, and sisters in dozens, Louisa and 'Liza and Lill. Now, Jeremy Jones was exceedingly 'loyal,' And when any procession went by, He'd cheer very loud with the rest of the crowd, Though he honestly couldn't tell why. He was taught that his 'rulers' toiled hard for his sake, And promoted the 'general good'; That to meddle with 'customs' was quite a mistake. And Jones didn't see why he should. To gird at the 'Order of Things as they Are,' He was told, was the act of a fool. He was taught, in effect, to regard with respect www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 3 Ev'ry' 'Precedent,' 'Practice' and 'Rule.' And if we deserted the 'Usual Plan' He believed that the nation would fall. So Jones became known as a 'right-thinking man,' Which meant that he didn't at all. Oh, Little Miss Muffett, she sat on a tuffet, But fled from a spider in fright; For no one haa told her that if she was bolder, She might have asserted her right. Ho, rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub, On a sea of political doubt; And they argue together concerning the weather, But never attempt to get out. They made him a grocer when Jerry left school, And a very good grocer was he; And a dunce he was not, for he knew quite a lot Of such matters as treacle and tea. But the making of nations, and things so immense, He considered beyond his control. He was busy on week-days at saving his pence, And on Sundays at saving his soul. But politics Jones did not wholly neglect! He subscribed to a paper, THE SAGE; And every morn, with becoming respect, He scanned its political page. He believed what was said in each leader he read, For a 'right-thinking person' was he. Who was shocked at their vices, who growled of the prices Of Sugar or treacle or tea. Oh, Little Jack Horner sits in a corner, A look of delight in his eye, At the sight of a plum on the end of his thumb, While there's somebody sneaking his pie. Then, ride a cook hoss to Banbury Cross Though the Lord only knows why we do. But there's precedent for it, and those who ignore it We class as an ignorant crew, www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 4 So Jeremy Jones he meanders through life, Behaving as Grandmother bids; And so do his very respectable wife And extremely conventional kids. Their bosses can trust 'em, for habit and custom They've learnt in the regular school; And they call him 'right-thinking,' while privately winking And setting him down as a fool. Convention's his master; he vows that disaster Will swiftly encompass its foes. He thinks Evolution a Labor delusion, And 'Progress' a 'something' that grows. He's one of the many - a credulous zany The leadable, bleedable type Who looks upon 'Time' - instructed by Granny As something that rarely is ripe. Oh, Goosey, goose gander, where do you wander? Only, kind sir, where I'm told; For my master has said I must go where I'm led, And to contradict him would be bold. And Little Bo-peep she lost her sheep. It's the Socialist's fault, she'll insist. But leave her to grieve, for she'll never believe That a Meat Trust could ever exist. Then this is the ballad of elderly kids, Of Jeremy Jones and his kind, Of Bobadil Brown, and Daggle and Down, And the crowd with the juvenile mind. Oh, this is a song of the National Will, Of the Snooks, and the Snaggers, and Smiths, Their aunts and their cousins, and big brother Bill, Convention and Popular Myths. A sad little song of the fatuous throng, A string of sedate little rhymes, Concerning the crowd who consider it wrong To collide with the 'trend of the times.' A song about Us, who are missing the 'bus, While we trifle and toy with pretence. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 5 For we play very hard in our own little yard, But we seldom look over the fence. Then Hi-diddle-diddle, the cat and the fiddle We're never concerned with the cause. Let's giggle and sinf for the Trust and the Ring Are really our old Santa Claus. Effects may surprise us, but Granny'll advise us; We'll never behave as she bids. Ho, grocers and drapres, let's stick to the papers; We're all of us elderly kids. Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 6 A Ballad Of Freedom 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. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 7 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.

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