Monday, April 22, 2013

A Spring Song of a Sentimental Bloke


Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis, better known as C. J. Dennis, (7 September 1876 - 22 June 1938) was anAustralian 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"



The world 'as got me snouted jist a treat;
   Crool Forchin's dirty left 'as smote me soul;
An' all them joys o' life I 'eld so sweet
   Is up the pole.
Fer, as the poit sez, me 'eart 'as got
The pip wiv yearnin' fer -- I dunno wot.
 
I'm crook; me name is Mud; I've done me dash;
   Me flamin' spirit's got the flamin' 'ump!
I'm longin' to let loose on somethin' rash....
   Aw, I'm a chump!
I know it; but this blimed ole Springtime craze
Fair outs me, on these dilly, silly days.
 
The young green leaves is shootin' on the trees,
   The air is like a long, cool swig o' beer,
The bonzer smell o' flow'rs is on the breeze
   An 'ere's me, 'ere,
Jist mooching around like some pore, barmy coot,
Of 'ope, an' joy, an' forchin destichoot.
 
I've lorst me former joy in gettin' shick,
   Or 'eadin' browns; I 'aven't got the 'eart
To word a tom; an' square an' all, I'm sick
   Of that cheap tart
'Oo chucks 'er carcis at a feller's 'head
An' mauls 'im ... Ar! I wish't that I wus dead!...
 
Ther's little breezes stirrin' in the leaves,
   An sparrers chirpin' 'igh the 'ole day long;
An 'on the air a sad, sweet music breaves
   A bonzer song --
A mournful sorter choon thet gits a bloke
Fair in the brisket 'ere, an' makes 'im choke...
 
What is the matter wiv me? ... I dunno.
   I got a sorter yearning 'ere inside,
A dead-crook sorter thing that won't let go
   Or be denied --
A feelin' I want to do a break,
An' stoush creation for some woman's sake.
 
The little birds is chirpin' in the nest,
   The parks an' gardings is a bosker sight,
Where smilin' tarts walks up an' down, all dressed
   In clobber white.
An', as their snowy forms goes steppin' by,
It seems I'm seekin' something on the sly.
 
Somethin' or someone -- I don't rightly know;
   But, seems to me, I'm kind er lookin' for
A tart I knoo a 'undred years ago,
   Or, maybe, more.
Wot's this I've 'eard them call that thing? ... Geewhizz!
Me ideel bit o' skirt!  That's wot it is!
 
Me ideel tart! ... An, bli'me, look at me!
   Jist take a squiz at this, an' tell me can
Some square an' honist tom take this to be
   'Er own true man?
Aw, Gawd!  I'd be as true to 'er, I would --
As straight an' stiddy as ... Ar, wot's the good?
 
Me, that 'as done me stretch fer stoushin' Johns,
   An' spen's me leisure getting on the shick,
An' 'arf me nights down there in Little Lon.,
   Wiv Ginger Mick,
Jist 'eading 'em, an' doing in me gilt.
Tough luck!  I s'pose it's 'ow a man is built.
 
It's 'ow Gawd builds a bloke; but don't it 'urt
   When 'e gits yearnin's fer this 'igher life,
On these Spring mornin's, watchin' some sweet skirt --
   Some fucher wife --
Go sailin' by, an' turnin' on his phiz
The glarssy eye -- fere bein' wot 'e is.
 
I've watched 'em walkin' in the gardings 'ere --
   Cliners from orfices an' shops an' such;
The sorter skirts I dursn't come too near,
   Or dare to touch.
An, when I see the kind er looks they carst ...
Gorstooth!  Wot is the use o' me, I arst?
 
Wot wus I slung 'ere for?  An' wot's the good
   Of yearnin' after any ideel tart?
Ar, if a bloke wus only understood!
   'E's got a 'eart:
'E's got a soul inside 'im, poor or rich.
But wot's the use, when 'Eaven's crool'd 'is pitch?
 
I tells meself some day I'll take a pull
   An' look around fer some good, stiddy job,
An' cut the push fer good an' all; I'm full
   Of that crook mob!
An', in some Spring the fucher 'olds in store,
I'll cop me prize an' long in vain no more.
 
The little winds is stirrin' in the trees,
   Where little birds is chantin' lovers' lays;
The music of the sorft an' barmy breeze ...
   Aw, spare me days!
If this 'ere dilly feelin' doesn't stop
I'll lose me block an' stoush some flamin' cop!
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