C J Dennis: Всі вірші поета

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You and I

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 can not be Eagles, for

That would, of course, be nonsense.

by C J Dennis

Hitched

An'—wilt—yeh—take—this—woman—fer—to—be

Yer—wedded—wife?— . . . O, strike me! Will I wot?

Take 'er? Doreen? 'E stan's there arstin' me!

As if 'e thort per'aps I'd rather not!

Take 'er? 'E seemed to think 'er kind was got

Like cigarette-cards, fer the arstin'. Still,

I does me stunt in this 'ere hitchin' rot,

An' speaks me piece: "Righto!" I sez, "I will."

by C J Dennis

A Change of Air

Now, a man in Oodnadatta

He grew fat, and he grew fatter,

Though he hardly had a thing to eat for dinner;

While a man in Booboorowie

Often sat and wondered how he

Could prevent himself from growing any thinner.

So the man from Oodnadatta

He came down to Booboorowie,

by C J Dennis

Lullaby

You are much too big to dandle,

And I will not leave the candle.

Go to sleep.

You are growing naughty, rather,

And I'll have to speak to father.

Go to sleep!

If you're good I shall not tell, then.

Oh, a story? Very well, then.

by C J Dennis

The Band

Hey, there! Listen awhile! Listen awhile, and come.

Down in the street there are marching feet, and I hear the beat of a drum.

Bim! Boom!! Out of the room! Pick up your hat and fly!

Isn't it grand? The band! The band! The band is marching by!

Oh, the clarinet is the finest yet, and the uniforms are gay.

Tah, rah! We don't go home -

Oom, pah! We won't go home -

Oh, we shan't go home, and we can't go home when the band begins to play.

by C J Dennis

The Drovers

Out across the spinifex, out across the sand,

Out across the saltbush to Never Never land

That's the way the drovers go, jogging down the track -

That's the way the drovers go. But how do they come back?

Back across the saltbush from Never Never land.

Back across the spinifex, back across the sand.

by C J Dennis

The Little People

'Twas a long bush night; and the old hut light

Shone out thro' the open door

To flood the knees of the great bush trees

And the scrub that grew before.

And, as I dreamed where the firelight gleamed,

And watched the long hours lag,

Came there to my shack Kilkenny Jack

With his fiddle in its green baize bag.

by C J Dennis

A Letter To The Front

I 'ave written Mick a letter in reply to one uv 'is,

Where 'e arsts 'ow things is goin' where the gums an wattles is.

So I tries to buck 'im up a bit; to go fer Abdul's fez;

An' I ain't no nob at itrachure; but this is wot I sez:

I suppose you fellers dream, Mick, in between the scraps out there,

Uv the land yeh left be'ind yeh when yeh sailed to do yer share:

Uv Collins Street, or Rundle Street, or Pitt, or George, or Hay,

Uv the land beyond the Murray or along the Castlereagh,

by C J Dennis

A Bush Christmas

The sun burns hotly thro' the gums

As down the road old Rogan comes -

The hatter from the lonely hut

Beside the track to Woollybutt.

He likes to spend his Christmas with us here.

He says a man gets sort of strange

Living alone without a change,

Gets sort of settled in his way;

by C J Dennis

The Dawn Dance

What do you think I saw to-day when I arose at dawn?

Blue Wrens and Yellow-tails dancing on the lawn!

Bobbing here, and bowing there, gossiping away,

And how I wished that you were there to see the merry play!

But you were snug abed, my boy, blankets to your chin,

Nor dreamed of dancing birds without or sunbeams dancing in.

Grey Thrush, he piped the tune for them. I peeped out through the glass

Between the window curtains, and I saw them on the grass

by C J Dennis

The White Foxglove

Reynard, the Fox, was asked to a party.

"Come", they said, in your Sunday best,

For we like good form, tho' the fun be hearty;

So all who dance must be formally dressed:

Black tail-coat and a shirt-front gleaming.

Brushed and burnished each dancing shoe,

Pantaloons with a silk braid seaming,

Clean white gloves of the snowiest hue.

by C J Dennis

Our Street

In our street, the main street

Running thro' the town,

You see a lot of busy folk

Going up and down:

Bag men and basket men,

Men with loads of hay,

Buying things and selling things

And carting things away.

by C J Dennis