The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke

C. J. Dennis

To Mr and Mrs J. G. Roberts

  La vie est vaine:
  Un peu d'amour,
  Un peu de haine…
  Et puis—bonjour!

  La vie est breve:
  Un peu d'espoir,
  Un peu de reve…
  Et puis—bonsoir!

Leon Montenaeken

Foreword

My young friend Dennis has honoured me with a request to write a preface to his book. I think a man can best write a preface to his own book, provided he knows it is good. Also if he knows it is bad.

"The Sentimental Bloke", while running through the Bulletin, brightened up many dark days for me. He is more perfect than any alleged "larrikin" or Bottle-O character I have ever attempted to sketch, not even excepting my own beloved Benno. Take the first poem for instance, where the Sentimental Bloke gets the hump. How many men, in how many different parts of the world—and of how many different languages—have had the same feeling—the longing for something better—to be something better?

The exquisite humour of The Sentimental Bloke speaks for itself; but there's a danger that its brilliance may obscure the rest, especially for minds, of all stations, that, apart from sport and racing, are totally devoted to boiling

"The cabbitch storks or somethink"

in this social "pickle found-ery" of ours.

Doreen stands for all good women, whether down in the smothering alleys or up in the frozen heights. And so, having introduced the little woman (they all seem "little" women), I "dips me lid"— and stand aside.

HENRY LAWSON
  SYDNEY, 1st September, 1915.

Contents

  I. A SPRING SONG
        The world 'as got me snouted jist a treat;…

  II. THE INTRO
        'Er name's Doreen…Well, spare me bloomin' days!…

  III. THE STOUSH O' DAY
        Ar, these is 'appy days! An' 'ow they've flown—…

  IV. DOREEN
        I wish't yeh meant it, Bill." Oh, 'ow me 'eart…

  V. THE PLAY
        "Wot's in a name?" she sez… An' then she sighs,…

  VI. THE STROR 'AT COOT
        Ar, wimmin! Wot a blinded fool I've been!…

  VII. THE SIREN
         She sung a song, an' I sat silent there….

  VIII. MAR
         "'Er pore dear Par," she sez, "'e kept a store";…

  IX. PILOT COVE
         "Young friend," 'e sez…Young friend! Well, spare me days!…

  X. HITCHED
         "An'—wilt—yeh—take—this—woman—fer—to—be—…

  XI. BEEF TEA
         She never magged; she never said no word;…

  XII. UNCLE JIM
         "I got no time fer wasters, lad," sez 'e,…

  XIII. THE KID
         My son!…Them words, jist like a blessed song,…

  XIV. THE MOOCH O' LIFE
         This ev'nin' I was sittin' wiv Doreen,…

THE GLOSSARY

I. A Spring Song

  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 moochin' round 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 carkis at a feller's 'ead
    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 yearnin' 'ere inside,
  A dead-crook sorter thing that won't let go
    Or be denied—
  A feelin' like 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' somethin' 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 gittin' on the shick,
  An' 'arf me nights down there, in Little Lon.,
    Wiv Ginger Mick,
  Jist 'eadin' '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—fer 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…
    Gorstrooth! 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 eround 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!

II. The Intro

  'Er name's Doreen …Well spare me bloomin' days!
  You could er knocked me down wiv 'arf a brick!
    Yes, me, that kids meself I know their ways,
    An' 'as a name for smoogin' in our click!
  I just lines up an' tips the saucy wink.
  But strike! The way she piled on dawg! Yer'd think
    A bloke was givin' back-chat to the Queen….
     'Er name's Doreen.

  I seen 'er in the markit first uv all,
  Inspectin' brums at Steeny Isaacs' stall.
    I backs me barrer in—the same ole way—
    An' sez, "Wot O! It's been a bonzer day.
  'Ow is it fer a walk?"…Oh, 'oly wars!
  The sorter look she gimme! Jest becors
    I tried to chat 'er, like you'd make a start
     Wiv ANY tart.

  An' I kin take me oaf I wus perlite.
  An' never said no word that wasn't right,
    An' never tried to maul 'er, or to do
    A thing yeh might call crook. Ter tell yeh true,
  I didn't seem to 'ave the nerve—wiv 'er.
  I felt as if I couldn't go that fur,
    An' start to sling off chiack like I used…
     Not INTRAJUICED!

  Nex' time I sighted 'er in Little Bourke,
  Where she was in a job. I found'er lurk
    Wus pastin' labels in a pickle joint,
    A game that—any'ow, that ain't the point.
  Once more I tried ter chat 'er in the street,
  But, bli'me! Did she turn me down a treat!
    The way she tossed 'er 'cad an' swished 'er skirt!
     Oh, it wus dirt!

  A squarer tom, I swear, I never seen,
  In all me natchril, than this 'ere Doreen.
    It wer'n't no guyver neither; fer I knoo
    That any other bloke 'ad Buckley's 'oo
  Tried fer to pick 'er up. Yes, she was square.
  She jist sailed by an' lef' me standin' there
    Like any mug. Thinks I, "I'm out er luck,"
     An' done a duck

  Well, I dunno. It's that way wiv a bloke.
  If she'd ha' breasted up ter me an' spoke,
    I'd thort 'er jist a commin bit er fluff,
    An' then fergot about 'er, like enough.
  It's jest like this. The tarts that's 'ard ter get
  Makes you all 'ot to chase 'em, an' to let
    The cove called Cupid get an 'ammer-lock;
     An' lose yer block.

  I know a bloke 'oo knows a bloke 'oo toils
  In that same pickle found-ery. ('E boils
    The cabbitch storks or somethink.) Anyway,
    I gives me pal the orfis fer to say
  'E 'as a sister in the trade 'oo's been
  Out uv a jorb, an' wants ter meet Doreen;
    Then we kin get an intro, if we've luck.
     'E sez, "Ribuck."

  O' course we worked the oricle; you bet!
  But, 'struth, I ain't recovered frum it yet!
    'Twas on a Saturdee, in Colluns Street,
    An'—quite by accident, o' course—we meet.
  Me pal 'e trots 'er up an' does the toff
  'E allus wus a bloke fer showin' off.
    "This 'ere's Doreen," 'e sez. "This 'ere's the Kid."
     I dips me lid.

  "This 'ere's Doreen," 'e sez. I sez "Good day."
  An', bli'me, I 'ad nothin' more ter say!
    I couldn't speak a word, or meet 'er eye.
    Clean done me block! I never been so shy.
  Not since I was a tiny little cub,
  An' run the rabbit to the corner pub—
    Wot time the Summer days wus dry an' 'ot—
     Fer me ole pot.

  Me! that 'as barracked tarts, an' torked an' larft,
  An' chucked orf at 'em like a phonergraft!
    Gorstrooth! I seemed to lose me pow'r o' speech.
    But, 'er! Oh, strike me pink! She is a peach!
  The sweetest in the barrer! Spare me days,
  I carn't describe that cliner's winnin' ways.
    The way she torks! 'Er lips! 'Er eyes! 'Er hair!…
     Oh, gimme air!

  I dunno 'ow I done it in the end.
  I reckerlect I arst ter be 'er friend;
    An' tried ter play at 'andies in the park,
    A thing she wouldn't sight. Aw, it's a nark!
  I gotter swear when I think wot a mug
  I must 'a' seemed to 'er. But still I 'ug
    That promise that she give me fer the beach.
     The bonzer peach!

  Now, as the poit sez, the days drag by
  On ledding feet. I wish't they'd do a guy.
    I dunno'ow I 'ad the nerve ter speak,
    An' make that meet wiv 'er fer Sundee week!
  But strike! It's funny wot a bloke'll do
  When 'e's all out…She's gorn, when I come-to.
    I'm yappin' to me cobber uv me mash….
     I've done me dash!

  'Er name's Doreen….An' me-that thort I knoo
    The ways uv tarts, an' all that smoogin' game!
  An' so I ort; fer ain't I known a few?
    Yet some'ow…I dunno. It ain't the same.
  I carn't tell WOT it is; but, all I know,
  I've dropped me bundle—an' I'm glad it's so.
    Fer when I come ter think uv wot I been….
     'Er name's Doreen.

III. The Stoush o' Day

  Ar, these is 'appy days! An' 'ow they've flown—
    Flown like the smoke of some inchanted fag;
  Since dear Doreen, the sweetest tart I've known,
    Passed me the jolt that made me sky the rag.
  An' ev'ry golding day floats o'er a chap
  Like a glad dream of some celeschil scrap.

  Refreshed wiv sleep Day to the mornin' mill
    Comes jauntily to out the nigger, Night.
  Trained to the minute, confident in skill,
    'E swaggers in the East, chock-full o' skite;
  Then spars a bit, an' plugs Night on the point.
  Out go the stars; an' Day 'as jumped the joint.

  The sun looks up, an' wiv a cautious stare,
    Like some crook keekin' o'er a winder sill
  To make dead cert'in everythink is square,
    'E shoves 'is boko o'er an Eastern 'ill,
  Then rises, wiv 'is dial all a-grin,
  An' sez, "'Ooray! I knoo that we could win!"

  Sure of 'is title then, the champeen Day
    Begins to put on dawg among 'is push,
  An', as he mooches on 'is gaudy way,
    Drors tribute from each tree an' flow'r an' bush.
  An', w'ile 'e swigs the dew in sylvan bars,
  The sun shouts insults at the sneakin' stars.

  Then, lo! the push o' Day rise to applaud;
    An' all 'is creatures clamour at 'is feet
  Until 'e thinks'imself a little gawd,
    An' swaggers on an' kids 'imself a treat.
  The w'ile the lurkin' barrackers o' Night
  Sneak in retreat an' plan another fight.

  On thro' the hours, triumphant, proud an' fit,
  The champeen marches on 'is up'ard way,
  Till, at the zenith, bli'me! 'E-is-IT!
  And all the world bows to the Boshter Day.
  The jealous Night speeds ethergrams thro' space
  'Otly demandin' terms, an' time, an' place.

  A wile the champeen scorns to make reply;
    'E's taken tickets on 'is own 'igh worth;
  Puffed up wiv pride, an' livin' mighty 'igh,
    'E don't admit that Night is on the earth.
  But as the hours creep on 'e deigns to state
  'E'll fight for all the earth an' 'arf the gate.

  Late afternoon…Day feels 'is flabby arms,
    An' tells 'imself 'e don't seem quite the thing.
  The 'omin' birds shriek clamorous alarms;
    An' Night creeps stealthily to gain the ring.
  But see! The champeen backs an' fills, becos
  'E doesn't feel the Boshter Bloke 'e was.

  Time does a bunk as us-u-al, nor stays
    A single instant, e'en at Day's be'est.
  Alas, the 'eavy-weight's 'igh-livin' ways
    'As made 'im soft, an' large around the vest.
  'E sez 'e's fat inside; 'e starts to whine;
  'E sez 'e wants to dror the colour line.

  Relentless nigger Night crawls thro' the ropes,
    Advancin' grimly on the quakin' Day,
  Whose noisy push, shorn of their 'igh-noon 'opes,
    Wait, 'ushed an' anxious, fer the comin' fray.
  And many lusty barrackers of noon
  Desert 'im one by one—traitors so soon!

  'E's out er form! 'E 'asn't trained enough!
    They mark their sickly champeen on the stage,
  An' narked, the sun, 'is backer, in a huff,
    Sneaks outer sight, red in the face wiv rage.
  W'ile gloomy roosters, they 'oo made the morn
  Ring wiv 'is praises, creep to bed forlorn.

  All faint an' groggy grows the beaten Day;
    'E staggers drunkenly about the ring;
  An owl 'oots jeerin'ly across the way,
    An' bats come out to mock the fallin' King.
  Now, wiv a jolt, Night spreads 'im on the floor,
  An' all the west grows ruddy wiv 'is gore.

  A single, vulgar star leers from the sky
    An' in derision, rudely mutters, "Yah!"
  The moon, Night's conkerbine, comes glidin' by
    An' laughs a 'eartless, silvery "Ha-ha!"
  Scorned, beaten, Day gives up the 'opeless fight,
  An' drops 'is bundle in the lap o' Night.

* * * * * * * *

  So goes each day, like some celeschil mill,
    E'er since I met that shyin' little peach.
  'Er bonzer voice! I 'ear its music still,
    As when she guv that promise fer the beach.
  An', square an' all, no matter 'ow yeh start,
  The commin end of most of us is—Tart.