The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke

Title: The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke

Author: C. J. Dennis

Release date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #4730] Most recently updated: December 28, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4730

Credits: Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer

Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer.

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.

IV. Doreen

"I wish't yeh menat it, Bill." Oh, 'ow me 'eart Went out to 'er that evnin' on the beach. I knew she weren't no ordinary tart, My little peach!

To 'ear 'er voice! Its gentle sorter tone, Like soft dream-music of some Dago band. An' me all out; an' 'oldin' in me own 'Er little 'and. An' 'ow she blushed! O, strike! it was divine The way she raised 'er shinin' eyes to mine.

'Er eyes! Soft in the moon; such BOSHTER eyes! An' when they sight a bloke…O, spare me days! 'E goes all loose inside; such glamour lies In 'er sweet gaze. It makes 'im all ashamed uv wot 'e's been To look inter the eyes of my Doreen.

* * * *

The wet sands glistened, an' the gleamin' moon Shone yeller on the sea, all streakin' down. A band was playin' some soft, dreamy choon; An' up the town We 'eard the distant tram-cars whir an' clash. An' there I told Per 'ow I'd done me dash.

"I wish't yeh meant it." 'Struth! And did I, fair? A bloke 'ud be a dawg to kid a skirt Like her. An' me well knowin' she was square. It 'ud be dirt! 'E'd be no man to point wiv her, an' kid. I meant it honest; an' she knoo I did.

She knoo. I've done me block in on her, straight. A cove 'as got to think some time in life An' get some decent tart, ere it's too late, To be 'is wife. But, Gawd! 'Oo would 'a' thort it could 'a' been My luck to strike the likes of Per?…Doreen!

Aw, I can stand their chuckin' off, I can. It's 'ard; an' I'd delight to take 'em on. The dawgs! But it gets that way wiv a man When 'e's fair gone. She'll sight no stoush; an' so I have to take Their mag, an' do a duck fer her sweet sake.

Fer 'er sweet sake I've gone and chucked it clean: The pubs an' schools an' all that leery game. Fer when a bloke 'as come to know Doreen, It ain't the same. There's 'igher things, she sez, for blokes to do. An' I am 'arf believin' that it's true.

Yes, 'igher things—that wus the way she spoke; An' when she looked at me I sorter felt That bosker feelin' that comes o'er a bloke, An' makes 'im melt; Makes 'im all 'ot to maul 'er, an' to shove 'Is arms about'er…Bli'me? but it's love!

That's wot it is. An' when a man 'as grown Like that 'e gets a sorter yearn inside To be a little 'ero on 'is own; An' see the pride Glow in the eyes of 'er 'e calls 'is queen; An' 'ear 'er say 'e is a shine champeen.

"I wish't yeh meant it," I can 'ear 'er yet, My bit o' fluff! The moon was shinin' bright, Turnin' the waves all yeller where it set— A bonzer night! The sparklin' sea all sorter gold an' green; An' on the pier the band—O, 'Ell!… Doreen!

V. The Play

"Wots in a name?" she sez…An' then she sighs, An' clasps 'er little 'ands, an' rolls 'er eyes. "A rose," she sez, "be any other name Would smell the same. Oh, w'erefore art you Romeo, young sir? Chuck yer ole pot, an' change yer moniker!"

Doreen an' me, we bin to see a show— The swell two-dollar touch. Bong tong, yeh know. A chair apiece wiv velvit on the seat; A slap-up treat. The drarmer's writ be Shakespeare, years ago, About a barmy goat called Romeo.

"Lady, be yonder moon I swear!" sez 'e. An' then 'e climbs up on the balkiney; An' there they smooge a treat, wiv pretty words Like two love-birds. I nudge Doreen. She whispers, "Ain't it grand!" 'Er eyes is shinin'; an' I squeeze 'er 'and.

"Wot's in a name?" she sez. 'Struth, I dunno. Billo is just as good as Romeo. She may be Juli-er or Juli-et— 'E loves 'er yet. If she's the tart 'e wants, then she's 'is queen, Names never count…But ar, I like "Doreen!"

A sweeter, dearer sound I never 'eard; Ther's music 'angs around that little word, Doreen!…But wot was this I starts to say About the play? I'm off me beat. But when a bloke's in love 'Is thorts turns 'er way, like a 'omin' dove.

This Romeo 'e's lurkin' wiv a crew— A dead tough crowd o' crooks—called Montague. 'Is cliner's push—wot's nicknamed Capulet— They 'as 'em set. Fair narks they are, jist like them back-street clicks, Ixcep' they fights wiv skewers 'stid o' bricks.

Wot's in a name? Wot's in a string o' words? They scraps in ole Verona with the'r swords, An' never give a bloke a stray dog's chance, An' that's Romance. But when they deals it out wiv bricks an' boots In Little Lon., they're low, degraded broots.

Wot's jist plain stoush wiv us, right 'ere to-day, Is "valler" if yer fur enough away. Some time, some writer bloke will do the trick Wiv Ginger Mick, Of Spadger's Lane. 'E'LL be a Romeo, When 'e's bin dead five 'undred years or so.

Fair Juli-et, she gives 'er boy the tip. Sez she: "Don't sling that crowd o' mine no lip; An' if you run agin a Capulet, Jist do a get." 'E swears 'e's done wiv lash; 'e'll chuck it clean. (Same as I done when I first met Doreen.)

They smooge some more at that. Ar, strike me blue! It gimme Joes to sit an' watch them two! 'E'd break away an' start to say good-bye, An' then she'd sigh "Ow, Ro-me-o!" an' git a strangle-holt, An' 'ang around 'im like she feared 'e'd bolt.

Nex' day 'e words a gorspil cove about A secret wedding; 'an they plan it out. 'E spouts a piece about 'ow 'e's bewitched: Then they git 'itched. Now, 'ere's the place where I fair git the pip! She's 'is ofr keeps, an' yet 'e lets 'er slip!

Ar! but'e makes me sick! A fair gazob! 'E's jist the glarsey on the soulful sob, 'E'll sigh and spruik, an' 'owl a love-sick vow— (The silly cow!) But when 'e's got 'er, spliced an' on the straight 'E crools the pitch, an' tries to kid it's Fate.

Aw! Fate me foot! Instid of slopin' soon As 'e was wed, off on 'is 'oneymoon, 'Im an' 'is cobber, called Mick Curio, They 'ave to go An' mix it wiv that push o' Capulets. They look fer trouble; an' it's wot they gets.

A tug named Tyball (cousin to the skirt) Sprags 'em an' makes a start to sling off dirt. Nex' minnit there's a reel ole ding-dong go— 'Arf round or so. Mick Curio, 'e gets it in the neck, "Ar rats!" 'e sez, an' passes in 'is check.