Part 1 (1/2)
The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke.
by C. J. Dennis.
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 cabb.i.t.c.h 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.
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' s.h.i.+ck, 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?