C.J. Dennis, Songs of a Sentimental Bloke - Part 1

THE

SENTIMENTAL 

BLOKE

illustration - see original document

C.J.DENNIS

A821.

2

D411s

THE SONGS OF A SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

THE SONGS OF 
A SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

BY

C. J. DENNIS

Author of "Backblock Ballads and Other Verses"

With Cover Design and Decorations by Hal Gye 
and Foreword by Henry Lawson

SYDNEY

ANGUS & ROBERTSON LTD.

89 CASTLEREAGH STREET

1916

Thirty-fourth Thousand

Printed by W. C. Penfold & Co. Ltd., 183 Pitt Street, Sydney.

for

Angus & Robertson Limited.

London : The Oxford University Press

Amen Corner, E.C.

The Author desires to acknowledge the previous publication in "The 
Bulletin," Sydney, of all the verses here printed, with the exception of 
numbers XII. and XIV., which are now published for the first time.

Dramatic, Cinema and all other Rights are Reserved.

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 brève : 
Un peu d'espoir, 
Un peu de rêve . . . 
Et puis bonsoir—!

Léon Montenaeken.

[*Y*]

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 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 stalks or somethink" 
in this social "pickle found-ery" of ours.

viii

FOREWORD

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

                                                                                         Page

I.  A SPRING SONG

The world 'as got me snouted jist a treat . . .                     13

II.  THE INTRO

'Er name's Doreen . . . Well, spare me

bloomin' days! . . .                                                              19

III.  THE STOUSH O' DAY

Ar, these is 'appy days! An' 'ow they've 
flown . . .                                                                             27

IV.  DOREEN

"I wish't yeh meant it, Bill." Oh, 'ow me 
'eart . . .                                                                               33

V.  THE PLAY

"Wot's in a name?" she sez . . . An' then 
she sighs . . .                                                                       39

VI.  THE STROR 'AT COOT

Ar, wimmin! Wot a blinded fool I've been!                           47

VII.  THE SIREN

She sung a song; an' I sat silent there . . .                          55

CONTENTS

                                                                                         Page

VIII.  MAR

"'Er pore dear Par," she sez, "'e kept a 
store" . . .                                                                             63

IX.  PILOT COVE

"Young friend," 'e sez . . . Young friend! 
Well, spare me days! . . .                                                      71

X.  HITCHED

"An'—wilt—yeh—take—this—woman—fer—
to—be— . . .                                                                         77

XI.  BEEF TEA

She never magged; she never said no word                         85

XII. UNCLE JIM

"I got no time fer wasters, lad," sez 'e . . .                            93

XIII.  THE KID

My son! . . . Them words, jist like a blessed 
song . . .                                                                              101

XIV.  THE MOOCH O' LIFE

This ev'nin I was sitting' wiv Doreen . . .                              111

THE GLOSSARY                                                                 117

Illustration - see original document

A Spring Song

Illustration - see original document

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 yearning' 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.

13

14 THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

I've lorst me former joy in gittin' 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 wisht 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.

A SPRING SONG 15

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 Lons.,

Wiv Ginger Mick,

Jist 'eadin' 'em, an' doin' 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 been' wot 'e is.