C.J. Dennis, Songs of a Sentimental Bloke - Part 2

16
THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

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 bird is chaintin' 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

[*No.340.

Gnr. R. J. King.

4/2^nd M. G. Coy.*]

Illustration - see original document

The Intro

Illustration - see original document

'ER name's Doreen . . . Well, spare me bloomin' 
days!

You could er mocked me down wiv 'arf a 
brick!

Yes, me, that kids myself 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 block was givin' back-chat to the Queen . . .

'Er name's Doreen.

I seen 'er in the markit first uv all,

Inspectin' drums 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.

19

20

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

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 'ead '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 we'n't no guyver neither; fer I knoo

That any other bloke 'ad Buckley's 'oo

Tried fer to pick 'er up. Yes, she wus square.

She jist sailed by an' lef' me standin' there

Like any mug. Think I, "I'm out er luck,"
An' done a duck.

THE INTRO

21

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.

22

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

"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 wus 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 can'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 arts 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!

THE INTRO

23

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 yapping' 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 aint I known a few?

Yet somehow . . . I dunno. It ain't the same. 

I can'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

Illustration - see original document

The Stoush o' Day

Illustration - see original document

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' every 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!"

27

28

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

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 shout 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

'Only demandin' terms, an' time, an' place.

A w'ile 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 designs to state

'E'll fight for all the earth an' 'arf the gate.

THE STOUSH O' DAY

29

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 color line.

Relentless nigger Night crawls thro' the ropes,

Advancin' grimly on 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.

30

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

All faint an' groggy grows the beaten Day;

'E staggers drunkenly about the ring;

An owl 'oops 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, come 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

Illustration - see original document

Doreen

Illustration - see original document

"I WISH'T yeh meant it, Bill." Oh, 'ow me 'eart

Went out to 'er that 'ev'nin' on the beach.

I knoo she weren't no ordinary tart,

My little peach!

I tell yeh, square an' all, me 'eart stood still

To 'ear 'er say, "I wish't yeh meant it Bill."

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 glamor lies

In 'er sweet gaze.

It makes 'im all ashamed uv wot 'e's been

To look inter the eyes of my Doreen.

C 33

34

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

The wet sands glistened, an' the gleamin' moon

Shone yeller on the sea, all streakin' down.

A band was playin' some soft, dreamy toon;

An' up the town

We 'eard the distant tram-cars whir an' clash.

An' there I told 'er '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 'er. An' me well knowin' she was square.

It 'ud be dirt!

'Ed be no man to point wiv 'er, an' kid.

I meant it honest; an' she knoo I did.

She knoo. I've done me block in on 'er, 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 'er? . . . 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 'ave to take

Their mag, an' do a duck fer 'er sweet sake.

DOREEN

35

Fer 'er sweet sake I've gone and chucked it clean:

The pubs and 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 want 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!