C.J. Dennis, Songs of a Sentimental Bloke - Part 3

Lance. Cpl A. Russle

4/2 M. G. Coy

2^nd Inf. brigade

A.I.F

No 343.

Private Leslie. S. L. Fraser.

4/2 Machine Gun Company.

2^nd Infantry Brigade

A.I.F.

4/9/16.

V.  THE PLAY

No 341.

Private. Francis. Walker

4/2 Machine Gun Company

2^nd Infantry Brigade

A.I.F.

4/9/16

N^o 334

Pte. Charles. D. Urquhart

4/2 M. G. Coy

2^nd Inf. Brigade

A.I.F.

4/9/16.

No 323

Pte Harry Cuthbert

4^th/6^th Machine Gun Coy

A.I.F.

4/9/16.

Illustration - see original document

The Play

"WOT'S 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, wherefore 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 stooge 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.

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40

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

"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 wiv 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.

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THE PLAY

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 secrit weddin'; 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 for keeps, an' yet 'e lets 'er slip!

42 
THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

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 sloping' 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.

Quite natchril, Romeo gits wet as 'ell.

"It's me or you!" 'e 'owls, an' wiv a yell,

Plunks Tyball through the gizzard wiv 'is sword,

'Ow I ongcored!

"Put in the boot!" I sez. "Put in the boot!"

"Ush!" sez Doreen . . "Shame!" sez some silly coot.

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THE PLAY

Then Romeo, 'e dunno wot to do.

The cops gits busy, like they allwiz do,

An' nose around until 'e gits blue funk

An' does a bunk.

They wants 'is tart to wed some other guy.

"Ah, strike!" she sez. "I wish that I could die!"

Now, this 'ere gorspil bloke's a fair shrewd 'ead.

Sez 'e "I'll dope yeh, so they'll think yer dead."

(I tips 'e was a cunnin' sort, wot knoo

A thing or two).

She takes 'is knock-out drops, up in 'er room:

They think she's snuffed, an' plant 'er in 'er tomb.

Then things gits mixed a treat an' starts to whirl.

'Ere's Romeo comes back an' finds 'is girl

Tucked in 'er little coffing, cold an' stiff,

An' in a jiff,

'E swallers lysol, throws a fancy fit,

"Ead over turkey, an' 'is soul 'as flit,

Then Juli-et wakes up an' sees 'im there,

Turns on the water-works an' tears 'er 'air, 

"Dear love," she sez, I cannot live alone!"

An' wif a moan

She grabs 'is pocket knife, an ends 'er cares . . .

"Peanuts or lollies!" sez a boy upstairs.

No 323

PTE John C Dennehy

4/2 Machine Gun Coy

2^nd Brigade

Sept 4/16

345 Cpl A. Fillingham

4"/2" Machine Gun Coy

2^nd Brigade

A.I.F

R. M. S. Orontes

Sept 4^th 1916

VI. THE STROR 'AT COOT

No 344.

Pte John MacKay.

4/2 Machine Gun Company.

2^nd Brigade ____

September 1916. ______

No 339

Pte T. E. Webb

4/2 M. G. Company,

A.I.F.

Sept 4^th 1916.

Illustration - see original document

The Stror 'at Coot

AR, wimmin! Wot a blinded fool I've been!

I arsts meself, wot else could I ixpeck?

I done me block complete on this Doreen,

An' now me 'eart is broke, me life's a 
wreck!

The dreams I dreamed, the dilly thorts I thunk

Is up the pole, an' joy 'as done a bunk.

Wimmin! O strike! I orter known the game!

Their tricks is crook, their arts is all dead snide.

The 'ole world over tarts is all the same; 

All soft an' smilin' wiv no 'eart inside.

But she fair doped me wiv 'er winnin' ways,

Then crooled me pitch fer all me mortal days.

They're all the same! A man 'as got to be

Stric' master if 'e wants to snare 'em sure.

'E 'as to take a stand an' let 'em see

That triflin' is a thing 'e won't indure.

'E wants to show 'em that 'e 'olds command,

So they will smooge an' feed out of 'is 'and.

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48

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

'E needs to make 'em feel 'e is the boss,

An' kid 'e's careless uv the joys they give.

'E 'as to make 'em think 'e'll feel no loss

To part wiv any tart 'e's trackin' wiv.

That all their pretty ways is crook pretence

Is plain to any bloke wiv common sense.

But when the birds is nestin' in the spring,

An' when the soft green leaves is in the bud,

'E drops 'is bundle to some fluffy thing.

'E pays 'er 'omage—an' 'is name is Mud.

She plays wiv 'im an' kids 'im on a treat,

Until she 'as 'im crawling' at 'er feet.

An' then, when 'e's fair orf 'is top wiv love,

When she 'as got 'im good an' 'ad 'er fun,

She slings 'im over like a carst-orf glove,

To let the other tarts see wot she's done.

All vanity, deceit an' 'eartless kid!

I orter known; an', spare me days, I did!

I knoo. But when I looked into 'er eyes—

Them shinin' eyes o' blue all soft wiv love—

Wiv mimic love—they seemed to 'ipnertize.

I wus content to place 'er 'igh above.

I wus content to make of 'er a queen;

An' so she seemed them days . . . O, 'struth! . . . Doreen!

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THE STROR 'AT COOT

I knoo. But when I stroked 'er glossy 'air

Wiv rev'rint 'ands, 'er cheek pressed close to mine,

Me lonely life seemed robbed of all its care;

I dreams me dreams, an' 'ope begun to shine.

An' when she 'eld 'er lips fer me to kiss . . . 

Ar, wot's the use? I'm done wiv all o' this!

Wimmin! . . . Oh, I ain't jealous! Spare me days!

Me? Jealous uv a knock-kneed coot like that!

'Im! Wiv 'is cute stror 'at an' pretty ways!

I'd be a mug to squeal or whip the cat.

I'm glad, I am—glad 'cos I know I'm free!

There ain't no call to tork o' jealousy.

I tells meself I'm well out o' the game;

Fer look, I mighter married 'er—an' then . . .

Ar strike! 'Er voice wus music when my name 
Wus on 'er lips on them glad ev'nin's when

We useter meet. An' then to think she'd go . . . 

No, I ain't jealous—but—Ar, I dunno!

I took a derry on this stror-'at coot

First time I seen 'im dodgin' round Doreen.

'Im, wiv 'is giddy tie an' Yankee soot,

Ferever yappin' like a tork-machine

About "The Hoffis" where 'e 'ad a grip . . .

The way 'e smiled at 'er give me the pip!

D

50

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

She sez I stoushed 'im, when I promised fair

To chuck it, even to a friendly spar.

Stoushed 'im! I never roughed 'is pretty 'air!

I only spanked 'im gentle, fer 'is mar.

If I'd 'a' jabbed 'im once, there would 'a' been

An inquest; an' I sez so to Doreen.

I mighter took an' cracked 'im in the street,

When she was wiv 'im there lars' Fridee night.

But don't I keep me temper when we meet?

An' don't I raise me lid an' act perlite?

I only jerks me elbow in 'is ribs,

To give the gentle office to 'is nibs.

Stoushed 'im! I owns I met 'im on the quite,

An' worded 'im about a small affair;

An' when 'he won't put up 'is 'ands to fight—

('E sez, "Fer public brawls 'e didn't care")—

I lays 'im 'cross me knee, the mother's joy,

An' smacks 'im 'earty, like a naughty boy.

An' now Doreen she sez I've broke me vow,

An' mags about this coot's pore, "wounded pride."

An' then, o' course, we 'as a ding-dong row,

Wiv 'ot an' stormy words on either side.

She sez I done it outer jealousy,

An' so, we parts fer ever—'er an' me.

THE STROR 'AT COOT 

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Me jealous? Jealous of that cross-eyed cow!

I set 'im 'cos I couldn't sight 'is face.

'Is yappin' fair got on me nerves, some'ow.

I couldn't stand 'im 'angin' round 'er place.

A coot like that! . . .. But it don't matter much,

She's welkim to 'im if she fancies such.

I swear I'll never track wiv 'er no more;

I'll never look on 'er side o' the street—

Unless she comes an' begs me pardin for

Them things she said to me in angry 'eat.

She can't ixpeck fer me to smooge an' crawl.

I ain't at any woman's beck an' call.

Wimmin! I've took a tumble to their game.

I've got the 'ole bang tribe o' cliners set!

The 'ole world over they are all the same:

Crook to the core the bunch of 'em—'an yet,

We could 'a' been that 'appy, 'er an' me . . .

But wot's it matter? Ain't I glad I'm free?

A bloke wiv commin-sense 'as got to own

There's little 'appiness in married life.

The smoogin' game is better left alone,

Fer tarts is few that makes the ideel wife.

An' them's the sort that loves wivout disguise,

An' thinks the sun shines in their 'usbands' eyes.

52

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

But when the birds is matin' in the spring,

An' when the tender leaves begin to bud,

A feelin' comes—a dilly sorter thing—

That seems to sorter swamp 'im like a flood.

An' when the fever 'ere inside 'im burns,

Then freedom ain't the thing fer wot 'e yearns.

But I 'ave chucked it all. An' yet—I own

I dreams me dreams when soft Spring breezes stirs;

An' often, when I'm moonin' 'ere alone,

A lispin' maid, wiv 'air an' eyes like 'ers,

'Oo calls me "dad," she climbs upon me knee,

An' yaps 'er pretty baby tork to me.

I sorter see a little 'ouse, it seems,

Wiv someone waitin' for me at the gate . . .

Ar, where's the sense in dreamin' barmy dreams,

I've dreamed before, and nearly woke too late.

Sich 'appiness could never last fer long,

We're strangers—'less she owns that she was wrong.

To call 'er back I'll never lift a 'and;

She'll never 'ear frum me by word or sign.

Per'aps, some day, she'll come to understand

The mess she's made o' this 'ere life o' mine.

Oh, I ain't much to look at, I admit.

But 'im! The knock-kneed, swivel-eyed misfit!  . . .

VII. THE SIREN

No 342

Pte W. R. Crofts

4^th/15^th Machine Gun

Company

15^th Inf Brigade

4/9/16 A.I.F.

No. 339.

Pte. John R Thomson.

4/15 M. G. Coy.

15^th Infantry. Brigade.

A.I.F. 4/9/16.

No 327

Pte W H Hall

4/15 M G Coy

15^th Infantry Brigade

AIF 
4/9/16

Illustration - see original document

The Siren

SHE sung a song; an' I sat silent there,

Wiv bofe 'ands grippin' 'ard on to me chair;

Me 'eart, that yesterdee I thort wus broke 
Wiv 'umpin' sich a 'eavy load o' care,

Come swellin' in me throat like I would 
choke.

I felt 'ot blushes climbin' to me 'air.

'Twas like that feelin' when the Spring wind breaves

Sad music in the sof'ly rustlin' leaves.

An' when a bloke sits down an' starts to chew

Crook thorts, wivout quite knowin' why 'e grieves

Fer things 'e's done 'e didn't ort to do—

Fair winded wiv the 'eavy sighs 'e 'eaves.

She sung a song; an' orl at once I seen

The kind o' crool an' 'eartless broot I been.

In ev'ry word I read it like a book—

The slanter game I'd played wiv my Doreen—

I 'eard it in 'er song; an' in 'er look

I seen wot made me feel fair rotten mean.

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