C.J. Dennis, Songs of a Sentimental Bloke - Part 4

56
THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE
Poor,'urt Doreen! My tender bit o'fluff!
Ar, men don't understand; they're fur too rough;

Their ways is fur too coarse wiv loving' tarts;

They never gives 'em symperthy enough.

They treats 'em ''arsh; they tramples on their 'earts;
 Becos their own crool ''earts is leather-tough.

She sung a song; an' orl them bitter things

That chewin' over lover's quarrils brings

Guv place to thorts of sorrer an' remorse.

Like when some dilly punter goes an' slings

'Is larst, lone deener on some stiffened 'orse,

An' learns them vain regrets wot 'urts an' stings.

'Twas at a beano where I lobs along

To down them memories o' fancied wrong.

I swears I never knoo that she'd be there.

But when I met 'er eye—O, 'struth, 'twas strong!

'Twas bitter strong, that jolt o' dull despair!

'Er look 'o scorn! . . . An' then she sung a song.

The choon was one o' them sad, mournful things

That ketch yeh in the bellers 'ere, and brings

Tears to yer eyes. The words was uv a tart 
'Oo's trackin' wiv a silly coot 'oo slings

'Er love aside, an' breaks 'er tender 'eart. . . . 

But 'twasn't that; it was the way she sings.

THE SIREN 

57

To 'ear 'er voice! . . . A bloke 'ud be a log

'Oo kep 'is block. Me and wus in a fog

Of sorrer for to think 'ow I wus wrong
Ar, I 'ave been a fair ungrateful 'og!

The feelin' that she put into that song

'Ud melt the 'eart-strings of a chiner dog.

I listens wiv me 'eart up in me throat;

I drunk in ev'ry word an' ev'ry note.

Tears trembles in 'er voice when she tells 'ow

That tart snuffed out becos 'e never wrote.

An' then I seen 'ow I wus like that cow.

Wiv suddin shame me guilty soul wus smote.

Doreen she never looked my way; but stood

'Arf turned away, an' beefed it out reel good,

Until she sang that bit about the grave;

"Too late 'e learned 'e 'ad misunderstood!"

An' then—Gorstrooth! the pleadin' look she gave

Fair in me face 'ud melt a 'eart o' wood.

I dunno 'ow I seen that evenin' thro'.

They muster thort I wus 'arf shick, I knoo.

But I 'ad 'urt Doreen wivout no call;

I seen me dooty, wot I 'ad to do.

O, strike! I could 'a' blubber before em all!

But I sat tight an' never cracked a boo

58

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

An' when at larst the tarts they makes a rise,

A lop-eared coot wiv 'air down to 'is eyes

'E 'ooks on to Doreen, an' starts to roam

Fer 'ome an' muvver. I lines up an' cries,

"'An's orf! I'm seeing' this 'ere cliner 'ome!"

An' there we left 'im, gapin' wiv surprise.

She never spoke; she never said no word;

But walked beside me like she never 'eard.

I swallers 'ard, an' starts to coax an' plead,

I sez I'm dead ashamed o' wot's occurred.

She don't reply; she never takes no 'eed;

Jist stares before 'er like a startled bird.

I tells 'er, never can no ever tart

Be 'arf wot she is, if we 'ave to part.

I tells 'er that me life will be a wreck.

It ain't no go. But when I makes a start

To walk away, 'er arms is roun' me neck.

"Ah, Kid!" she sobs. "Yeh nearly broke me 'eart!"

I dunno wot I done or wot I said.

But 'struth! I'll not forgit it till I'm dead—

That night when 'ope back in me brisket lobs;

'Ow my Doreen she lays 'er little 'ead

Down on me shoulder 'ere, an' sobs an' sobs;

An' orl the lights goes sorter blurred an' red.

THE SIREN

59

Say, square an' all—It don't seem right, some'ow,

To say such things; but wot I'm feelin' now

'As come at times, I s'pose, to uvver men—

When you 'ave 'ad a reel ole ding-dong row,

Say, ain't it bonzer makin' up agen?

Straight wire, it's almost worth . . . Ar, I'm a cow!

To think I'd ever seek to 'arm a 'air

Of'er dear 'ead agen! My oath, I swear

No more I'll roust on 'er in angry 'eat!

But still, she never seemed to me so fair;

She never wus so tender or so sweet

As when she smooged beneath the lamplight there.

She's never been so lovin' wiv 'er gaze;

So gentle wiv 'er pretty wimmin's ways.

I tells 'er she's me queen, me angel, too.

"Ah, no, I ain't no angel, Kid," she says.

"I'm jist a woman, an' I loves yeh true!

An' so I'll love yeh all me mortal days!"

She sung a song . . . 'Ere, in me barmy style,

I sets orl tarts; for in me hour o' trile

Me soul was withered be a woman's frown,

An' broodin' care come roostin' on me dile.

She sung a song . . . Me 'eart, wiv woe carst down,

Wus raised to 'Eaven be a woman's smile.

VIII. MAR

Illustration - see original document 

Mar

Illustration - see original document

'ER pore dear Par," she sez, "'e kept a store;"

An' then she weeps an' stares 'ard at the 
floor.

"'Twas thro' 'is death," she sez, "we wus 
rejuiced

To this," she sez . . . An' then she weeps 
some more.

"'Er Par," she sez, "me poor late 'usband, kept

An 'ay an' corn store. 'E'd no faults ixcept 
'Im fallin' 'eavy orf a load o' chart

W'ich—killed 'im—on the——" 'Struth! But 'ow she wept.

She blows 'er nose an' sniffs. "'E would 'a' made"

She sez "A lot of money in the trade.

But, 'im took orf so sudden-like, we found

'E 'ain't kept 'is life insurince paid.

"To think," she sez, "a child o' mine should be 
Rejuiced to workin' in a factory!

If 'er pore Par 'e 'ain't died," she sobs . . .

I sez, "It wus a bit o' luck for me."

63

64

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

Then I gits red as 'ell, "That is—I mean,"

I sez, "I mighter never met Doreen

If 'e 'ad not"—an' 'ere I lose me block—

"I 'ope," I sez, "'E snuffed it quick and clean."

An' that wus 'ow I made me first deboo.

I'd dodged it cunnin' fer a month or two.

Doreen she sez, "You'll 'ave to meet my Mar,

Some day," she sez. An' so I seen it thro'.

I'd pictered some stern female in a cap

Wot puts the fear o' Gawd into a chap.

An' 'ere she wus, aweeping in 'er tea

An' drippin' moistcher like a leaky tap.

Two dilly sorter dawgs made outer delf

Stares 'ard at me frum orf the mantleshelf.

I seemed to symperthise wiv them there pups;

I felt so stiff an' brittle-like meself.

Clobber? Me trosso, 'ead to foot, wus noo—

Got up regardless, fer this interview.

Stiff shirt, a Yankee soot split up the back,

A tie wiv yeller spots an' stripes o' blue.

MAR

65

Me cuffs kep' playin' wiv me nervis fears

Me patent leathers nearly brought the tears

An' there I sits wiv, "Yes, mum. Thanks. Indeed?"

Me stand-up collar sorin' orf me ears.

"Life's 'ard," she sez, an' then she brightens up.

"Still, we 'ave alwus 'ad our bite and sup.

Doreen's been sich a help; she 'as indeed.

Some more tea, Willy? 'Ave another cup."

Willy! O 'ell! 'Ere wus a flamin' pill!

A moniker that alwus makes me ill.

"If it's the same to you, mum," I replies

"I answer quicker to the name of Bill."

Up goes 'er 'ands an' eyes, "The vulgar name!

No, Willy, but it isn't all the same,

My fucher son must be respectable."

"Orright," I sez, "I s'pose it's in the game."

"Me fucher son," she sez, "right on frum this

Must not take anythink I say amiss.

I know me jooty be me son-in-lor;

So, Willy, come an' give yer Mar a kiss."

E

66

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

I done it. Tho' I dunno 'ow I did.

"Dear boy," she sez, "to do as you are bid.

Be kind to 'er," she sobs, "my little girl!"

An' then I kiss Doreen. Sez she "Ah Kid!"

Doreen! Ar 'ow 'er pretty eyes did shine.

No sight on earth or 'Eaving's 'arf so fine,

An' as they looked at me she seemed to say

"Im proud of 'im, I am, an' 'e is mine."

There wus a sorter glimmer in 'er eye,

An 'appy, nervis look, 'arf proud, 'arf shy;

I seen 'er in me mind be'ind the cups

In our own little kipsie, bye an' bye.

An' then when Mar-in-lor an' me began

To tork of 'ouse'old things an' scheme an' plan,

A sudden thort fair jolts me where I live:

"These is my wimmin folk! An' I am a man!"

It's wot they calls responsibility.

All of a 'eap that feelin' come to me;

An' somew'ere in me 'ead I seemed to feel

A sneakin' sort o' wish that I was free.

MAR

67

'Ere's me 'oo never took no 'eed o' life,

Investin' in a mar-in-lor an' wife:

Someone to battle fer besides meself,

Somethink to love an' field frum care and strife.

It makes yet solim when yeh come to think

Wot love and marridge means. Ar, strike me pink!

It ain't all sighs and kisses. It's yer life.

An' 'ere's me tremblin' on the bloomin' brink.

"'Er pore dead Par," she sez, an' gulps a sob.

An' then I tells 'er 'ow I got a job,

As storeman down at Jones' printin' joint,

A decent sorter cop at fifty bob.

Then things get 'ome-like; an' we torks till late,

An' tries to tease Doreen to fix the date,

An' she gits suddin soft and tender-like,

An' cries a bit, when we parts at the gate.

An' as I'm moochin' 'omeward frum the car

A suddin notion stops me wiv a jar—

Wot if Doreen, I thinks, should grow to be

A fat ole weepin' willer like 'er Mar!

68

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

O, 'struth! It won't bear thinking' of! It's crook!

An' I'm a mean, unfeelin' dawg to look

At things like that. Doreen's Doreen to me,

The sweetest peach on w'ich a man wus shook.

'Er "pore dear Par" . . . I s'pose 'e 'ad 'is day,

An' kissed an' smooged an' loved 'er in 'is way.

An' wed an' took 'is chances like a man—

But, Gawd, this splicin' racket ain't all play.

Love is a gamble, an' there ain't no certs.

Some day, I s'pose, I'll git wise to the skirts,

An' learn to take the bitter wiv the sweet . . .

But, strike me purple! "Willie!" That's wot 'urts.

IX. PILOT COVE

[*N^o 329

Pte R Mitchell

4/2 Machine Gun Coy

2 Brigade

A.I.F.

326

Pte. E. Hetherington

4/2 Machine Gun Coy

2 Brigade

A.I.F.

N^o 321

Pte E D W Borthurick

4/2 Machine Gun Coy

2^nd Bfrigade

A I F*]

Illustration - see original document

Pilot Cove

Illustration - see original document

"YOUNG friend," 'e sez . . . Young friend!

Well, spare me days!

Yeh'd think I wus 'is own white-'eaded 
boy—

The queer ole finger, wiv 'is gentle ways.

"Young friend," 'e sez, "I wish't yeh bofe great joy."

The langwidge that them parson blokes imploy

Fair tickles me. The way 'e bleats an' brays!

"Young friend," 'e sez.

"Young friend," 'e sez . . . Yes, my Doreen an' me

We're gettin' hitched, all straight an' on the square,

Fer when I torks about the registry—

O 'oly wars! yeh should 'a' seen 'er stare;

"The registry!" she sez, "I wouldn't dare!

I know a clergyman we'll go an' see . . .

"Young friend," 'e sez.

"Young friend," 'e sez. An' then 'e chats me straight;

An' spouts of death, an' 'ell, an' mortal sins,

"You reckernize this step you contemplate

71

72

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

Is grave?" 'e sez. An' I jist Stan's an' grins;

Fer when I chips, Doreen she kicks me shins.

"Yes very 'oly is the married state.

"Young friend," 'e sez.

"Young friend," 'e sez. An' then 'e mags a lot

Of jooty an' the spiritchuil life,

To which I didn't tumble worth a jot.

"Im sure," 'e sez, "as you will 'ave a wife

'Oo'll 'ave a noble infl'ince on yer life,

"'Oo is 'er gardjin?" I sez, "'Er ole pot"—

"Young friend!" 'e sez.

"Young friend," 'e sez, "Oh fix yer thorts on 'igh!

Orl marridges is registered up there!

An' you must cleave unto 'er till yeh die,

An' cherish 'er wiv love an' tender care.

E'en in the days when she's no long fair

She's till yer wife," 'e sez. "Ribuck," sez I.

"Young friend!" 'e sez.

"Young friend," 'e sez—I sez, "Now, listen 'here:

This isn't one o' them impetchus leaps.

There ain't no tart a 'undreth part so dear

As 'er. She 'as me 'eart an' soul fer keeps!"

An' then Doreen, she turns away an' weeps;

But 'e jist smiles. "Yer deep in love, 'tis clear,

Young friend," 'e sez.

PILOT COVE

73

"Young friend," 'e sez—an' tears wus in 'is eyes—

"Strive 'ard. Fer many, many years I've lived.

An' I kin but recall wiv tears an' sighs

The lives of some I've seen in marridge gived,"

"My Gawd!" I sez. "Ill strive as no bloke strivved!

Fer don't I know I've copped a bonzer prize?"

"Young friend!" 'e sez.

"Young friend," 'e sez. An' in 'is gentle way,

'E pats the shoulder of my dear Doreenl.

"I've solem'ized grand weddin's in me day,

But 'ere's the sweetest little maid I've seen.

She's fit fer any man, to be 'is queen;

An' you're more forchinit than you kin say,

"Young friend," 'e sez.

"Young friend," 'e sez . . . A queer ole pilot bloke,

Wiv silver 'air. The gentle way 'e dealt

Wiv'er, the soft an' kindly way 'e spoke

To my Doreen, 'ud make a statcher melt.

I tell yeh, square an' all. I sorter felt

A kiddish kind o' feelin' like I'd choke . . .

"Young friend," 'e sez.

"Young friend," 'e sez, "you two on Choosday week,

Is to be joined in very 'oly bonds.

To break them vows I 'opes yell never seek.

74

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

Fer I could curse them 'usbands 'oo' absconds!"

"I'll love 'er till I snuff it," I responds.

"Ah, that's the way I likes to 'ear yeh speak,

Young friend," 'e sez.

"Young friend," 'e sez—an' then me 'and 'e grips—

"I wish't yeh luck, you an' yer lady fair.

Sweet maid." An' sof'ly wiv 'is finger-tips,

'E takes an' strokes me cliner's shinin' 'air.

An' when I seen 'er standin' blushing' there,

I turns an' kisses 'er, fair on the lips.

"Young friend!" 'e sez.

[*N^o 325

Pte G. H. Eyre

4/2 M.G.Coy*]

X. HITCHED

[*2^nd Brigade

A.I.F.

Sergt. W. H Kichler

4/3 Machine Gun

A.I.F.

        

N^o 332

Pte P. D. Richardson

4/2 Machine G Coy

2 Brigade

A.I.F.*]