C.J. Dennis, Songs of a Sentimental Bloke - Part 5

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Hitched

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"AN'—wilt—yeh—take—this—woman—fer—to 
be—

Yer—weddid—wife?" . . . O, strike me!

Will I wot?

Take 'er? Doreen? 'E stan's there arstin' 
me!

As if 'e thort per'aps I'd rather not!

Take 'er? 'E seemed to think 'er kind was got

Like cigarette-cards, fer the arstin'. Still,

I does me stunt in this 'ere hitchin' rot.

An' speaks me piece: "Righto!" I sez, "I will."

"I will," I sez. An' tho' a joyful shout

Come from me bustin' 'eart—I know it did—

Me voice got sorter mangled comin' out,

An' makes me whisper like a frightened kid.

"I will," I squeaks. An' I'd 'a' give a quid

To 'ad it on the quite, wivout this fuss,

An' orl the starin' crowd that Mar 'ad bid

To see this solim hitchin' up of us.

77

78

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

"Fer—rich-er—er—fer—poor-er." So 'e bleats.

"In—sick-ness—an'—in—'ealth," . . . An' there I stands,

An' dunno 'arf the chatter I repeats,

Nor wot the 'ell to do wiv my two 'ands.

But 'e don't 'urry puttin' on our brands—

This white-'aired pilot-bloke, but gives it lip,

Dressed in 'is little shirt, wiv frills an' bands.

"In sick-ness—an'—in—" Ar! I got the pip!

An' once I missed me turn; an' Ginger Mick,

'Oo's my best-man, 'e ups an' beefs it out.

"I will!" 'e 'owls; an fetches me a kick.

"Your turn to chin!" 'e tips wiv a shout.

An' there I'm standin' like a gawky lout.

(Aw, spare me! But I seemed to be all 'ands!)

An' wonders wot 'e's goin' crook about,

Wiv 'arf a mind to crack 'im where 'e stands.

O, lumme! But ole Ginger was a trick!

Got up regardless fer the solim rite.

('E 'awks the bunnies when 'e toils, does Mick)

An' twice I saw 'im feelin' fer a light

To start a fag; an' trembles lest 'e might,

Thro' force o' habit like. 'E's nervis too;

That's plain, fer orl 'is air o' bluff an' skite;

An' jist as keen as me to see it thro'.

HITCHED

79

But, 'struth, the wimmin! 'Ow they love this frill!

Fer Auntie Liz, an' Mar, o' course, wus there;

An' Mar's two uncles' wives, an' Cousin Lil,

An' 'arf a dozen more to grin and stare.

I couldn't make me 'ands fit anywhere!

I felt like I wus up afore the Beak!

But my Doreen she never turns a 'air,

Nor misses once when it's er turn to speak.

Ar, strike! No more swell marridges fer me!

It seems a blinded year afore 'e's done.

We could 'a' fixed it in the registree

Twice over 'fore this cove 'ad 'arf begun.

I s'pose the wimmin git some sorter fun

Wiv all this guyver, an' 'is nibs's shirt..

But, seems to me, it takes the bloomin' bun,

This stylish splicin' uv a bloke an' skirt.

"To—be—yer—weddid—wife—" Aw, take a pull!

Wot in the 'ell's 'e think I come there for?

An' so 'e drawls an' drones until I'm full,

An' wants to do a duck clean out the door.

An' yet, fer orl 'is 'igh-falutin' jor,

Ole Snowy wus a reel good-meanin' bloke.

If 'twasn't fer the 'oly look 'e wore

Yeh'd think 'e piled it on jist fer a joke.

80

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

An', when at last 'e shuts 'is little book,

I 'eaves a sigh that nearly bust me vest.

But 'Eavens! Now 'ere's muvver goin' crook!

An' sobbin' awful on me manly chest!

(I wish she'd give them water-works a rest.)

"My little girl!" she 'owls. "O, treat 'er well!

She's young—too young to leave 'er muvver's nest!"

"Orright, ole chook," I nearly sez. O, 'ell!

An' then we 'as a beano up a Mar's—

A slap-up feed, wiv wine an' two big geese.

Doreen sits next ter me, 'er eyes like stars.

O, 'ow I wished their blessed yap would cease!

The Parson-bloke 'e speaks a little piece,

That makes me blush an' 'ang me silly 'ead.

'E sez 'e 'opes our lovin' will increase—

I likes that pilot fer the things 'e said.

E' sez Doreen an' me is in a boat,

An' sailin' on the matrimonial sea.

E' sez as 'ow 'e opes we'll allus float

In peace an' joy, from storm an' danger free.

Then muvver gits to weepin' in 'er tea;

An' Auntie Liz sobs like a winded colt;

An' Cousin Lil comes 'round an' kisses me;

Until I feel I'll 'ave to do a bolt.

HITCHED

81

Then Ginger gits end-up an' makes a speech—

('E'd 'ad a couple, but 'e wasn't shick).

"My cobber 'ere," 'e sez, "'as copped a peach!

Of orl the barrer-load she is the pick!

I 'opes 'e is friends in olden days, becors,

I'm trustin', later on," sez Ginger Mick,

"To celebrate the chris'nin'." . . . 'Oly wars!

At last Doreen an' me we gits away,

An' leaves 'em doin' nothin' to the scran.

(We're honey-moonin' down beside the Bay.)

I gives a 'arf a dollar to the man

Wot drives the cab; an' like two kids we ran

To ketch the train—Ah, strike! I could 'a' flown!

We gets the carridge right agen the van.

She whistles, jolts, an' starts . . . An' we're alone!

Doreen an' me! My precious bit o' fluff!

Me own true weddid wife! . . . An' we're alone!

She seems so frail, an' me so big an' rough—

I dunno wot this feelin' is that's grown

Inside me 'ere that makes me feel I own

A thing so tender like I fear to squeeze

Too 'ard fer fear she'll break . . . Then wiv a groan

I starts to 'ear a coot call, "Tickets please!"

F

82

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

You cold 'a' outed me right on the spot!

I wus so rattled when that porter spoke.

Fer, 'struth! them tickets I 'ad fair forgot!

But 'e jist laughs, an' takes it fer a joke.

"We must ixcuse," 'e sez, "new-married folk."

An' I pays up, an' grins, an' blushes red. . . .

It shows 'ow married life improves a bloke:

If I'd bin single I'd 'a' punched 'is 'ead!

[*No 336 Pvt Henry James Quinan

4^th/15^th Machine Gun Coy

No. 321.

Pte. W. R. Bell.

4/15^th Machine Gun Coy

A.I.F.*]

XI. BEEF TEA

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Illustration - see original document
[*4*]

[*242 + 24*]
Beef Tea

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SHE never magged; she never said no word;

But sat an' looked at me an' never stirred.

I could 'a' bluffed it out if she 'ad been

Fair narked, an' let me 'ave it wiv 'er tongue;

But silence told me 'ow 'er 'eart wus wrung.

Poor 'urt Doreen!

Gorstruth! I'd sooner fight wiv fifty men

Than git one look like that frum 'er agen!

She never moved; she never spoke a word;

That 'urt look in 'er eyes, like some sacred bird:

"'Ere is the man I loved," it seemed to say.

"'E's mine, this crawlin' thing, an' I'm 'is wife;

Tied up fer good; an' orl me joy in life

Is chucked away!"

If she 'ad bashed me I'd 'a' felt no 'urt!

But 'ere she treats me like—like I wus dirt.

'Ow is a man to guard agen that look?

Fer other wimmin, when the'r blokes go crook,

An' lobs 'ome iiv ghe wages uv a jag.

85

86

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

They smashes things an' carries on a treat,

An' 'owls an' scolds an' wakes the bloomin' street

Wiv noisy mag.

But 'er—she never speaks; she never stirs . . .

I drops me bundle . . . An' the game is 'ers.

Jist two months wed! Eight weeks uv married bliss

Wiv my Doreen, an' now it's come to this!

Wot wus I thinkin' uv? Gawd! I ain't fit

To kiss the place 'er little feel 'as been!

'Er that I called me wife, me own Doreen!
Fond dreams 'as flit;

Love's done a bunk, an' joy is up the pole;

An' shame an' sorrer's roostin' in me soul.

'Twus orl becors uv Ginger Mick—the cow!

(I wish't I 'ad 'im 'ere to deal wiv now!

I'd pass 'im one, I would! 'E ain't no man!)

I meets 'im Choosdee ev'nin' up the town.

"Wot O," 'e chips me. "Kin yeh keep one down?"

I sez I can.

We 'as a couple; then meets three er four

Flash coves I useter know, an' 'as some more.

"'Ow are yeh on a little gamble, Kid?"

Sez Ginger Mick. "Lars' night I'm on four quid.

Come 'round an' try yer luck at Steeny's school."

[*[[?]]*]

BEEF TEA

87

"No," sez me conscience. Then I thinks, "Why not?

An' buy 'er presents if I wins a pot?"

A blazin' fool

I wus. Fer 'arf a mo' I 'as a fight;

Then conscience skies the wipe . . . Sez I "Orright."

Ten minutes later I wus back once more,

Kip in me 'and, on Steeny Isaac's floor,

Me luck wus in an' I was 'eadin' good.

Yes, back agen amongst the same ole crew!

An' orl the time down in me 'eart I knew

I never should . . .

Nex' thing I knows it's after two o'clock—

Two in the mornin'! An' I've done me block!

"Wot odds?" I thinks. "I'm in fer it orright."

An' so I stops an' gambles orl the night;

An' bribes me conscience wiv the gilt I wins.

But when I comes out in the cold, 'ard dawn

I know I've crooled me pitch; me soul's in pawn.

Me flamin' sins

They 'its me in a 'eap right where I live;

Fer I 'ave broke the solim vow I give.

She never magged; she never said no word.

An' when I speaks, it seems she never 'eard.

I could 'a' sung a nim, I feels so gay!

88

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

If she 'ad only roused I might 'a' smiled.

She jist seems 'urt an' crushed; not even riled.

I turns away,

An' yanks me carkis out into the yard,

Like some whipped pup; an' kicks meself reel 'ard.

An' then, I sneaks to bed, an' feels dead crook.

Fer golden quids I couldn't face that look—

That trouble in the eyes uv my Doreen.

Aw, strike! Wot made me go an' do this thing?

I feel jist like a chewed up bit of string,

An' rotten mean!

Fer 'arf an hour I lies there feelin' cheap;

An' then I s'pose, I muster fell asleep. . . .

"'Ere, Kid, drink this" . . . I wakes, an' lifts me 'ead,

An' sees 'er standin' there beside the bed;

A basin in 'er 'ands' an' in 'er eyes—

(Eyes that wiv unshed tears is shinin' wet)—

The sorter look I never shall ferget,

Until I dies.

"'Ere, Kid, drink this," she sez, an' smiles at me.

I looks—an' spare me days! It was beef-tea!

[*[[?]]*]

BEEF TEA

89

Beef-tea! She treats me like a hinvaleed!

Me! that 'as caused 'er lovin' 'eart to bleed.

It 'urts me worse than maggin' fer a week!

'Er! 'oo 'ad right to turn dead sour on me,

Fergives like that, an' feeds me wif beef-tea . . .

I tries to speak;

An' then—I ain't ashamed o' wot I did—

I 'ides me face . . . an' blubbers like a kid.

[*[[?]]*]

[[?]]

[*4*]
XII. UNCLE JIM

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Uncle Jim

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"I GOT no time fer wasters, lad," sez 'e

"Give me a man wiv grit," sez Uncle Jim.

'E bores 'is cute ole eyes right into me,

While I stares 'ard an' gives it back to 'im.

Then orl at once 'e grips me 'and in 'is:

"Somehow," 'e sez, "I likes yer ugly phiz."

"You got a look," 'e sez, "like you could stay;

Altho' yeh mauls King's English when yeh yaps,

An' 'angs flash frills on ev'rythink yeh say.

I ain't no grammarist meself, per'aps,

But langwidge is a 'elp, I owns," sez Unk,

"When things is goin' crook." An' 'ere 'e wunk.

"Yeh'll find it tough," 'e sez, "to knuckle down.

Good farmin' is a gift—like spoutin' slang.

Yeh'll 'ave to cut the luxuries o' town,

An' chuck the manners of this back-street gang;

Fer country life ain't cigarettes and beer."

"I'm game," I sez. Sez Uncle, "Put it 'ere!"

93

94

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE

Like that I took the plunge, an' slung the game.

I've parted wiv them joys I 'eld most dear;

I've sent the leery bloke that bore me name

Clean to the pack wivout one pearly tear;

An' frum the ashes of a ne'er-do-well

A bloomin' farmer's blossomin' like 'ell.

Farmer! That's me! Wiv this 'ere strong right 'and

I've gripped the plough; and blistered jist a treat.

Doreen an' me 'as gone upon the land.

Yours truly fer the burden an' the 'eat!

Yours truly fer upendin' chunks o' soil!

The 'ealthy, 'ardy, 'appy son o' toil!

I owns I've 'ankered fer me former joys;

I've 'ad me hours o' broodin' on me woes;

I've missed the comp'ny, an' I've missed the noise,

The football matches an' the picter shows.

I've missed—but, say, it makes me feel fair mean

To whip the cat; an' then see my Doreen.

To see the colour comin' in 'er cheeks,

To see 'er eyes grow brighter day be day,

The new, glad way she looks an' laughs an' speaks

Is worf ten times the things I've chucked away.

An' there's a secret, whispered in the dark,

'As made me 'eart sing like a flamin' lark.

UNCLE JIM

95

Jist let me tell yeh 'ow it come about.

The things that I've been thro' 'ud fill a book.

Right frum me birf Fate played to knock me out;

The 'and that I 'ad dealt to me was crook!

Then comes Doreen, an' patches up me parst;

Now Forchin's come to bunk wiv me at larst.

First orf, one night poor Mar gits suddin fits,

An' floats wivout the time to wave "good-byes."

Doreen is orl broke up the day she flits;

It tears me 'eart in two the way she cries.

The see 'er grief, it almost made me glad

I never knowed the mar I must 'ave 'ad.

We done poor Muvver proud when she went out—

A slap-up send-orf, trimmed wiv tears an' crape.

An' then fer weeks Doreen she mopes about,

An' life takes on a gloomy sorter shape.

I watch 'er face git pale, 'er eyes grow dim;

Till—like some 'airy angel—comes ole Jim.

A cherub togged in sunburn an' a beard

An' duds that shouted "'Ayseed!" fer a mile:

Care took the count the minute 'e appeared,

An' sorrer shrivelled up before 'is smile,

'E got the 'ammer-lock on my good-will

The minute that 'e sez, "So, this is Bill."