C.J. Dennis, The Moods of Ginger Mick - Part 2

x THE MOODS OF GINGER MICK
A bloke can't be partic'lar 'oo must battle fer a crust;
An' some, they pinch fer preference, an' some. becos they must.
When times is 'ard, an' some swell coves is richer that they ort;
Well, it's jist a little gamble fer a rise, agin the Court.
Now, Mick wus never in it as a reel perfeshnal crook,
But sometimes cops 'as slabs uv luck, so sometimes 'e wus took,
An' 'e got a repitation, thro' 'im bein' twice interned;
But 'e didn't skite about it, 'cos 'e felt it wasn't earned.
I reckerlect one time a Beak slings Mick a slab uv guff,
Wiv "Thirty days or forty bob" (Mick couldn't raise the stuff)—
An' arsts 'im where 'is conshuns is, an w'y 'e can't be good,
An' Mick jist grins, an' takes it out, an' never understood.
An' that is orl there wus to Mick, wiv orl 'is leery ways.
If I wus up among the 'eads, wiv right to blame or praise,
Whenever some sich bloke as 'im wus tucked away fer good
I'd chalk them words above 'is 'ead: "'E never understood."
If I wus up among the 'eads, wiv right to judge the game,
I'd look around fer chance to praise, an' sling the flamin' blame;
Fer findin' things in blokes to praise pays divvies either way;
An' wot they're blamed fer yesterd'y brings 'earty cheers to-day.
Yes, 'earty cheers frum thortless coots 'oo feel dead sure their
God
Would never 'ave no time fer crooks 'oo does a stretch in quod;
 

INTRODUCTION xi
'Oo reckon 'eaven is a place where orl folk tork correck,
An' Judgement, where the "vulgar" gits it solid in the neck.
An' Ginger Mick wus vulgar. 'Struth! When things wus gettin'
slow
'E took to 'awkin' rabbits, w'ich is very, very low—
'E wus the sort o' bloke to watch when 'e come in yer gate:
'E 'ad a narsty fightin' face that orl nice people 'ate.
'E 'ad that narsty fightin' face that peaceful folk call grim;
But I 'ave seen it grow reel soft when kiddies spoke to 'im.
'E 'ad them narsty sullen eyes that nice folk can't enjure;
But I 'ave seen a smile in 'em that made our frien'ship sure.
There's men 'oo never knoo ole Mick, an' passed 'im in the street,
An' looks away an' sez, "See 'im? A narsty chap to meet!
'E'd be an ugly customer alone an' after dark!"
An' mick, e'd twitch 'is jor at 'em. 'arf earnest, 'arf a lark.
That wus the sort o' character that Mick earned be 'is looks.
The talk uv 'im, the walk uv 'im, put 'im among the crooks.
An' Mick, 'e looks on swank an' style as jist a lot o' flam,
An' snouted them that snouted 'im, an' never give a dam.
But spite uv orl 'is 'ulkin' frame. an' langwidge flowin' free
I seen the thing inside uv Mick that made 'im good to me.
An' spite uv orl the sneerin' ways that leery blokes imploy,
I knoo 'im jist fer wot 'e wus—a big, soft-'earted boy.
 

xii THE MOODS OF GINGER MICK
Fer when a bloke 'as come to be reel cobber s wiv a bloke,
They sorter swap good fellership wivout words bein' spoke.
I never slung no guff to Mick, 'e never smooged to me,
But we could smoke, an' 'old our jor, an' be reel company.
There 'as been times that 'e would curse to 'ave recalled by me,
When I 'ave seen 'im doin' things that coves calls charity;
An' there's been times, an' frequent times, in spite uv orl 'is looks,
When I 'ave 'eard 'im sayin' things that blokes shoves inter books.
But Ginger Mick wus Ginger Mick—a leery boy, fer keeps,
"oo 'owled "Wile Rabee!" in the streets, in tones that give yeh
creeps.
'E never planned 'is mode uv life, nor chose the Lane fer lair,
No more than 'e designed 'is chiv or colour uv 'is 'air.
So Ginger 'awked, an' Ginger pinched, an' Ginger went to quod,
An' never thort to waste 'is time in blamin' man or God -
An' then there came the Call uv Stoush, or Jooty—wot's a name?
An' Ginger cocked 'is ear to it, an' found 'is flamin' game.
I intrajuice me cobber 'ere; an' don't make no ixcuse
To any culchered click that it's a peb I intrajuice.
I dunno wot 'is ratin' wus in this 'ere soshul plan;
I only know, inside o' me, I intrajuice a man.
MELBOURNE, THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE.
April 25th, 1916.
 

DUCK AN' FOWL

Illustration - see original document

"They 'ad a date about a dawg."
 

Duck an' Fowl
NOW, when a bloke 'e cracks a bloke fer insults
to a skirt,
An' wrecks a joint to square a lady's name,
They used to call it chivalry, but now they
calls it dirt, 
An' the end of it is cops an' quod an' shame.
Fer insults to fair gwendoline they 'ad to be wiped out;
But Rosie's sort is jist fair game—when Ginger ain't about.
It wus Jimmie Ah Foo's cook-shop, which is close be Spadger's 
Lane,
Where a vari'gated comp'ny tears the scran,
An' there's some is "tup'ny coloured," an' some is "penny plain,"
Frum a lawyer to a common lumper-man.
Or a writer fer the papers, or a slaver on the prowl,
An' noiseless Chows a-glidin' 'round wiv plates uv duck an' fowl.
But if yeh wanted juicy bits that 'ung around Foo's perch
Yeh fetched 'em down an' wolfed 'em in yer place.
An' Foo sat sad an' solim, like an 'oly man in church,
Wiv an early-martyr look upon 'is face;
Wot never changed, not even when a toff upon a jag
Tried to pick up Ginger's Rosie, an' collided wiv a snag.
15
 

16 THE MOODS OF GINGER MICK
Ginger Mick's bin at the races, an' 'e'd made a little rise,
'Avin' knowed a bloke wot knowed the trainer's cook.
An' easy money's very sweet, as punters reckernise,
An' sweetest when yeh've prized it orf a "book."
So Ginger calls fer Rosie, an' to celerbrate 'is win
'E trots 'er down to Ah Foo's joint to splash a bit uv tin.
There wus lights, an' smells of Asia, an' a strange, Chow-'aunted
scene;
Floatin' scraps of forrin lingo' 'it the ear;
But Rose sails in an' takes 'er seat like any soshul queen
Sich as stokes 'erself wiv foy grass orl the year.
"Duck an' Fowl" 's 'er nomination; so ole Ginger jerks 'is frame
'Cross to git some fancy pickin's, an' to give 'is choice  a name.
While Ginger paws the tucker, an' 'as words about the price,
There's a shickered toff slings Rosie goo-goo eyes.
'E's a mug 'oo thinks 'e's 'it a flamin' 'all uv scarlet vice
An' 'e picks on gentle Rosie fer a prize.
Then 'e tries to play at 'andies, an' arrange about a meet;
But Rosie fetches 'im a welt that shifts 'im in 'is seat.
Ginger's busy makin' bargins, an' 'e never seen the clout;
'E is 'agglin' w iv Ah Foo fer 'arf a duck;
But the toff's too shick or silly fer to 'eave 'is carkis out,
An' to fade while goin's good an' 'e's in luck.
 

DUCK AN' FOWL 17
Then Ginger clinched 'is bargin, an', as down the room 'e came.
'E seen the toff jump frum 'is seat, an' call the girl a name.
That done it. Less than 'arf a mo, an' 'ell got orf the chain;
An' the swell stopped 'arf a ducklin' wiv 'is neck,
As Ginger guv the war-cry that is dreaded in the Lane.
An' the rest wus whirlin' toff an' sudden wreck.
Mick never reely stoushed 'im, but 'e used 'im fer a mop.
Then someone doused the bloomin' glim, an' Foo run fer a cop.
Down the  stairs an' in the passidge come the shufllin' feet uv
Chows,
An' a crash, as Ah Foo's chiner found it's mark.
Fer more than Mick 'ad ancient scores left over frum ole rows,
An' more than one stopped somethin' in the dark.
Then the tabbies took to screamin', an' a Chow remarked
"Wha' for?"
While the live ducks quacked blue murder frum their corner
uv the floor.
Fer full ten minutes it wus joy, reel willin' an' to spare,
Wiv noise uv tarts, an' Chows, an' ducks, an' lash;
An' plates uv fowl an' bird's-nest soup went whizzin' thro' the air,
While 'arf-a-dozen fought to reach Foo's cash.
Then, thro' an open doorway, three Chows' 'eads is framed in
light,
An' sudden in Mick's corner orl is gentle peace an' quite.
B
 

18 THE MOODS OF GINGER MICK
Up goes the lights; in comes the cops; an' there's a sudden rush;
But the Johns 'as got 'em safe an' 'emmed 'em in;
An' ev'ryone looks innercent. Then thro' the anxious 'ush
The toff's voice frum the floor calls fer a gin . . .
But Mick an' Rose, O where are they? Arst uv the silent night!
They 'ad a date about a dawg, an' vanished out o' sight.
Then Foo an' orl 'is cousins an' the ducks torks orl at once,
An' the tabbies pitch the weary Johns a tale,
'Ow they orl is puffick ladies 'oo 'ave not bin pinched fer munce:
An' the crooks does mental sums concernin' bail.
The cops they takes a name er two, then gathers in the toff,
An' lobs 'im in a cold, 'ard cell to sleep 'is love-quest off.
But down in Rosie's kipsie, at the end uv Spadger's Lane,
'Er an' Mick is layin' supper out fer two.
"Now, I 'ate the game," sez Ginger, "an' it goes agin the grain;
But wot's a 'elpless, 'ungry bloke to do ?"
An' 'e yanks a cold roast chicken frum the bosom uv 'is shirt,
An' Rosie finds a ducklin' underneath 'er Sund'y skirt.
So, when a bloke fergits 'imself, an' soils a lady's name,
Altho' Romance is dead an' in the dirt,
In ole Madrid or Little Bourke they treats 'im much the same,
An' 'e collects wot's comin' fer a cert.
But, spite uv 'igh-falutin' tork, the fact is jist the same:
Ole Ginger Mick wus out fer loot, an' played a risky game.
 

 DUCK AN' FOWL 19

To fight an' forage . . . Spare me days! It's been man's leadin'
soot
Since 'e learned to word a tart an' make a date.
'E's been at it, good an' solid, since ole Adam bit the froot;
To fight an' forage, an' pertect 'is mate.
But this story 'as no moral, an' it 'as a vulgar plot;
It is jist a small igzample uv a way ole Ginger's got.
 

II. WAR

Illustration - see original document
"Blarst the flamin' war!"
 

War

E Sez to me, "Wot's orl this flamin' war?
The papers torks uv nothin' else but scraps.
An' wot's ole England got snake-'eaded for?
An' wot's the strength uv callin' out our
chaps?"
'E sez to me, "Struth! Don't she rule the sea?
Wot does she want wiv us?" 'e sez to me.
Ole Ginger Mick is loadin' up 'is truck
One mornin' in the markit feelin' sore.
'E sez to me, "Well, mate, I've done me luck;
An' Rose is arstin', 'Wot about this war?"
I'm gone a tenner at the two-up school;
The game is crook, an' Rose is turnin' cool."
'E sez to me, "'Ow is it fer a beer?"
I tips 'im 'ow I've told me wife, Doreen,
That when I comes down to the markit 'ere
I dodges pubs, an' chucks the tipple, clean.
Wiv 'er an' kid alone up on the farm
She's full uv fancies that I'll come to 'arm.
23
 

24 THE MOODS OF GINGER MICK
"'Enpecked!" 'e sez. An' then, "Ar, I dunno.
I wouldn't mind if I wus in yer place.
I've 'arf a mind to give cold tea a go.
It's no game, pourin' snake-juice in yer face.
But, lad, I 'ave to, wiv the thirst I got.
I'm goin' over now to stop a pot."
'E goes acrost to find a pint a 'ome;
An' meets a pal an' keeps another down.
Ten minutes later, when 'e starts to roam
Back to the markit, wiv an ugly frown,
'E sprags a soljer bloke 'oo's passin' by,
An' sez 'e'd like to dot 'im in the eye.
"Your sort," sez Mick, "don't know yer silly mind!
They lead yeh like a sheep; it's time yeh woke—
The 'eads is makin' piles out uv your kind!"
"Aw, git yer 'ead read!" sez the soljer bloke.
'Struth! 'e wus willin' wus that Kharki chap;
I 'ad me work cut out to stop a scrap.
An' as the soljer fades acrost the street,
Mick strikes a light an' sits down on 'is truck,
An' chews 'is fag—a sign 'is nerve is beat—
An' swears a bit, an' sez 'e's done 'is luck.
'E grouches there ten minutes, maybe more,
Then sez quite sudden, "Blarst the flamin' war!"
 

WAR 25
Jist then a motor car goes glidin' by
Wiv two fat toffs be'ind two fat cigars.
Mick twigs 'em frum the corner, uv 'is eye.
I 'ope," 'e sez, the 'Uns don't git my cars.
Me di'mon's, too, don't let me sleep a wink . . .
Ar, 'Struth! I'd fight fer that sort—I don't think."
'E sits there while I 'arness up me prad,
Chewin' 'is fag an' starin' at the ground.
I tumbles that 'e's got the joes reel bad,
An' don't say nothin' till 'e comes around.
'E sez 'is luck's a nark, an' swears some more,
An' then: "Wot is the strength uv this 'ere war?"
I tells 'im wot I read about the 'Uns,
An' wot they done in Beljum an' in France,
Wiv drivin' Janes an' kids before their guns,
An' never givin' blokes a stray dawg's chance;
An' 'ow they think they've got the whole world beat.
Sez 'e, "I'll crack the first Dutch cow I meet!"
Mick  listens, while I tells 'im 'ow they starts
Be burnin' pore coves 'omes an' killin' kids,
An' comin' it reel crook wiv decent tarts,
An' fightin' foul, as orl the rules forbids,
Leavin' a string uv stiff-uns in their track.
Sez Mick, "The dirty cows! They wants a crack!"
 

26 THE MOODS OF GINGER MICK
'E chews it over solid fer a bit,
Workin' 'is copper-top a double shift.
I don't need specs to see that 'e wus 'it
Be somethin' more than Rosie's little rift.
"If they'd done that," 'e sez, "out 'ere—Ar, rats!
Why don't ole England belt 'em in the slats?"
Then Mick gits up an' starts another fag.
"Ar, well," 'e sez, "it's no affair uv mine,
If I don't work they'd pinch me on the vag;
But I'm not keen to fight so toffs kin dine
On pickled olives . . . Blarst the flamin' war!
I ain't got nothin' worth the fightin' for.
"So long," 'e sez. "I got ter trade me stock;
An' when yeh 'ear I've took a soljer's job
I give yeh leave to say I've done me block
An' got a flock uv weevils in me knob."
An' then, orf-'anded-like, 'e arsts me: "Say,
Wot are they slingin' soljers fer their pay?"
I tells 'im; an' 'e sez to me, "So long.
Some day this rabbit trade will git me beat."
An' Ginger Mick shoves thro' the markit throng,
An' gits 'is barrer out into the street.
An', as 'e goes, I 'ears 'is gentle roar:
"Rabbee!  Wile Rabbee! . . . Blarst the flamin' war!"
 

III. THE CALL OF THE STOUSH
 

Illustration - see original document
"So Ginger Mick 'e's mizzled to the war"
 

The Call of Stoush
WOT price ole Ginger Mick? 'E's done a break­—
Gone to the flamin' war to stoush the foe.
Wus it fer glory, or a woman's sake?
Ar, arst me somethin' easy! I dunno.
'Is Kharki clobber set 'im off a treat,
That's all I know; 'is motive's got me beat.
Ole Mick e's trainin' up in Cairo now;
An' all the cops in Spadger's Lane is sad.
They miss 'is music in the midnight row
Wot time the pushes mix it good an' glad.
Fer 'e wus one o' them, you understand,
Wot "soils the soshul life uv this fair land."
A peb wus Mick; a leery bloke wus 'e,
Low down, an' given to the brimmin' cup;
The sort o' chap that coves like you an' me
Don't mix wiv, 'cos of our strick bringin's-up.
An' 'e wus sich becos unseein' Fate
Lobbed 'im in life a 'undred years too late.
29