C.J. Dennis, The Moods of Ginger Mick - Part 5

70

THE MOODS OF GINGER MICK

'Twas Spadger's Lane where Ginger Mick 'ung out

Before 'e tool to follerin' the Flag;

The Lane that echoed to 'is drunken shout

When 'e lobbed 'omeward on a gaudy jab.

Now Spadger's Lane knows Ginger Mike no more.

Fer 'e's become an 'ero at the War.

A flamin' 'ero at the War, that's Mick.

An' Rose—'is Rose, is waitin' in the Lane,

Nursin' 'er achin' ' eart, an' lookin' sick

As she crawls out to work an' 'ome again,

Givin' the bird to blokes 'oo'd be 'er "friend,"

An' prayin', wiv the rest, fer wars to end.

Quite right; I'm growin' sloppy fer a cert;

But I must git it orf me chest or bust.

So 'ere's a song about a grievin' skirt,

An' love, an' Ginger Mike, an' maiden trust!

The choky sort o' song that fetches tears

When blokes is full o' sentiment—or beers.

Lars' night, when I sneaks down to taste again

The sights an' sounds I used to know so well,

The moon wus shinin' over Spadger's Lane,

Sof'nin' the sorrer where 'er kind light fell;

Sof'nin' the sorrer where 'er kind light fell;

Sof'nin' an' soothin', like it wus 'er plan

To make ixcuses fer the sins uv man.

IN SPADGERS LANE

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Frum shadder inter shadder, up the street,

A prowlin' moll sneaks by, wiv eyes all 'ate,

Dodgin' some unseen John, 'oo's sure, slow feet

Comes tappin' after, certin as 'er fate;

In some back crib, a shicker's loud 'owled verse

Stops sudden, wiv a crash, an' then a curse.

Low down, a splotch o' red, where 'angs a blind

Before the winder uv a Chow caboose,

Shines in the dead black wall, an' frum be'ind,

Like all the cats o' Chinertown broke loose,

A mad Chow fide wails a two-note toon . . .

An' then I seen 'er, underneath the moon.

Rosie the Rip they calls 'er in the Lane;

Fer she wus alwus willin' wive 'er 'an's,

An' uses 'em to make 'er meanin' plain

In ways that Spader's beauties understan's.

but when ole Ginger played to snare 'er 'eart,

Rosie the Rip wus jist the soft, weak tart.

'Igh in 'er winder she wus leanin' out,

Swappin' remarks wiv fat ole Mother Moon.

The things around I clean fergot about—

Fergot the fiddle an' its crook Chow toon;

I only seen one woman in the light

Achin' to learn 'er forchin frum the night.

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THE MOODS OF GINGER MICK

Ole Ginger's Rose! To see 'er sittin' there,

The moonlight shinin' fair into 'er face,

An' sort o' touchin' gentle on 'er 'air,

It made me fair fergit the time an' place.

I feels I'm peepin, where I never ought,

An' tries 'arf not to 'ear the words I caught.

One soljer's sweet'eart, that wus wot I seen:

One out o' thousands grievin' thro' the land.

A tart frum Spadger's or a weepin' queen—

Wot's there between 'em, when yeh understand?

She 'olds fer Mick, wiv all 'is ugly chiv,

The best a lovin' woman 'as to give.

The best a woman 'as to give--Aw, 'Struth!

When war, an' grief, an' trouble's on the land

Sometimes a bloke gits glimpses uv the truth

An' sweats 'is soul to try an' understand . . .

An' then the World, liek some offishus John,

Shoves out a beefy 'and,an' moves 'im on.

So I seen Rose; an' so, on that same night

I seen a million women grienvin' there.

Ole Mother Moon she showed to me a sight

She sees around the World, most everyw'ere

Sneakin' beneath the shadder uv the wall

I seen, an' learned, an' understood it all.

IN  SPADGER'S  LANE    73

An' as I looks at Rosie, dreamin' there,

'Er 'ead drops on 'er arms . . . I seems to wake;

I sees the moonlight streamin' on 'er 'air;

I 'ears 'er sobbin' like 'er 'eart ud break.

An' me there, pryin' on 'er misery.

"Gawstruth!" I sez, "This ain't no place fer me!"

On my tip-toes I sneaks the way I came--

(The crook Chow fiddle ain't done yowlin' yet)--

An' tho' I tells it to me bitter shame--

I'm gittin' soft as 'ell--me eyes wus wet.

An' that stern John, as I go moochin' by

Serloots me wiv a cold, unfeelin' eye.

The fat ole Mother Moon she's got a 'eart.

An' so I like to think,when she looks down

Wiv 'er soft gaze upon some weepin' tart

In bonzer gardens or the slums o' town;

She soothes 'em mother-like, wiv podgy 'ands,

An' makes 'em dream agen uv peaceful lands.

Hand drawn sketch see original 
Sez 'e, "Me nurse-girl is a bonzer peach."

HAL GYE

The Straight Griffin

" 'EROES? Orright. You 'ave it 'ow yeh like.

Throw up yer little 'at an' come the glad;

But not too much 'Three-'Earty-Cheers' fer

Mike;

There's other things that 'e'll be wantin' bad.

The boys won't 'ave them kid-stakes on their

mind

Wivout there's somethin' solider be'ind.

Now that's the dinkum oil frum Ginger Mick,

In 'orspital, somew'ere be'ind the front;

Plugged in the neck, an' lately pretty sick,

But now right on the converlescent stunt.

"I'm on the mend," 'e writes, "an' nearly doo

To come the 'ero act agen--Scene two."

I'd sent some papers, knowin' 'ow time drags

Wiv blokes in blankits, waitin' fer a cure.

"An' 'Struth!" Mick writes, "the way they et them rags

Yeh'd think that they'd bin weaned on litrachure.

They wrestled thro' frum 'Births' to 'Lost and Found':

They even give the Leaders 'arf a round."

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78    THE  MOODS  OF   GINGER  MICK

Mick spent a bonzer day propped up in bed,

Soothin' 'is soul wiv ev'ry sportin' page;

But in the football noos the things 'e read

Near sent 'im orf 'is top wiv 'oly rage;

The way 'is team 'as mucked it earned 'is curse;

But 'e jist swallered it --becos uv nurse.

An' then this 'eadline 'it 'im wiv bokays;

"Australian Heroes!" is the song it makes.

Mick reads the boys them ringin' words o' praise;

But they jist grins a bit an' sez "Kid stakes!"

Sez Mick to nurse, "You tumble wot I am?

A bloomin' little 'ero. Pass the jam!"

Mick don't say much uv nurse; but 'tween the lines--

('Im bein' not too strong on gushin' speech)--

I seem to see some tell-tale sort o' signs.

Sez 'e, "Me nurse-girl is a bonzer peach."

An' then 'e 'as a line: " 'Er sad, sweet look."

'Struth! Ginger must 'a' got it frum a book.

Say, I can see ole Ginger, plain as plain,

Purrin' to feel the touch uv 'er cool 'and,

Grinnin' a bit to kid 'is wound don't pain,

An' yappin' tork she don't 'arf understand,

That makes 'er wonder if, back where she lives,

They're all reel men be'ind them ugly chivs,

THE STRAIGHT GRIFFIN    79

But that's orright. Ole Ginger ain't no flirt.

"You'll tell my Rose," 'e writes, "she's still the sweet.

An' if Long Jim gits messin' round that skirt,

When I come back I'll do 'im up a treat.

Tell 'im, if all me arms an' legs is lame

I'll bite the blighter if 'e comes that game!"

There's jealousy! But Ginger needn't fret.

Rose is fer 'im, an' Jim ain't on 'er card;

An' since she spragged 'im last time that they met--

Jim ain't inlisted--but 'e's thinkin' 'ard.

Mick wus 'er 'ero long before the war,

An' now 'e's sort o' chalked a double score.

That's all Sir Garneo. But Mick, 'e's vowed

this " 'Ail the 'Ero" stunt gits on 'is nerves,

An' makes 'im peevish; tho' 'e owns 'is crowd

Can mop up all the praises they deserves.

"But don't yeh spread the 'ero on too thick

If it's exhaustin' yeh," sez Ginger Mick.

"We ain't got no objections to the cheers;

We're good an' tough, an' we can stand the noise;

But three 'oorays and five or six long beers

An' loud remarks about 'Our Gallant Boys'

Sounds kind o' weak--if you'll ixcuse the word--

Beside the fightin' sounds we've lately 'eard.

80  THE  MOODS  OF  GINGER MICK

"If you'll fergive our blushes, we can stand

The 'earty cheerin' an' the songs o' praise.

The loud 'Osannas uv our native land

Makes us feel good an' glad in many ways,

An' later, when we land back in a mob,

Per'aps we might be arstin' fer a job.

"I'd 'ate," sez Mick, "to 'ave you think us rude,

Or take these few remarks as reel bad taste;

'T would 'urt to 'ave it seem ingratichude,

Wiv all them 'earty praises gone to waste,

We'll take yer word fer it, an' jist remark

This 'ero racket is a reel good lark.

"Once, when they caught me toppin' off a John,

The Bench wus stern, an' torked uv dirty work;

But, 'Struth! it's bonzer 'ow me fame's come on

Since when I took to toppin' off the Turk.

So, if it pleases, shout yer loud 'Bravoes,'

An' later, don't fergit there's me, an' Rose".

So Ginger writes. I gives it word fer word;

An' if it ain't the nice perlite reply

That nice, perlite old gents would like to've 'eard

'Oo've been 'ip-'ippin' im up to the sky--

Well, I dunno, I s'pose 'e's gotter learn

It's rude fer 'im to speak out uv 'is turn.

THE STRAIGHT  GRIFFIN   81

'Eroes. It sounds a bit uv reel orl-right--

"Our Gallant 'Eroes uv Gallipoli."

But Ginger, when 'e's thinkin' there at night,

Uv Rose, an' wot their luck is like to be

After the echo dies uv all this praise,

Well--'e ain't dazzled wiv three loud 'oorays.

X.  A  LETTER  TO  THE  FRONT

Hand drawn sketch see original 
"You'll be wiv us 'ere to listen to that bird tork in the gums."

HAL GYE

A Letter to the Front

I 'AVE written Mick a letter in reply to one uv 'is,

Where 'e arsts 'ow things is goin' where the

gums an' wattles is.

So I tries to buck 'im up a bit; to go fer

Abdul's fez;

An' I ain't no nob at litrachure; but this is wot

I sez:

I suppose you fellers dream, Mick, in between the scraps out

there,

Uv the land yeh left be'ind yeh when yeh sailed to do yer share:

Uv Collins Street, or Rundle Street, or Pitt, or George, or Hay,

Uv the land beyond the Murray or along the Castlereagh.

An' I guess yeh dream of old days an' the things yeh used to do,

An' yeh wonder 'ow 'twill strike yeh when yeh've seen this

business thro',

An' yeh try to count yer chances when yeh've finished wiv the

Turk

An' swap the gaudy war game fer a spell o' plain, drab work.

Well, Mick, yeh know jist 'ow it is these early days o' Spring,

When the gildin' o' the wattle chucks a glow on ev'rything.

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86  THE  MOODS  OF  GINGER  MICK

Them olden days, the golden days that you remember well,

In spite o' war an' worry, Mick, are wiv us fer a spell.

Fer the green is on the paddicks, an' the sap is in the trees,

An' the bush birds in the gullies sing the ole, sweet melerdies;

An' we're 'opin', as we 'ear 'em, that, when next the Springtime

comes,

You'll be wiv us 'ere to listen to that bird tork in the gums.

It's much the same old Springtime, Mick, yeh reckerlect uv yore;

Boronier an' dafferdils and wattle blooms once more

Sling sweetness over city streets, an' seem to put to shame

The rotten greed an' butchery that got you on this game--

The same ole sweet September days, an' much the same ole place;

Yet, there's a sort o' somethin', Mick, upon each passin' face,

A sort o' look that's got me beat; a look that you put there,

The day yeh lobbed upon the beach an' charged at Sari Bair.

It isn't that we we're boastin', lad; we've done wiv most o' that--

The froth, the cheers, the flappin' flags, the giddy wavin' 'at.

Sich things is childish memories; we blush to 'ave 'em told,

Fer we 'ave seen our wounded, Mick,an' it 'as made us old.

We ain't growed soggy wiv regret, we ain't swelled out wiv pride;

But we 'ave seen it's up to us to lay our toys aside.

An' it wus you that taught us, Mick, we've growed too old fer

play,

An' everlastin' picter shows, an' goin' down the Bay.

A LETTER TO THE FRONT     87

An', as a grown man dreams at times uv boy'ood days gone by,

So, when we're feelin' crook, I s'pose, we'll sometimes sit an'

sigh.

But as a clean lad takes the ring wiv mind an' 'eart serene,

So I am 'opin' we will fight to make our man'ood clean.

When orl the stoushin's over, Mick, there's 'eaps o' work to do:

An' in the peaceful scraps to come we'll still be needin' you.

We will be needin' you the more fer wot yeh've seen an' done;

Fer you were born a Builder, lad, an' we 'ave jist begun.

There's bin a lot o' tork, ole mate, uv wot we owe to you,

An' wot yeh've braved an' done fer us, an' wot we mean to do.

We've 'ailed you boys as 'eroes, Mick, an' torked uv just reward

When you 'ave done the job yer at an' slung aside the sword.

I guess it makes yeh think a bit, an' weigh this gaudy praise;

Fer even 'eroes 'ave to eat, an'--there is other days:

The days to come when we don't need no bonzer boys to fight;

When the flamin's picnic's over an' the Leeuwin looms in sight.

Then there's another fight to fight, an' you will find it tough

To sling the Kharki clobber fer the plain civilian stuff.

When orl the cheerin' dies away, an' 'ero-worship flops,

Yeh'll  'ave to face the ole tame life --'ard yakker or 'ard cops,

But, lad, yer land is wantin' yeh, an' wantin'each strong son

To fight the fight that never knows the firin' uv a gun:

The steady fight,when orl you boys will show wot you are worth,

An' punch a cow on Yarra Flats or drive a quill in Perth.

88   THE  MOODS  OF  GINGER  MICK

The gilt is on the wattle, Mick, young leaves is on the trees,

An' the bush birds in the gullies swap the ole sweet melerdies,

There's a good, green land awaitin' you when you come 'ome

again

To swing a pick at Ballarat or ride Yarrowie Plain.

The streets is gay wiv dafferdils--but--haggard in the sun,

A wounded soljer passes; an' we know ole days is done.

Fer somew'ere down inside us, lad, is somethin' you put there

The day yeh swung a dirty left, fer us, at Sari Bair.

 

Hand drawn sketch see original 
"Life in a burrer aint no good to me."

HAL GYE

Rabbits

"AR! Gimme fights wiv foemen I kin see,

To upper-cut an' wallop on the jor.

Life in a burrer ain't no good to me.

'Struth! This ain't war!

Gimme a ding-dong go fer 'arf a round,

An' you kin 'ave this crawlin' underground.

"Gimme a ragin', 'owlin', tearin' scrap,

Wiv room to swing me left, an' feel it land.

This 'idin', sneakin' racket makes a chap

Feel secon'-'and.

Stuck in me dug-out 'ere, down in a 'ole,

I'm feelin' like I've growed a rabbit's soul."

Ole Ginger's left the 'orspital, it seems;

'E's back at Anzac,cursin' at the game;

Fer this 'ere ain't the fightin' uv 'is dreams;

It's too dead tame.

'E's got the oopizootics reely bad,

An 'idin' in a burrer makes 'im mad.

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