We are so very 'umble.
quote by Charles Dickens
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I Dips me Lid
'Young sir,' 'E sez . . . Like that . . . It made me feel
Romantic like, as if me dream was reel.
'Is dress was fancy, an' 'is style was grave.
An' me ? I 'ope I know 'ow to be'ave
In 'igh-toned company, for ain't I been
Instructed careful by me wife, Doreen ?
' Sing small,' she sez. An' that's iist wot I did.
I sounds me haitches, an' I dips me lid.
'Young sir,' 'e sez . . . O' course you understand
'Twus jist a dream. But, on the other 'and,
E seemed so reel as 'e sat spoutin' there
Beside me on ole Dame Macquarie's Chair,
Lookin' across the 'arbor while 'e talked-
Seemed sumpthink more that jist a ghost 'oo walked
Out o' the past . . . 'Phillip by name,' 'e said.
A queer ole cock, wif lace, an' wig on 'ead.
It 'appened this way: I 'ad jist come down,
After long years, to look at Sydney town.
An' 'struth! Was I knocked endways? Fair su'prised?
I never dreamed! That arch that cut the skies
The Bridge! I never thort there could 'a' been-
I never knoo, nor guessed - I never seen . . . .
Well, Sydney's 'ad some knocks since I been gone,
But strike! This shows she keeps on keepin' on.
I'd strolled about the town for 'arf a day
Then dragged me carcass round the 'arbor way
To view the Bridge from Dame Macquarrie's Chair
Then parks me frame, an' gits to thinkin' there-
Thinkin' of older days; an' I suppose
I must 'ave nodded orf into a doze.
Nex' thing I knoo, ole Phillip come an' sat
Beside me, friendly like, an' starts to chat.
'Young sir,' 'e sez. 'You, too, in sheer amaze
Look upon this, and hark to other days,
An' dream of this fair city's early start.
In which ('e bows) I played my 'umble part-
My 'umble part - a flagpole an' a tent.'
'Come orf!' sez I. 'You was a fine ole gent.
Reel nob. I've read about the things you did.
You picked some site.' ('E bows. I dips me lid).
'Young sir,' 'e sez. 'I've dwelt in spirit 'ere
To watch this city waxin' year by year:
But yesterday, from a mere staff, a tent,
Wonder on wonder as the swift years went-
A thrivin' village, then a busy town,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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An Offer Of Marriage
Once I 'dipt into the future far as human eye could see,'
And saw-it was not Sandow, nor John Sullivan, but she
The Emancipated Woman, who was weeping as she ran
Here and there for the discovery of Expurgated Man.
But the sun of Evolution ever rose and ever set,
And that tardiest of mortals hadn't evoluted yet.
Hence the tears that she cascaded, hence the sighs that tore apart
All the tendinous connections of her indurated heart.
Cried Emancipated Woman, as she wearied of the search:
'In Advancing I have left myself distinctly in the lurch!
Seeking still a worthy partner, from the land of brutes and dudes
I have penetrated rashly into manless solitudes.
Now without a mate of any kind where am I?-that's to say,
Where shall I be to-morrow?-where exert my rightful sway
And the purifying strength of my emancipated mind?
Can solitude be lifted up, vacuity refined?
Calling, calling from the shadows in the rear of my Advance
From the Region of Unprogress in the Dark Domain of Chance
Long I heard the Unevolvable beseeching my return
To share the degradation he's reluctant to unlearn.
But I fancy I detected-though I pray it wasn't that
A low reverberation, like an echo in a hat.
So I've held my way regardless, evoluting year by year,
Till I'm what you now behold me-or would if you were here
A condensed Emancipation and a Purifier proud
An Independent Entity appropriately loud!
Independent? Yes, in spirit, but (O, woful, woful state!)
Doomed to premature extinction by privation of a mate
To extinction or reversion, for Unexpurgated Man
Still awaits me in the backward if I sicken of the van.
O the horrible dilemma!-to be odiously linked
With an Undeveloped Species, or become a Type Extinct!'
As Emancipated Woman wailed her sorrow to the air,
Stalking out of desolation came a being strange and rare
Plato's Man!-bipedal, featherless from mandible to rump,
Its wings two quilless flippers and its tail a plumeless stump.
First it scratched and then it clucked, as if in hospitable terms
It invited her to banquet on imaginary worms.
Then it strutted up before her with a lifting of the head,
And in accents of affection and of sympathy it said:
'My estate is some 'at 'umble, but I'm qualified to draw
Near the hymeneal altar and whack up my heart and claw
To Emancipated Anything as walks upon the earth;
And them things is at your service for whatever they are worth.
I'm sure to be congenial, marm, nor e'er deserve a scowl
I'm Emancipated Rooster, I am Expurgated Fowl!'
From the future and its wonders I withdrew my gaze, and then
Wrote this wild unfestive prophecy about the Coming Hen.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Termarter Sorce
It wasn't kid stakes. I 'ad no crook lurk
To act deceivin', or to treat 'er mean.
I'm old enough to know them games don't work
Not with Doreen.
Besides, deceit ain't in me bag uv tricks.
I got a few; but there is some that sticks.
Sticks in me gizzard. Some blokes sees no wrong
In workin' points, an' thinks it bonzer sport
To trifle with a wife's belief, so long
As they ain't cort.
But, when yeh play the game on dead straight lines,
It 'urts to be accused uv base designs.
It starts this mornin'. I wake with a tooth
That's squirmin' like a basketful uv snakes.
Per'aps I groan a bit, to tell the truth;
An' then she wakes,
An' arsts me wot I'm makin' faces for.
I glare at 'er, an' nurse me achin' jor.
That was no very 'appy mornin' song.
I ain't excusin' my end uv the joke;
But, after that, things seem to go all wrong.
She never spoke
One narsty word; but, while the chops she serves,
'Er shrieks uv silence fair got on me nerves.
She might 'ave arst wot ailed me. Spare me days I
She seen that I was crook. She seen me face
Swelled like a poisoned pup's. She only says,
'Please to say grace.'
I mumbles ... Then, in tones that wakes brute force,
She twitters, 'Will yeh take termarter sorce?'
I could n't eat no breakfast. Just the sight
Uv sweet things give me tooth a new, worse ache.
Sez she: 'You seem to lost yer apetite.
'Ave some seed cake.'
Seed cake! Gawstruth! I'm there in agerny,
An' she, 'oo swore to love, sits mockin' me.
At last, when our small son gits orf to school,
I goes an' sits down sulkin' on a couch.
''Ave you a toothache, Bill?' sez she, quite cool,
'Or jist plain grouch?
Yer face looks funny. P'raps yer gittin' fat.'
I glare at 'er an' answer, 'Huh!' . . like that.
That one word, 'Huh,' said in a certain way,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Also-Ran
I know I'm dull. I know I got a brain
That's only fit fer fertilizin' 'air.
I don't arst for bokays: I ain't that vain;
But fair is fair.
An' when yeh think yer somethin' uv a man,
It 'urts to find yerself a also-ran.
'Urts like one thing. To git sent to the pack
When you 'ave 'ad idears you're ace an' king
An' all the pitcher cards down to the jack
Is like to sting
Yer vanity. I thort I was some use,
An' now I'm valyid as a 'umble dooce.
Don't mind my sulks. I s'pose I 'as swelled 'ead;
But gittin' snouted ain't wot I expeck.
Aw, they can 'ave it on their own! I'm full
Up to the neck!
Never no more! I chuck good works right 'ere. . .
But lets start frum the start an' git it clear.
I own I used me nut. Fer marriage brings
Experience to stop yeh actin' rash.
I've missed the step before through rushin' things,
An' come a crash.
I planned it out all careful frum the start;
Me taticks was a reel fine work uv art.
Me problem's this: The noos 'as to be broke
Concernin' Rose. Doreen 'as to he told.
The 'ow an' when that bit uv noos is spoke
I've learnt uv old.
I'm shrood. I wait. I watch me chance to act.
The trick's to know the time an' place exact.
You blokes unmarrid ain't got no idear
Uv 'ow successful 'usbands works their 'eads.
It's like a feller strugglin' to keep clear
A thousand threads.
Once let 'em tangle, an' you take the blame.
You're up to putty; an' yeh've lost the game.
I picks a nice, calm, cozy, peaceful night.
The suppper things is washed; the kid's in bed
(I 'elped to wipe the plates) the fire burns bright;
An' then I led
The tork around to tales uv Ginger Mick,
Cunnin' an' crafty like, an' not too quick.
'Funny,' I sez, 'that we should mention Mick.
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Bush Veteran
Old Pete Parraday, he toddles up the road,
'Dangin'' things and 'darn in'' things and hefting of his load
For yesterday was pension day, Peter has his goods:
Butcher's meat and groceries and all sorts of foods;
A bit of plug 'tobaker' and a tin of 'jelly Jam,'
'Termatter' sauce and yellow soap, a knuckle-end of ham,
And a little flask of 'special stuff' discreetly tucked away.
'I takes it for me rheumatiz,' says Peter Parraday.
Old Pete Parraday, he lives all on his own.
People say he's getting old and shouldn't be alone.
They talk of institutions where he'd have most kindly care.
'Wot? Me?' says Peter Parraday. 'An' wot would I do there?
Lose me independence, an' be 'umble when they scold,
Eat an' sleep an' dress an' smoke just when an' how I'm told?
Shove ME in an Old Man's 'Ome to rust me life away?
I'd like to see 'em try it on!' says Peter Parraday.
Old Pete Parraday has little time to spare
For a bush hut and a garden are a common source of care.
There's wood to cut and meals to cook - a thousand things to plan
In the little kitchen-garden that 'do fair absorb a man.'
Green peas and radishes, brussels sprouts and beans,
Silver beet and lettuces - all sorts of green.
'Waterin' an' weedin' 'em, the hours they melts away,
An' days ain't halfways long enough,' says Peter Parraday.
Old Peter Parraday, he sits beside his door
To smoke a pipe at day's-end when fussy toil is o'er.
'This world it changes fast like,' says he, 'as time drifts by;
For old days was easy days when I was young an' spry;
An' cash was easy come by, with fortunes flowin' free,
An' many a man growed wealthy wot toed the mark with me.
But me? I seemed to miss the bus. Fair lost me chance, ses they,
Yet that don't seem to grieve me some,' grins Peter Parraday.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bricks
Dear Ned, I now take up my pen to write
you these few lines,
And hopin' how they find you fit. Gorbli',
it seems an age
Since Jumbo ducked the Port, 'n' drilled 'n'
polished to the nines,
He walked his pork on Collins like a hero off
the stage,
Then hiked a rifle 'cross the sea this bleedin'
war to wage.
The things what's 'appened lately calls to
Jumbo's mind that day
Our push took on the Peewee pack, 'n'
belted out their lard,
With twenty cops to top it off. But now I'm
stowed away,
A bullet in me gizzard where I took it good
and hard,
A-dealin'-stoush 'n' mullock to the Prussian
flamin' Guard.
At Bullcoor mortal charnce had dumped a
mutton-truck of us
From good ole Port ker-flummox where we
didn't orter be,
All in a 'elpless hole-the Pug, Bill Carkeek,
Son, 'n' Gus,
Don, Steve, 'n' Jack, 'n' seven more, 'n', as
it 'appens, me,
With nothin' in since breakfast, 'n' a week
to go for tea.
Worked loose from Caddy's bunch, we went
it gay until we found
We'd took to 'arf the ragin' German Hempire
on our own.
Then down we went so 'umble, with our noses
in the ground,
Takin' cover in the rubble. If a German head
was shown
It was fare-the-well to Herman with a bullet
through the bone.
We slogged the cows remorseless, 'n' they
laid for us a treat.
We held that stinkin' cellar, though, 'n' when
the day was done
Son pussied on his bingie where a Maxie trim
'n' neat
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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Another Conversa Mi Amiga....
i am proud to say, i do not hide my ignorance and lapses 7: 06 AM
but i always hide my eggs 7: 06 AM
Me
h ehehe 7: 06 AM
for fear that it may get burned 7: 07 AM
Me
but 7: 07 AM
it is because uv got confidence 7: 07 AM
ur ignorance is minimal hehehe 7: 07 AM
compared to us 7: 07 AM
confidence is the flower of ignorance 7: 07 AM
Me
so nasa taas gihapon ka 7: 07 AM
safe up there 7: 07 AM
u can still be naked 7: 08 AM
[...] Read more
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Second Whip Explains
Now, gatherin' 'ounds is a job I like
W'en the winter day draws in,
W'en shadows are lyin' by every dyke
An' creepin' out o' the whin ;
W'en 'Armony 's missin' an' Houtcast too,
An' the Master 'e says to me-
'Jim, you go back to that gorse we drew,
For it's there them beggars 'll be ! '
Oh, gatherin' 'ounds is the job I love,
W'en the dark comes down on the thorn
An' the moon is 'ung in the sky above
Like a glitterin' 'untin' 'orn
W'en I ride the banks like a glidin' ghost
An' the dips like a witch o' fear-
This is the job wot I loves the most
In the darkest days o' the year.
Though it's me that knows that the cunnin' old rags
Will be 'alfway 'ome by now,
0' course if you're sent for a 'ound wot lags
You must do as you're ordered 'ow;
An' it's allus the custom, so I've found,
With a pack worth callin' a pack
That a Whip goes back for the missin' 'ound-
An' it's mostly me goes back!
Though I know the beggars is runnin' the road
On a breast-high scent o' soup,
Will I use my brains ? - No, I 'll be blowed
If I 'd ever so 'umble stoop;
If they think that a fox'ound don't have wits,
Let 'em think so, then, I say!
Some folk must gather up sense by bits
As a fed 'oss gathers 'is 'ay.
No, I don't 'alf mind keepin' long late hours,
For it's all in the day for me,
An' I know there's a glass to be 'ad at the Towers,
An' there's Oakwood Farm for tea,
With a pail o' gruel all mixed, I guess,
An' a stall that the old 'oss knows,
An' a seat by the kitchen fire wi' Bess
W'en the cook an' the 'ousemaid goes!
An' that's wy I ride so cheery back
W'en the Master says to me -
'Jim ' - wi' 'is keen heye hover the pack - ,
I am two' ounds short, or three.'
An' that's wy I 'm Houtcast's honly friend
An' 'Armony's life-long pal,
Because if they kept wi' the pack to the end,
Well - 'ow would I see my gal?
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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