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The Freetrade Rabbit Pie

Ses Cullen, the cockie, he ses to me:
'Now, I puts it to you in this way:
If a feller....(Woah, Ginger! Come over, yeh cow!)....
If a feller sets out fer to say
Where he happens to stand in this politics game,
And to reason the why and the how,
He has got to have somethink to back up the same,
As the sayin' is....(Woah there, yeh cow!)

Ses Cullen, the cockie, e ses to me:
'Well, I reasons it out fer yeh so:
There's this 'ere Pertection an' this 'ere....(Woah Nell!
Come over there, Ginger! Way! Woah!)....
There's this 'ere Pertection an' this 'ere Freetrade,
Which I never 'ave quite understood,
Till I figures it out be the blunders I made
While I scratched fer me own livelihood.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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What Smith Knew About Farming

There wasn't two purtier farms in the state
Than the couple of which I'm about to relate;--
Jinin' each other--belongin' to Brown,
And jest at the edge of a flourishin' town.
Brown was a man, as I understand,
That allus had handled a good 'eal o' land,
And was sharp as a tack in drivin' a trade--
For that's the way most of his money was made.
And all the grounds and the orchards about
His two pet farms was all tricked out
With poppies and posies
And sweet-smellin' rosies;
And hundreds o' kinds
Of all sorts o' vines,
To tickle the most horticultural minds
And little dwarf trees not as thick as your wrist
With ripe apples on 'em as big as your fist:
And peaches,--Siberian crabs and pears,
And quinces--Well! ANY fruit ANY tree bears;
And th purtiest stream--jest a-swimmin' with fish,

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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Brus Book XVIII

Only Berwick remains in English hands; a burgess offers to betray it]

The lordis off the land war fayne
Quhen thai wist he wes cummyn agan
And till him went in full gret hy,
And he ressavit thaim hamlyly
5 And maid thaim fest and glaidsum cher,
And thai sa wonderly blyth wer
Off his come that na man mycht say,
Gret fest and fayr till him maid thai.
Quharever he raid all the countre
10 Gaderyt in daynte him to se,
Gret glaidschip than wes in the land.
All than wes wonnyn till his hand,
Fra the Red Swyre to Orknay
Wes nocht off Scotland fra his fay
15 Outakyn Berwik it allane.
That tym tharin wonnyt ane
That capitane wes of the toun,
All Scottismen in suspicioun

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poem by John Barbour
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The Hulk

Now, 'ere's my tip
Fer the Fusion ship,
An' I tells it straight an' square.
I'm a rare old tar
As nigh an' far
You'll not meet ev'rywhere.
I've seen 'er sail
In many a gale,
But she's done 'er final trip;
So I 'itches me breeches, an' a simple tale I pitches
O' this good ole Fusion ship.
'Twas Alf an' Joe,
Long years ago,
They built 'er any 'ow.
Twas a strange ole skiff
With 'er keel skew-wiff,
An' a double-ended bow.
Yus, a nose each end,
An' a grecian bend
Amidships, quaint an' queer.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Guide for Poits

I ain't no verse-'og. When I busts in song
An' fills the air wiv choonful melerdy,
I likes fer uvver coves to come along
An' biff the lyre in company wiv me.

So, when I sees some peb beguile an hour
Be joinin' in the chorus o' me song,
I never sees no use in turnin' sour;
Fer singin' days wiv no one larsts too long.

I'd like to see the Rocks an' Little Lon
Grow centres for the art uv weavin' rhyme,
Wiv dinky 'arps fer blokes to plunk upon,
An' spruiking poits workin' overtime.

I'd love to listen to each choonful lay
Uv soulful coots who scorn to write fer gain;
To see True Art bloom down in Chowder Bay,
An' Culcher jump the joint in Spadger's Lane.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Washing Day

I. WASHING DAY
The little gipsy vi'lits, they wus peepin' thro' the green
As she come walkin' in the grass, me little wife, Doreen.
The sun shone on the sassafras, where thrushes sung a bar.
-The 'ope an' worry uv our lives wus yelling fer 'is Mar. -
I watched 'er comin' down the green; the sun wus on 'her 'air -
Jist the woman that I marri'd, when me luck wus 'eading fair.

I seen 'er walkin' in the sun that lit our little farm.
She 'ad three clothes-pegs in 'er mouth, an' washin' on 'er arm -
Three clothes-pegs, fer I counted 'em, an' watched 'er as she come.
'The stove-wood's low,' she mumbles, 'an' young Bill 'as cut 'is thumb,'
Now, it weren't no giddy love-speech, but it seemd to take me straight
Back to the time I kissed 'er first beside 'er mother's gate.

Six years 'uv wedded life we've 'ad, an' still me dreams is sweet. . .
Aw, them bonzer little vi'lits, they wus smilin' round me feet.
An' wots a bit uv stove-wood count, wiv paddicks grinnin' green,

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Court Of Love

With timerous hert and trembling hand of drede,
Of cunning naked, bare of eloquence,
Unto the flour of port in womanhede
I write, as he that non intelligence
Of metres hath, ne floures of sentence;
Sauf that me list my writing to convey,
In that I can to please her hygh nobley.

The blosmes fresshe of Tullius garden soote
Present thaim not, my mater for to borne:
Poemes of Virgil taken here no rote,
Ne crafte of Galfrid may not here sojorne:
Why nam I cunning? O well may I morne,
For lak of science that I can-not write
Unto the princes of my life a-right

No termes digne unto her excellence,
So is she sprong of noble stirpe and high:

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Fust Mate Joe

'E's a tough ole salt,
With a 'ide well tanned,
An' it ain't 'is fault
If the craft is manned
With a motley sort er crew.
Ya-hoo!
An' it is a mixed-up crew.
But 'e's sailed, 'as 'e, on many a sea,
An' e's journeyed nigh an' fur;
'E's a tough ole, rough ole - not to mention gruff ole,
Bluff ole mar-i-ner

Fer 'e sailed among
The Labor Seas
When 'e wus young;
An' since that 'e's
Been on all sorts o' craft
Abaft
And 'fore the mast 'o craft.
Fer ther ain't no boat that's bin afloat

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Defence

Not guilty, yer Honers! I talks to yer straight!
An' I calls it a pretty crook game
An' an 'og of a thing, if the coppers should bring
Such dishonor as this on me name
On me name that 'as stood fer up'oldin' the good!
It's enough to make any bloke weep!
An' the goods as they says I received - spare me days!
Don't I tell yer I bought 'em dirt cheap!

Yes, I bought 'em dirt cheap; an' I says to the Bench,
As a man 'oo acts honest an' square,
That me solid defence is poun's, shillin's an' pence,
An' I arsts yer to deal with me fair.
Fer it's more than a joke when a square-livin' bloke
Is 'ad up fer committin' a crime;
Fer the JOHN, 'ere, 'e swears to the goods, an' declares
As I knoo they was pinched at the time.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Intro

'Er name's Doreen…Well spare me bloomin' days!
You could er knocked me down wiv 'arf a brick!
Yes, me, that kids meself I know their ways,
An' 'as a name for smoogin' in our click!
I just lines up an' tips the saucy wink.
But strike! The way she piled on dawg! Yer'd think
A bloke was givin' back-chat to the Queen….
'Er name's Doreen.

I seen 'er in the markit first uv all,
Inspectin' brums at Steeny Isaacs' stall.
I backs me barrer in—the same ole way
An' sez, 'Wot O! It's been a bonzer day.
'Ow is it fer a walk?'…Oh, 'oly wars!
The sorter look she gimme! Jest becors
I tried to chat 'er, like you'd make a start
Wiv ANY tart.

An' I kin take me oaf I wus perlite.
An' never said no word that wasn't right,

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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