Backblock Ballads and Later Verses. Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
desire.
And, when I went about my work in town,
No haunting vision filled my day with dread
That she would pull the whole contraption down
And start a building of her own instead.
I knew, indeed, she would take care to leave
Unharmed my handiwork of yester eve.
You'll note—if you're at all intelligent—
Our system was simplicity itself:
We wanted something, that was evident,
To wit, a fowlhouse, perches, and a shelf
For nests. I got some timber, tools and nails,
And set to work. This method seldom fails.
And when I'd done, and saw it stand complete,
With triumph was I most absurdly filled.
A tiny thing, enclosing ten square feet,
That any deft suburbanite might build—
Yet was my soul with satisfaction seized;
And, on the whole, I think the fowls were pleased.
Now that my hens are well and snugly housed,
And given cosy nests in which to lay,
It seems their gratitude has been aroused;
Our egg supply increases day by day.
And yet, I vow, when I their house designed
No sordid thought of eggs was in my mind.
Maybe I seem a trifle too inclined
To brag about a very simple feat.
Yet strange ideas crowd into my mind
When I sit down to scan my morning sheet,
And read of other builders who should be
Goliaths in comparison with me.
Their mighty undertakings, I've no doubt—
Vast railway lines that span a continent,
And other matters that I read about—
Are apt to cause much wordy argument.
Yet I, who calmly built a house for fowls,
Can feel contempt for these unseemly howls.
For when they move to build, unholy shouts
Go up to Heaven from opponent throats;
The Ins are ever brawling with the Outs;
And both are scheming sordidly for votes.
They build not as true builders, such as I,
Who build for love, and scorn the trade they ply.
Thank God, my wife and I are well content
In doing things to win a modest name
Without the aid of Party Government
And all the meanness of that paltry Game.
Honest endeavour, and some boards and nails,
Pride in your work—this method seldom fails.
I am so diffident, I hardly care
To give advice to statesmen eminent,
And yet, on this occasion, shall I dare
To offer them some small encouragement:
Let them forgo their wrangles, curses, howls,
And strive to build a little place for fowls.
'Tis sheer presumption, surely, to compare
Myself with statesmen in high honour decked;
Yet do I feel emboldened to declare
That I am more deserving of respect.
They, by their brawls, a mighty work have marred; I built an honest fowlhouse in my yard.
Wheat
"Sowin' things an' growin' things, an' watchin' of 'em grow;
That's the game," my father said, an' father ought to know.
"Settin' things an' gettin' things to grow for folks to eat:
That's the life," my father said, "that's very hard to beat."
For my father was a farmer, as his father was before,
Just sowin' things an' growin' things in far-off days of yore,
In the far-off land of England, till my father found his feet
In the new land, in the true land, where he took to growin' wheat.
Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Oh, the sound of it is sweet! I've been praisin' it an' raisin' it in rain an' wind an' heat Since the time I learned to toddle, till it's beatin' in my noddle, Is the little song I'm singin' you of Wheat, Wheat, Wheat. Plantin' things—an' grantin' things is goin' as they should, An' the weather altogether is behavin' pretty good— Is a pleasure in a measure for a man that likes the game, An' my father he would rather raise a crop than make a name.
For my father was a farmer, an' "All fame," he said, "ain't reel;
An' the same it isn't fillin' when you're wantin' for a meal."
So I'm followin' his footsteps, an' a-keepin' of my feet,
While I cater for the nation with my Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.
Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! When the poets all are beat By the reason that the season for the verse crop is a cheat, Then I comes tip bright an' grinnin' with the knowledge that I'm winnin', With the rhythm of my harvester an' Wheat, Wheat, Wheat. Readin' things an' heedin' things that clever fellers give, An' ponderin' an' wonderin' why we was meant to live— Muddlin' through an' fuddlin' through philosophy an' such Is a game I never took to, an' it doesn't matter much. For my father was a farmer, as I might 'a' said before, An' the sum of his philosophy was, "Grow a little more. For growin' things," my father said, "it makes life sort o' sweet An' your conscience never swats you if your game is growin' wheat." Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Oh, the people have to eat! An' you're servin' , an' deservin' of a velvet-cushion seat In the cocky-farmers' heaven when you come to throw a seven; An' your password at the portal will be, "Wheat, Wheat, Wheat."
Now, the preacher an' the teacher have a callin' that is high
While they're spoutin' to the doubtin' of the happy by an' by;
But I'm sayin' that the prayin' it is better for their souls
When they've plenty wheat inside 'em in the shape of penny rolls.
For my father was a farmer, an' he used to sit an' grieve
When he thought about the apple that old Adam got from Eve.
It was foolin' with an orchard where the serpent got 'em beat,
An' they might 'a' kept the homestead if they'd simply stuck to wheat.
Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! If you're seekin' to defeat Care an' worry in the hurry of the crowded city street, Leave the hustle all behind you; come an' let contentment find you In a cosy little cabin lyin' snug among the wheat. In the city, more's the pity, thousands live an' thousands die Never carin', never sparin' pains that fruits may multiply; Breathin', livin', never