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Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 27, 2013 - Page 17
PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK Passing Of A Pal
Gentle-natured, faithful, loving, kind, Can I believe behind those speaking eyes Now glazed in death, No soul existed; Or that somewhere, in the vast spaces of the Beyond One friend awaits me, patient, expectant eyed, As in life he watched my every step Quick with joy at kindly word or thought Spoken or expressed The dumb that could not speak By word of mouth, Yet whose brown eyes held speech That I, poor dolt, could not In my puny mind translate. Just a dog -my pal. Yet could I know that "over there" In that Valhalla to which this life Is but short journey When my spirit feet have trod the portals, One stood within, four-footed, rapturous To welcome me, as in these days just passed, I'd easier go at my appointed time, To meet just punishment or reward For ill or good committed In this vale of tears; Did I but know that in The untrod regions of that unknown space Awaiting me-to guide my infant spirit steps Would be - Just a dog - My Pal. - Monty Blandford (On the death of his beloved bulldog ‘Wog’)
Important Job I may fail to be as clever as my neighbour down the street, I may fail to be as wealthy as some other men I meet, I may never win the glory which a lot of men have had, But I've got to be successful as a little fellow's dad. There are certain dreams I cherish which I'd like to see come true, There are things I would accomplish ere my time of life is through; But the task my heart is set on is to guide a little lad And to make myself successful as that little fellow's dad. I may never come to glory, I may never gather gold. Men may list me with the failures when my business life is told; But if he who follows after shall be manly, I'll be glad For I'll know I've been successful as that little fellow's dad. It's the one job that I dream of, it's the task I think of most, If I failed that growing youngster, I'd have nothing else to boast For though wealth and fame I'd gather all my fortune would be sad If I'd failed to be successful as that little fellow's dad. - E.A.G.
It couldn’t be done ... so he did it Somebody said that it couldn't be done, But he, with a chuckle, replied That "Maybe it couldn't," but he would be one Who wouldn't say so -till he tried. So he buckled right in, with a trace of a grin On his face. If he worried he hid it. He started to sing as he tackled the thing That couldn't be done - and he did it. Somebody scoffed, "Oh, you'll never do that; At least, no one ever has done it," But he took off his coat, and he took off his hat, And the first thing we knew - he'd begun it.
With the lift of his chin, and a bit of a grin, Without any doubting or quitting, He started to sing as he tackled the thing That couldn't be done - and he did it. There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done, There are thousands to prophesy failure, There are thousands to point to you one by one, The dangers that wait to assail you. But just buckle in with a grin, Then take off your coat and go to it, Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing That "cannot be done"- and you'll do it.
Monday, it’s Washing Day I'm an inoffensive householder, I don't philosophise, I rent a flat in Camberwell, I'm neither rich nor wise, My outlook's quite suburban but you must give me my due I know how many beans make five, I've learned a thing or two. And that power of observation, which undoubtedly is mine Has lately been attracted to the washing on the line. I note each Monday morning as my train goes rattling on, The back yards that we pass evince the same phenomenon There's no woman at her washing, you can see the evidence, And it's often most intriguing, stretched across from fence to fence. There are sheets and shirts a-shining in a spotless, snowy state, And camisoles - and other things I shan't enumerate. Though differing in detail every prospect is the same, That that's at all remarkable of course I do not claim. No, my point (which very likely you
will all regard as bosh) Is that everybody's linen every Monday gets a wash, And by Wednesday at latest, it looks just as good as new. Now, wouldn't it be wonderful if we were like that, too? I say, wouldn't it be wonderful if you and I, old scout, Could every Monday morning get a
thorough doing out, Put our notions through the wringer, take the starch out of our brains, Wash the dirt from our conceptions, and then drop it down the drains, And by Wednesday at latest have a nice clean point of view, And our funny old ideas all washed white and good as new? - Allan Dawes
Providence saved my life Have you ever been broke? Just broke to the wide? With what you stand up in, and nothing beside? Living on scraps the best part of the week, when you can get 'em, and with nowhere to sleep. I've been like that on a cold winter's night - when the streets were deserted, and nothing in sight but a slowmoving ‘bobby’ whose job is to see that the public is protected from people like me, who. get put inside to answer in court why they're wandering about without means of support. It always strikes me as a queer sort of joke, to pick on a man just because he is broke. Life isn't worth much when you get to that state of just waiting to die with nowhere to wait. I remember the time, it's a long while ago, when I stood on a bridge with the river below. The last food I'd had was two days before, and I never expected I'd need any more. The night was the worst that ever I'd known, with a dirty wet fog, that chilled to the bone. I set my teeth hard, and I set down my heel on the rail that my hands were too perished to feel when a snivelling pup came out of the fog and whimpered to me (just a scrap of a dog, bedraggled and dirty like me) - just a wreck, with Oh, such a sad little face on his poor scraggy neck. A few seconds more and I would have died, but he licked my hand, and I sat down and cried. And I covered the poor little mite in my coat, and carried him off with a lump in my throat. I took him along to the one place I knew where they'd give him a bed and a biscuit or two. They didn't seem keen on taking him in, but the sergeant in charge, gave a bit of a grin when I told him the dog could do with a meal. He said, "I'll fix him up, but how do you feel ?" It may be perhaps the sergeant had seen the state I was in - I wasn't too clean.
Cigarettes
You may talk about our enemies, But I have never met, Such a soul-and-body killer. As the noxious cigarette. For it hardens up your arteries, And it makes your bloodstream bad And it finally has you scuttled, If you don't give it up, my lad. You like to have a good time To play and sing and dance, But if a sickness comes to you, It does reduce your chance. To be smart, you have to do it, In this world so big and wide, But the live fish swim 'gainst currents, It's the dead go with the tide. Once the bulwark of a nation, Always practical and keen, Now the hand that rocks the cradle Is besmudged with nicotine. Once a breath as sweet as morning, Like the early roses wet, Now she kisses baby's gold curls, Through the smoke of a cigarette. You say I'm too old-fashioned, But it would be good indeed, If our women led in victory O'er this soul-destroying weed. And now the war is ended, Did I gamble, I'd make bets That the world would be much better If it gave up cigarettes. - Pearl C Ellison
Her Heaven: An Epitaph The hunger and cold that I'd suffered all day, exhausted my limits, and I fainted away. Well, they fed me and slept me, and gave me two bob, and the following day they gave me a job. I've worked ever since, and I've put a bit by. I'm comfortable now, and I don't want to die. I've a nice little house in a quiet little street, with a decent-sized garden, that's kept nice and neat. I've worked there a lot when I've had time to spare, and I'm so proud of one little corner that's there, with the pick of my flowers round a little old stone, that stands on the corner, all on its own. It bears an inscription not very grand - the letters are crooked, but you'll understand that I wasn't too steady - I couldn't quite see at the time I carved it, quite, quite, recently. And these are words that I carved on the stone: "Here lies my friend, when I was alone, Hopeless and friendless, just lost in a fog - God saved my life, with the help of a dog. - NosMo King
"Here lies a poor woman who always was tired, She lived in a house where help was not hired, Her last words on earth were "Dear friends, I am going Where washing ain't done, nor sweeping. nor sewing, But everything there is exact to my wishes For where they don't eat, there's no washing of dishes, I'll be where loud anthems will always be ringing, But, having no voice, I'll be clear of the singing, Don't mourn for me now; don't mourn for me never I'm going to do nothing for ever and ever "