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C J Dennis - A Morning Song
Work rating: Low

The thrush is in the wattle tree, an`, "O, you pretty dear!"
He`s callin` to his little wife for all the bush to hear.
   He`s wantin` all the bush to know about his charmin` hen;
   He sings it over fifty times, an` then begins again.
For it`s Mornin`! Mornin`! The world is wet with dew,
With tiny drops a-twinkle where the sun comes shinin` thro`.


The thrush is in the wattle tree, red robin`s underneath,
The little blue-cap`s dodgin` in an` out amongst the heath;
   An` they`re singin`, boy, they`re singin` like they`d bust `emselves to bits;
   While, up above, old Laughin` Jack is having forty fits.
For it`s Mornin`! Mornin`! The leaves are all ashine:
There`s treasure all about the place; an` all of it is mine.


Oh, it`s good to be a wealthy man, it`s grand to be a king
With mornin` on the forest-land an` joy in everything.
   It`s fine to be a healthy man with healthy work to do
   In the singin` land, the clean land, washed again with dew.
When sunlight slants across the trees, an` birds begin to sing,
Then kings may snore in palaces, but I`m awake - and king.


But the king must cook his breakfast, an` the king must sweep the floor;
Then out with axe on shoulder to his kingdom at the door,
   His old dog sportin` on ahead, his troubles all behind,
   An` joy mixed in the blood of him because the world is kind.
For it`s Mornin`! Mornin`! Time to out an` strive!
Oh, there`s not a thing I`m askin` else but just to be alive!


It`s cranky moods a man will get an` funny ways of mind;
For I`ve a memory of one whose thoughts were all unkind:
   Who sat an` brooded thro` the night beside the blazin` log,
   His home a mirthless, silent house, his only pal a dog.
But it`s Mornin`! Mornin`! I nurse no thought but praise,
I`ve more good friends than I could count, tho` I should count for days.


My friends are in the underbrush, my friends are in the trees,
An` merrily they welcome me with mornin` melodies.
   Above, below, from bush an` bough each calls his tuneful part;
   An` best of all, one trusty friend is callin` in my heart.
For it`s Mornin`! Mornin`! When night`s black troubles end.
An` never man was friendless yet who stayed his own good friend.


Ben Murray, he`s no friend of mine, an` well I know the same;
But why should I be thinkin` hate, an` nursin` thoughts of blame?
   Last evenin` I`d no friend within, but troubles all around,
   An` madly thought to fight a man for ten or twenty pound.
But it`s Mornin`! Mornin`! my friend within`s alive,
An` he`d never risk a twenty - tho` he might consider five.


But where`s the call to think of strife with such good things about?
The gum-leaves are a-twinkle as the sun comes peepin` out.
   The blue-cap`s in an` out the fern, red robin`s on the gate,
   An` who could hear the song of them a hold a thought of hate?
Oh, it`s Mornin`! Mornin`! No time for thinkin` wrong.
An` I`d be scared to strike a man, I feel so awful strong.


Grey thrush is in the wattle, an` it`s, "O, you pretty dear!"
He`s callin` to his little wife, an` don`t care who should hear
   In the great bush, the fresh bush, washed again with dew.
   An` my axe is on my shoulder, an` there`s work ahead to do.
Oh, it`s Mornin`! Singin` Mornin`! in the land I count the best,
An` with the heart an` mind of me I`m singin` with the rest.
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