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C J Dennis - Old Bob Blair
Work rating: Low

I got so down to it last night,
  With longin` for what could not be,
That nothin` in the world seemed right -
  Or everything was wrong with me.
My house was just a lonely hole,
An` I had blisters on my soul.

Top of my other worries now
  The boys are talkin` strike, an` say
If we put up a sudden row
  We`re sure of forcin` up our pay.
I`m right enough with what I get;
But some wants more, an` then more yet.

Ben Murray`s put it up to me:
  He says I got some influence
Amongst them, if I agree -
  "Which I will do if I have sense" -
We`ll make the boss cough up a bit.
That`s how Ben Murray looks at it.

I don`t know that the old boss can.
  I`ve heard he`s pushed to make ends meet.
To me he`s been a fair, straight man
  That pays up well an` works a treat.
But if I don`t get in this game,
Well, "blackleg" ain`t a pretty name.

This thing has got me thinkin` hard,
  But there is worse upon my mind.
What sort of luck has broke my guard
  That I should be the man to find
A girl like that? . . . The whole world`s wrong!
Why was I born to live and long?

I get so down to it last night
  With broodin` over things like this,
I said "There`s not a thing in sight
  Worth havin` but I seem to miss."
So I go out and get some air
An` have a word with old Bob Blair.

Bob`s livin` lonely, same as me;
  But he don`t take to frettin` so
An` gettin` megrims after tea.
  He reads a lot at night, I know;
His hut has books half up the wall
That I don`t tumble to at all.

Books all about them ancient blokes
  That lived a thousand years ago:
Philosophers an` funny folk
  What he sees in them I don`t know.
There ain`t much fun, when all is said,
In chap that is so awful dead.

He put his book down when I came,
  He took his specs off, patient-like.
He`s been in Rome; an` who can blame
  The old man if he gets the spike
To be jerked back so suddenly
By some glum-lookin` coot like me.

At first he looks at me quite dazed,
  As tho` `twas hard to recognize
The silly fool at which he gazed;
  An` then a smile come in his eyes:
"Why, Jim," he says.  "Still feelin` blue?
Kiss her, an` laugh!" . . . But I says, "Who?"

"Why, who, if not the widow, lad?"
  But I says, "Widows ain`t no go."
"What woman, then, makes you so sad?"
  I coughs a bit an` says, "Dunno."
He looked at me, then old Bob Blair
He ran his fingers through his hair.

"God help us, but the case is bad!
  An` men below, an; saints above
Look with mixed feelin`s, sour an` sad,
  Upon a fool in love with love.
Go, find her, lad, an` be again,
Fit to associate with men.

"Don`t leave yourself upon the shelf:
  It`s bad for man to live alone."
"Hold on," says I.  "What ails yourself?
  What are you doin` on your own?"
Quickly he turned away his head.
"That`s neither here nor there," he said.

I saw I`d made a clumsy break;
  An` tied to cover it with talk
Of anything, for old Blair`s sake.
  He don`t reply; but when I`d walk
Outside he says, "What`s this I hear
About the mill boys actin` queer?"

So then we yarns about the strike,
 An` old Bob Brown frowns an` shakes his head.
"There`s something there I hardly like;
  The boss has acted fair," he said.
"Eight years I`ve toiled here constantly,
An` boss an` friend he`s been to me. 

"I know he`s up against it bad;
  Stintin` himself to pay the men.
Don`t listen to this tattle, lad,
  An` leave that dirty work to Ben.
He tries to play on others need;
It`s partly devil, partly greed.

"Ben`s not a reel bad lot at heart,
  But ignorant an` dull of sight,
An` crazed by these new creeds that start
  An` grow like mushrooms, overnight;
An` this strange greed that`s spread the more
Since the great sacrifice of war.

"Greed everywhere!" sighed old man Blair.
  "Master an` man have caught the craze;
An` those who yesterday would share
  Like brothers, now spend all their days
Snatchin` for gain - the great, the small.
And, of, folly of it all!"


He tapped the small book by his hand.
  "Two thousand years ago they knew
That those who think an` understand
  Can make their wants but very few.
Two thousand years they taught
That happiness can not be bought."

"Progress?" he shouted.  "Bah!  A Fig!
  Where are the things that count or last
In buildin` something very big
  Or goin` somewhere very fast?
We put the horse behind the cart;
For where`s your progress of the heart?

"Great wisdom lived long years ago,
  An` yet we say that we progress.
The paint an` tinsel of our show
Are men more generous, or kind?
Then where`s your progress of the mind?"

(I think Bob Blair`s a trifle mad;
  They say so, too, around these parts;
An` he can be, when he`s reel bad,
  A holy terror once he starts.
dare say it`s readin` books an` such.
Thank God I never read too much!)

I says I`m sure I don`t know
  Where all this progress gets to now.
He smiles a bit an` answers low,
  "Maybe you`ll find out, lad, somehow.
But talkin` makes my old head whirl;
So you be off, an` - find that girl."

I says Good night, an` out I goes;
  But I was hardly at the door
When his old specs is on his nose,
  An` his book in his hand once more;
An`, as I take the track for home,
Bob Blair goes back to Ancient Rome.
Source
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