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C J Dennis - Nocturne
Work rating: Low

I`m standin` at the corner uv the Lane --
   The Land called Spadgers -- waiting fer `is jills.
The night`s come chilly, an` a drizzlin` rain
   Falls steady where a near-by street lamp spills
A gashly yeller light on stones all wet,
An` makes the darkest corners darker yet.

Them darkest corners!  `Struth!  Wot ain`t I `eard
   Uv dark deeds done there in the olden days,
When crooks inticed some silly sozzled bird
   Upstage, an` dealt with `im in unkind ways --
Bashed `im with bottles, woodened `im with boots.
Spadgers was rood to flush an` festive coots.

If you are flush in Spadgers, `tain`t good form
   To git too festive, if you valyer thrift.
To flash yer gilt an` go the pace too warm
   Might make the Lane regard yeh as a gift.
Ther`s nothin` loose they`re likely to ferget;
An` all yeh`ve left is `eadache an` regret.

Lestwise, that`s `ow it used to be.  They say
   The Lane`s reformed, an` took to honest trade.
An` so yeh`d think, to see it uv a day,
   All prim an` proper.  But when ev`nin`s shade
Comes down, an` fools as stacks uv beans to spill,
Why, `umin nacher`s `urnin nacher still.

Don`t git me wrong.  An` jist in case you might
   Misjudge the gents `oo plys their callin` there,
In Spadgers darkest corners uv a night,
   Wot time a shikkered mug `as gonce to spare,
I`d jist ixplain they takes their point uv view
Frum diff`rint angles to sich birds as you.

F`rinstance, s`posin` blokes like me an` you
   (`Oo is raspectabil, I `ope) should see
Some prodigal all `eadin` fer to do
   A one-ack "Road to Ruin" tragedy,
Would we jist let `im flop before our eyes
Or, bein` decint `umins, put `im wise?

Would we not try to `alt the wayward feet
   Uv this `ere errin` brother with a word
Before `is moril knock-out was complete?
   O` course we would.  Advice is cheap, I`ve `eard.
When sinners miss the step ther`s few men ain`t
Itchin` like `ell to preach, an` be a saint.

Well, s`pose again, the Lane should see a bloke
   Dead keen to splash around `is surplis wealth
On rapid livin` till `e`s bust an` broke
   An` rooned in repitation an` in `ealth,
Do they tork empty words, an` let `im go,
Jist for a chance to say, "I tole yeh so!"

Not them.  They say, " `Ere is a wasteful coot
   `Oo will be sorry ere tamorrer`s sun."
Per meejim, then, uv bottle or uv boot
   They learn `im wisdom, an` `is sinful fun
Is ended.  An`, for quick results, their style
`As all yer preachin` beaten be a mile.

Quick-action missionaries, you might say.
   When they sees some stray sheep inclined to roam
An` chuck `is `ealth an` character away,
   They takes stern measures for to lead `im `ome.
An`, if they reaps some profits at the game,
Well, `oo are me an` you to sling `em blame?

I`m standin` at the corner uv the Lane
   Toyin` with sich thorts idly, when I spys
A furtive coot come sloushin` through the rain
   An` stop to size me up with sidelong eyes.
An` then `e chats me, with the punkest tale
That ever got a bad man into jail.

I s`pose me face ain`t clear in that `arf-dark,
   Or else `e was near-sighted.  An` I s`pose
I mighter seemed to `im a easy mark --
   Me in me farmer`s `at an` country clo`es.
But, strike, it `urt me pride to think that `e
Would try to ring that old, old dope on me.

On me!  `Is make-up fairly yelled `is trade,
   Brandin` `im plain a low-down city gun.
The simple country mug was never made
   `0o`d wear sich duds.  It was all overdone:
`Is moleskin pants, `is carpet-bag, `is beard -
Like some cheap stage comeejin `e appeared.

"Hey, mate," `e w`ispers.  "Could yeh do a bloke
   A little favor?  Listen -- on the square --
I`ve done me tin.  I`m bottle-green, dead broke,
   An` can`t git `ome.  I `aven`t got me fare.
But `ere`s me watch -- reel gold -- belong to Dad.
Lend us a fiver on it, will yeh, lad?"

A reel gold watch!  Oh, `elp!  They worked that lay
   When I was jist a barefoot kid.  `Twas old
When cheap-jacks sweated for their `ard-earned pay
   At country shows.  I knoo the sort of gold --
Priced in the brumy shops four an` a zac;
An` `fore you git` `em `ome the gold`s gone black.

"Send I may live!" I sez.  "You got a nerve!
   That tale`s got w`iskers longer than your own.
A slice of cold, `ard quod`s wot you deserve
   For springin` duds like that!  Lea` me alone;
An` try some kindergarten with that lurk.
A man`s a right to crack you!  Aw, git work!"

But `e won`t take a `int nor `old `is jaw,
   This amacher in crime with brums to sell,
But breasts right up to me an` starts to paw.
   Now, likewise, that`s a game I know too well:
Pawin` with one `and while the other dips
Into yer -- "Back!" I yell, an` come to grips.

I grab `im be the throat an` shake `im good,
   Ixpectin` `is fake w`iskers to come loose.
"A rotten way to earn yer livli`ood!"
   I growl . . . `E grunts . . . `Is face is goin` puce.
"You imitation crook!" I sez agen.
"Wot do yeh mean by swin`lin` honest men?"

I shake `im `ard once more.  "The first John `Op
   That comes," I sez, "can `ave you for a gift!"
Me late idears uv thugs `as all gone flop:
   Me point uv view, some`ow,` `as seemed to shift;
`Tain`t philosophic, like it used to be,
Now someone`s took a fly at thuggin` me.

`E`s gurglin` nicely -- clawin` at the air.
   "You pest!" I sez.  "You scum!  You sewer rat!
Why can`t yeh earn yer livin` on the square,
   An` be raspectabil?" I`m gettin` that
Right-thinkin` I am all one virchus glow.
"Leg-gug-" `e gurgles, musical.  "Leggo!"

We made a pretty pitcher standin` there --
   Nocturne, as artists sez.  I felt, some`ow,
That, underneath the yeller lamp-light`s glare,
   `Is upturned face (It`s gittin` purple now)
Was sumpthin` painters would admire no end ....
Then a sharp voice be`ind me yelps, "Young friend!"

"Young friend," `e sez, su`prised, "wot-wot`s amiss?
   Yes; my ole parson friend.  I drops the crook.
"You are nustook, young friend," `e sez; "for this
   Is not the man for `oo we`ve conic to look."
Then `e stares closer at the gaspin` gun.
"Why!  Bless me `eart!" `e chirps.  "It`s Daniel Dunn!"

"It`s Mister Dunn," `e sez, "from Bungaroo!
   My farmer friend!" (`Ere was a flamin` mess!)
"Is this `ere coot," I arsts, "well knowed to you?"
   The parson takes another gig.  "Why, yes.
You`re Mister Dunn?" An` Whiskers answers "`Ick!"
I notice then that Daniel`s partly shick.

A dinkum farmer!  Strike!  I`m in all wrong!
   "Sorry," I sez.  "My fault.  `Ow could I tell?
I acted nervis when `e come along.
   But, if you`re sure, it might be jist as well
To intrajuice us, `coz it would appear
Ther`s been some slight misun`erstandin` `ere."

Then Snowy twinkles, an` pufforms the rite.
   (W`iskers `as got `is wind back with the spell)
"`Appy to meet yeh, sir," `e sez, perlite.
   "Don`t mention it," sez me.  "I `ope you`re well?`
"Not bad, consid`rin`," `e remarks (an` takes
Me `and) "the narsty weather." So we shakes.

Then I ixplain; an` W`iskers spills `is tale --
   The old yarn uv the mug `oo puts `is trust
In nice new city frien`s uv `is `oo fail
   To keep appointments, an` `e wakes up bust.
We spring a overdraft, an` leave `im there,
Bristlin` with gratiehood in every `air.

"Jist goes to show," I sez to Snowy then.
   "If I `ad not -- well, not detained yer friend,
`E mighter fallen in with reel rough men
   An` ended up all narsty in the end.
I feel to-night, some`ow, me luck`s dead in,
An` I could give some crook a rotten spin."

"Young friend," sez Snowy, solemn, "should we meet
   This man we seek to-night -- this feller Wegg,
Try to be diplermatic an` discreet;
   Reason with `im; no vi`lince, friend, I beg."
"Wot?  Vi`lince?  Me?" I chirps. (I`m bublin` now)
"Wot do yeh know bout that?  I`ll kiss the cow!"
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