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C J Dennis - Grey Thrush
Work rating: Low

Grey thrush was in the wattle tree, an`, "Oh, you pretty dear!"
He says in his allurin` way; an` I remarks, "Hear, hear!
  That does me nicely for a start; but what do I say next?"
  But then the Jacks take up the song, an` I get very vexed.

The thrush was in the wattle tree, an` I was underneath.
I`d put a clean white collar on, I`d picked a bunch of heath;
  For I was cleaned an` clobbered up to meet my Nell that day.
  But now my awful trouble comes: What is a man to say?

I mean to tell her all I`ve thought since first I saw her there,
On the bark-heap by the mill-shed, with the sunlight in her hair.
  I mean to tell her all I`ve done an` what I`ll do with life;
  An`, when I`ve said all that an` more, I`ll ask her for my wife.

I mean to tell her she`s too good, by far, for such as me,
An` how with lonely forest life she never may agree.
  I mean to tell her lots of things, an` be reel straight an` fine;
  And, after she`s considered that, I`ll ask her to be mine.

I seen her by the sassafras, the sun was on her hair;
An` I don`t know what come to me to see her standin` there.
  I never even lifts my hat, I never says "Good day"
  To her that should be treated in a reel respectful way.

I only know the girl I want is standin` smilin` there
Right underneath the sassafras. I never thought I`d dare,
  But I holds out my arms to her, an` says, as I come near—
  Not one word of that speech of mine—but, "Oh, you pretty dear !"

It was enough. Lord save a man! It`s simple if he knew,
There`s one way with a woman if she loves you good an` true.
  Next moment she is in my arms; an` me? I don`t know where.
  If Heaven can compare with it I won`t fret much up there.

"Why, Mister Jim," she says to me. "You`re very bold," says she.
"Yes, miss," I says. Then she looks up—an` that`s the end of me….
  "O man !" she cries. "O modest man, if you go on like this—"
  But I interrupt a lady, an` I do it with a kiss.

"Jim, do you know what heroes are?" says she, when I`d "behaved." 
"Why, yes," says I. "They`re blokes that save fair maids that won`t be saved."
  "You`re mine," says she, an` smiles at me, "an` will be all my life—
  That is, if it occurs to you to ask me for your wife."

    
Grey thrush is in the wattle tree when I get home that day
Back to my silent, lonely house—an` still he sings away.
  There is no other voice about, no step upon the floor;
  An` none to come an` welcome me as I get to the door.

Yet in the happy heart of me I play at make-believe: 
I hear one singin` in the room where once I used to grieve;
  I hear a light step on the path, an`, as I reach the gate,
  A happy voice, that makes me glad, tells me I`m awful late.

Now what`s a man to think of that, an` what`s a man to say, 
Who`s been out workin` in the bush, tree-fallin`, all the day?
  An` how`s a man to greet his wife, if she should meet him here ?
  But Grey Thrush in the wattle tree says, "Oh, you pretty dear !"
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