"Do you like ours 'n' father's new book, Bay?"
"Aw, there's not any picture of the Santa-cart written in it!"
Oh! What a lot of lots of things For little boys to like!
THE BAY AND PADIE BOOK
The Writer wishes to thank the Editor of "The Bulletin," Sydney, for permission to reprint "Nonsense Immortal," and the Editor of "The Triad," Sydney, for a similar courtesy regarding "Kitchen Lullaby" and "Little Boys."
The BAY AND PADIE BOOK
By FURNLEY MAURICE
Illustrations by VERA HAMILTON and CYRIL DOBBS
Commonwealth of Australia Sydney J. Endacott Melbourne 1917
First Edition November 1917 Second Edition February 1918
Wholly set up and printed in Australia at the Galleon Press, Norris-street, Surrey Hills, Vic., for Sydney J. Endacott, 14 Cumming-street, Moonee Vale, Vic.
THE SHADOW SHOW
Trains with wheels and clouds of smoke, Funny crowds of dodging folk, Trams that run along with sparks, Sofa games and pillow larks, Grubs and ponies, worms and tigers, Sparrows on the tree, Oh! What a lot of lots of things For little boys to see!
Aeroplanes and paper darts, Woodmen driving broken carts, Minahs on the chimney tops, Swallows dodging near the shops, Barking pups that make the postman Fall down off his bike; Oh! What a lot of lots of things For little boys to like!
Great big pictures in big books, Pastry from the pastrycook's, Circuses and Mentone sand, Musics of the soldier band, Chocolates wrapped in silver paper So they won't get wet; Oh! What a lot of lots of things For little boys to get!
THE SOLDIER BAND
My mother and my father are both having tea to drink; Inside the pastry shop they saw me last. They don't know where I've got to, for I've runned from where they think; I heard the soldier band go marching past.
Oh, tiddley—om—ti—pomp they go! Stamp soldier, stamp! A cab-horse jumped into the air and bumped against a lamp. Ta—rah—ra—rah, the trumpets go telling the boys to come, And always and all the time, bang goes the drum.
Look at their lovely leather legs! The big brass things they blow! I don't care where I walk or who I meet, I'm following the band away to where the musics grow, I'm hitting my boots heavy on the street.
For I must find the music man that lets them play so loud, And find the funny place where soldiers go To fill their trumpets with the noise they blow among the crowd— It's not a tea and pastry shop I know.
Oh, I must find the music place, and stamp along the track, And try to let no trams run over me; If I'm a long, long way from home, the band will play me back, That's if I'm good and never spill my tea.
When I grow up a soldier man, I'll buy a pole to wag, With silver top and tassels red and blue; I'll tell my little brother to be carrying the flag, While I call out and tell him how to do.
I don't know where my father is, I've left him in a shop, And if I'm lost there's bound to be a noise; If fathers want their children, they should make the policeman stop The music of the bands that steal the boys.
Oh, tiddley—om—ti—pomp they go! Stamp, soldier, stamp! A captain with a silver sword is marching them to camp. Ta—rah—ra—rah, the trumpets go, telling the boys to come, And always and all the time, bang goes the drum.
Raid, raid, go away, Dote cub back udtil I say, That wote be for beddy a day.
Ad wot's the good of sudlight, dow? When I ab kept id bed, Ad rubbed ad poultised for to cure The cold that's id be head?
I've beed out od the kitched lawd, With dothig od be feet, Ad subthig's coffig id be deck Ad all be head's a heat.
Tell Bay to dot bake such a doise; Dote rud the cart so hard! For tissudt fair, just wud of us To rud arowd the yard.
Ad wed I try to say a tale, Or sig a little sog, The coffig cubs idtoo be deck Ad tickles dredful strog.
Ad wed is father cubbig obe? He'd dot be log he said— If this is jist a cold it bust Be awful to be dead!
Oh what a log, log day it is! Ibe tired of blocks ad books; I've cowted all the ceilig lides, I've thought of sheep ad chooks.
I've drawd a bad's face with a bo, I've drawed a pipe to sboke; Just wed I thought I was asleep I wedt ad thought I woke!
Wot's the good of sudlight dow, Ad wot's the good of raid? Ad wot's the good of eddythig Wed all your head's a paid?
Raid, raid go away, Ad dote cub back udtil I say, Ad that wote be for beddy a day.
WHOM THE GODS LOVE
He's so chubby and happy and wonderful, Dainty and perfectly made, That when he kicks at the sunbeams there, Out on the grass in his cradle chair, Somehow I feel afraid.
We ought to hide him away, I think, Real beauty was always a bane, If the gods get to know of his baby wiles, Of his firm round limbs, or his magic smiles, They'll want him back again.
The roads go out to Macedon, the roads go out to Rome, Some die in snowy Buffaloes and some turn home; I've done the Alps and Apennines, and Naples to the moon, For fancies cover splendid ground in a Summer afternoon. And then I come to gloryland, and whom do I see there But little Boyo Browneyes and Billy Wirehair?
Little Imps of Gloryland with great big eyes Follow me with questionings and laughter and surprise; Little cheeky pixie boys whom nothing can suppress, Whose pandects, codes and institutes are bound in mother's "Yes."
When Uncle comes in Sunday clothes they clamour to be kissed, Black-currants sticking to each face and pancakes in each fist. Four fists that is, all over jam, and four black sticky lips Just come from playing motor-chairs and sailing sofa-ships. And if you wander on the lawn untended in the dark With tricycles and wheelbarrows your shins will lose some bark!
For what's your talk of tidiness and putting things "right there" To little Boyo Browneyes and Billy Wirehair?
I'm picking up the channel or I'm trucking up the slope, I'm hauling on the shear-head with a length of yellow rope; No matter where I'm wandering, in dreaming or in fact, Wool-loaded down the blacksoil plains or past the desert tract, About the city clamorous with many brakes and bells, It takes no sweep of wizard wand nor moonlit fairy spells To bring me back to kitchen land, and whom do I see there But little Boyo Browneyes and Billy Wirehair!
Oh, Friday night's the laundry night, Down the street in the dark— And Saturday night's the picture night, When bands play in the park.
But Sunday morning is the time We do the pillow-peep, To see what things the fairies brought While two boys were asleep.
A mouse jumped into the watering-can And peeped out of the spout, And said: "If it wasn't for that young man I'm sure I could get out!"
But Sufi sprang from an unknown spot, And the two boys wondered, afraid, When he carried the mouse to a garden plot And played, and played, and played.
THE SKY IN THE POOL
Down by the glassy pool Sand and water meet, There's a little wooden stool, Marks of little feet.
When the broth was in the bowl, Mother called to-day; Mother called and no one came, Someone was away.
Then there came a little boy, Whose broth was very cool, Stuttering in wonderment, "The sky is in the pool!"
And mother wept, because the clear Depths of all pool-skies, The soul's wonder, the heart's fear,
There's women and there's men as well and little baby things, And some haves only dresses on and some of 'em haves wings, They nibble dandelions for meat, they drink the bubble frorf, They never spill their cocoa-milk all down the table-clorf, They never cry because it hurts, they always eat their brorf.
Last night we heard a trumpet in the tea-tree down the street, And Padie left the table that was full of things to eat, He galloped for the music that seemed not so far away, And neely found the fairies where the trumpet used to play!
Our mother went and catched him and he neely wasn't found, He neely fell into the creek through looking round and round. A naughty sea-shell cutted him, he had a bleedy toe, He lorst one Sunday sandal and he didn't seem to know; He only stood and wondered why all fairies live in moons, And go home in the twilight with their trumpets blowing tunes.
A WHISPER SONG
When you're coming in the door, Please come gently, very gently! Micky might be on the floor! Fact, he might be anywhere! Near the hallstand, by the stair! Hush! step gently, very gently! When you're coming in the door.
Tip-toe, tip-toe, hush the noise, There's a wide-eye-whisper tune! Micky's making songs for boys Sleepy after the afternoon.
Anyone seen Micky here? Him that lives above the ceiling? Sometimes far and sometimes near Boys have heard his little squealing.
Hush you! Hush! I heard a patter On the 'randah in the wet! Now'n again we've heard him chatter, But we've never seen him yet.
Tip-toe, tip-toe, through the house, 'Round the pantry, down the hall! P'raps he's only just a mouse, P'raps he's nuffing real at all.
Hush you! Hush! I think I hear Just a little noise of humming! If you see him waiting near, Please don't whisper him we're coming.
Someone smashed the photo-lady; Who upset the pot of musk? Was it Micky? Was it Padie Hunting Micky in the dusk?
In the after afternoons When there comes big, starey moons, Often we've heard Micky playing By the window, fairy tunes; But I don't know what he's saying In the after afternoons.
Anyone seen Micky, say, On the Coota-wattle perching? He might know and run away If he knows we're searching, searching.
When he talks to Bay and me, Micky doesn't seem to know It's too far for boys to see If he's in the trellis tree; It's too damp for boys to go Hunting in the grass below.
On the rafters in the night I've heard little footmarks trot; And I watch the candle light, Wondering if it's him or not.
Micky's always everywhere; Watches children while they sleeping; 'Round about the attic stair Sometimes mother saw him peeping.
Micky doesn't like much noise, He's a wide-eye whisper fairy; Very kind to girls and boys, Very shy and most contrary.
Tip-toe, tip-toe! Hush the noise! There's a wide-eye whisper tune! Micky's telling songs to boys Sleepy after the afternoon.
THE LADY NANCY
What's the gooder being good? Always every day Somefing comes and compradicks Everyfing I play.
I was digging in the garden And I digged me toe, Why do I do that for? I don't know!
Then I goes and chases Sufi, Sufi won't be chased: I falled over the wheelbarrow And hurted all me waist.
I tooks me little pictures out And laid them in a row, I told the wind to stop away And not come round and blow.
Up there comes a norful wind And brushed the lot away: Daddie, Gord's been 'noying me All this day.
THE HANGING SWORD
I used to stride like a warrior All hot for alarms, and game— But I'm not the fellow I was before The little babies came.
Now, furtive 'mid the city's noise, I pause, I start, I flee! For what would happen to my little boys If a tram ran over me?
From France or Spain or the Himalayas, Out of the hearts of unknown loons, In toothless mouths of old soothsayers, On hairy lips of wandering players Come the lullabies, come the croons.
Lords have lashed and poets have pondered, Blood has flowed in the runnels deep, Beacons have broken and faiths been squandered; Through dank forests these songs have wandered Quietly crooning our babes to sleep.
Grandmother melodies, grandmother fancies, Crooned by the Oxus ever endure! Epics of valour and throne romances Have much honour and take big chances, But the clowns who sang for the babes are sure.
The goblin speaks while in old caves moulder Priest-made destinies and lord-made law, The goblin leered from the monarch's shoulder And, his sight being true and his young heart bolder, 'Twas only the goblin the baby saw!
So the god's death agonies are baby chatter! A ball on the floor of the nursery room The red earth rolls, for what can matter If old John Spratt licks clean his platter And the brown cows go to the broom?
THE ROAD OF NOW AND THEN
Tinkle, tinkle go the bells, King and prince and silver knight March through stories grandma tells When the winter fire's alight.
Down the Road of Stories ride People who have never died; Fairies float and trumpets blow, Pretty soldiers fence and bow, On the Road from Long Ago, Long Ago till Now.
Johnnie Fawkner sailed a boat, There's its picture in the book; Roses, wreaths and banners float 'Round the head of Captain Cook.
In the time when knights were bold Ladies rode with bells and chains, Horses rugged in white and gold, Feather-legged with plaited manes.
Singing, Watch Europa go, Wearing thinner clothes than silk. Riding from the cattle show On her bull as white as milk.
Sturt he led a caravan, Kelly made the bankers jump; Leichardt was a camel-man Riding on a camel-hump.
Down the Road of Stories march Gentle-folk and bullock-men, Cracking whips and wearing starch
Down the Road of Stories go All the people that we know. Oh! what wonders grandmas show, Spectacles on brow, 'Bout the Road from Long Ago, Long Ago, Long Ago, 'Bout the Road from Long Ago, Long Ago till Now.
Half-past bunny-time, 'Possums by the moon; Tea and bread-and-honey time, Sleep-time soon.
Things that poets pant to see, The beautiful, the true, Are nothing to the phantasy The closed eyes view.
Steady in the kitchen, steady in the hall, Don't let the dipper or the gruel pot fall! The ole blind's flapping And the little dog's snapping At the butcher and the baker and the woodman when they call.
Ssh! ssh! ssh! for the little boy peeping, Ssh! ssh! ssh! did the milky make him start? Little boy sleeping, sleeping, sleeping, Little boy sleeping at his mother's heart.
What a lot of noises, carts and buzzing flies! Keep his little hands down, shut his little eyes; For the boys are larking And the dogs are barking And he can't go to bye-low though he tries and tries.
Ssh! ssh! ssh! for the little boy blinking, Blinking at the fairies who are wanting him to go; Little boy thinking, thinking, thinking, Little boy thinking if he will or no.
Rubs his little eye for to push the sleep away; Better on the lawn is it? Watching spriggies play? Minahs and starlings, But no such darlings As the little boy that's never been to sleep this day.
Ssh! ssh! ssh! for the big eyes gleaming, Dee, dee, softly his mother sings; Little boy dreaming, dreaming, dreaming, Fluttering to bye-low on bull-fly wings.
Kiddies must have little shoes Softly buckled round their toes, Rompers wrought in butcher blues, That's the way the money goes.
In the Summer silky cool Fabrics foaming in the breeze; In the Winter muffling wool— We must buy our kiddies these.
Woolly gaiters, tasselled hoods, Mantles soft that flow and fall, All the very best of foods, All the very best of all.
Babies must have songs for sleep, Anxious watchings night and day, Kisses if they laugh or weep, So the ripe hours rush away.
And for this we pay (it seems We may not serve visions, too) With our high neglected dreams, With great things we meant to do.
They mean such a wonderful lot to me, It's quite absurd how my soul is smitten With Padie, who's four, and Bay, who's three, And Sufi, a Persian kitten!
So mother must worry, and father must fuss, But I'll fake these songs to a sadder version When manhood steals the boys from us, And the Bottle-o pinches the Persian!
The butcher comed and he bringed no meat, But he crawled in the poultry pen, And he putted his hand among they feet, And catched the father hen.
He catched it as hard as anything, But it didn't once crowed at all, And he tied its feet with a bundle of string And hanged it up on the wall.
And now and again its wings went flap, But that didn't frighten me! I runned for my little brother chap To come outside and see.
The father hen's not crowing now, The ittooest ittoo bit; We're going to tell our father how The butcher's hurted it!
Our father has mended the bathroom door And the leg of the rocking chair: He mended the fence long time before, And he bought my horse some hair.
He made the bikes so they wouldn't squeal, And he made the bunny to talk; He hammered some tacks in the engine wheel When the engine couldn't walk.
And he cured the teddy when it was dead, And he mended the barrow for me— So father will mend the rooster's head Before he haves his tea.
THE CONCERT IN THE GARDEN
The wheelbarrow wept to the willows And Padie called out for a hymn: He dabbled his boots on the pillows And the minister looked quite grim.
While the Emu turned the pages The Wallaby sang with zest, Of the error in uncle's wages While the chairs all turned to the West.
The Baker paused with a frigid stare And his heels apart, of course; And the shell-back sprang from his sunny lair With his hand upon his horse.
The rooster's grandma nursed the cat, Which uttered nor purr nor sound, While the Platypus followed the Minister's hat Around and round and round.
Sit up in your beds and hark! Something said "meow" in the dark! Was it a gentleman saying some prayers? Was it a mousie trapped under the stairs? Was it a manager stealing some shares Or a newspaper having a lark? Sit up in your beds and hark! Something said "meow" in the dark! Would you your treasures securely keep, Never turn lamps out and never go sleep.
THE COMING OF BAY
Bay doesn't stay in the stars any more; He didn't much cry nor care When God pushed him out of a big star door Into the everywhere.
I ringed him up on the telephome And down he flied to me! Didn't you know how Bay came home? I got the push-cart, see? And wheeled him in the front-yard door Just one way and another, I didn't make mud-marks on the floor, Or scratch the paint on the front-way door, 'Cos I am a careful brother; I putted him into the new white cot, I covered him up till he grew quite hot, And then called mother to see; So Bay doesn't stay in the stars any more But only with mother and me.
The grandmas talked with worried eyes And said it was a shame— Nobody wanted Littley then Before our Littley came.
Boyo's nose will be out of joint, He's a toddling baby yet, And now there's another one coming along, Poor little pet!
But Littley rode through the storm of doubt And the cloud of the troubled brow; Nobody wanted Littley then— But you should hear them now!
They say I'm a bad-tempered man, And yet I never swear When flop into my porridge Comes a woolly Teddy Bear!
They say I'm an impatient man, And yet I never shoot When, after breakfasting, I find Damp toffy in my boot!
And when my wife and my two sons Are dutifully kissed, I don't go crook if I'm called back When Sufi has been missed!
I'm always on the scowl and quick To censure or condemn; But, somehow things seem different With little boys like them.
Strike, strike, strike again, Bump them on the head; Every minute somebody, Falls down dead.
Algernons and Berts Washing out their shirts, Babies in the bed Crying for some bread. Gentlemen with brains, Looking for their trains.
Strike, strike, strike again, Always on the head; Every minute somebody Drops down dead.
MASTER IN EQUITY
Did I hear the two boys say, "Two boys have been good to-day?" Santa's schooner's lost a sail, Someone tored it with a nail, What's that mark on Sufi's tail? I dunno, da you? Did boys eat they trifle slow When they mother told them to? I dunno, I dunno, I dunno, da you?
Who's been cutting Sufi's hair? There's a broken dish I see; Padie, don't be hiding there, Bring my slippers out to me. Both boys have been good they say, Only cried an ittoo bit; Anyone been fighting Bay, Two new scars since yesterday? That was just a weeny hit, 'Cos he'd always want to sit On the picture of the train Just when I was reading it. Two boys have been good again. Two boys didn't do some more What they were said not to do, Two boys have been good it's true! On the lawn's a splendid show, Twenteen firewoods in a row! Where does this hand-mirror go? I dunno, I dunno! Wheelmarks on the front-room floor, Sunday cake forks spread out too! Mudprints on the kitchen door—
Wonder how they got there for? I dunno, I dunno, I dunno, da you?
Did I hear the two boys say, "Two boys have been good to-day?" Why is mother worried so? All these good things can't be true. Have the boys been good who show Scratches red and bruises blue? I dunno, I dunno, I dunno, da you?
Come and have your bath, boys, Two boys together, Rolling on the lawn all day In the dusty weather. Padie, jump into the water, Soak the brown legs white; Come and have your bath, boys, No heads to-night!
Boats to sail and feets to scrub Feets and faces too; Sliding 'round the 'namel tub Frowing soap at you; Drop your scooter quick, Bay, Everything's all right, Didn't you hear mother say No heads to-night?
THE ORDER OF THE BED
Say about the Three Pigs, And what the soldier said, Wynken song and Tom, Tom, And piggy-back to bed.
Little boys are sleepy, sleepy, Never mind they prayers, Let them wait for mother here, Father's knees for chairs. Sufi, singing like a kettle, Or a nightingale, Puts his nose against our toes And smoothes them with his tail.
Here comes mother with the blankets Bundled on her chest, Holding them and folding them For two boys' nest. Boys washed and pillows patted, Everything's all right, Picture books to cuddoo up, And please leave the light.
Hey Dee and Hey Ho! And little Bo-Peep, One story, two songs, To make the boys asleep. Say about Red Riding Hood And what the Bunyip said, Wynken song and Tom, Tom, And piggy-back to bed.
Please can I have a light, mother? I never know what to do When the Three Bears ride on the White Bell-horse, And the Mermaid gallops to Banbury Cross, And the Cheshire Cat says "Moo!"
Gnomes come round with prickly wings And squeeze in under the clo's, The dark gets full of story things, The window-moon says "Fee, fo, fum!" And the Pigs that went to market come And nibble at my toes!
Two big eyes walk round the room, Fierce Pirate Ships go by; And Sleeping Beauty straddles a broom And falls all down the sky; The Man in the Moon waits underneath And gobbles her up with great big teeth, And that's what makes me cry!
The things you tell in the afternoon Get mixed and won't come right; "Fee-fo-fum!" says the Window-Moon— It's the little candle they fear, mother, Will you leave the candle here, mother? Please can I have a light?
It would appear that no great pleasures can be Without their merit of trial and urgency: For I do know a lady whose rare joys Wake when she has tucked in two little boys.
Two brown heads on the pillows white.... Bye ... good-bye ... that's all to-night.
Two bikes 'round in the picnic place ... Old horse tied to the apple-case.
Gentle Jesus ... send the boys, Bats and balls for they winter toys.
Sufi's naughty ... not 'lowed out.... Pigeon feathers blowing about.
Two bikes 'round in the ... two bikes 'round.... Feathers blowing ... the scooter's found.
God bless Jesus ... Bay's asleep ... Where's my pillow-book? ... Soul to keep.
Two bikes ... two ... are the stars alight? Bye ... good-bye ... that's all ... t'night.
Two brown heads on the pillows deep, Two boys mumble theyselfs to sleep.
The original pages each have a verse of "A Whisper Song" appearing as a sidenote. Since this also appears on its own as a poem I removed the sidenoted verses from the text version to make it less disjointed. The sidenoted verses were, however, retained for the html.