Analysis of The Bucolics
Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis 1876 (Auburn) – 1938 (Melbourne)
Ladies and gentlemen: I take this opportunity
To introduce myself and mention that, much as we may deplore the fact, we are
essentially an agricultural community
Altho' in our metropolitan centres, millions may live and toil.
Most of us, directly or indirectly, exist by, thro', on and for the soil;
Our outlook is largely directed upon crops, prices, profits and 'The Main Chance,'
So that we rarely discover time or opportunity to glance
At the fine arts and higher culture of this and older lands, and gather unto
ourselves the satisfaction such contemplation lends
Therefore our guides, philosophers, mentors, leaders, teachers, and friends
Declare that, amongst the toilers of our race,
Such contemplation is utterly out of place.
And (altho' this may seem rather funny)
One cannot definitely enjoy 'culchaw' unless one is - now - possessed of
leisure and money.
To encourage it in the Common People is a vain and profitless thing.
Wherefore, I sing:-
The plough's in the furrow,
The cow's at the bail;
We delve and we burrow,
For nought may avail
Save toil thro' the seasons,
Material joy;
These, these be the reasons
For all our employ.
The mute Mona Lisa,
Praxiteles' art,
Such trifles as these are
Things quite, quite apart.
On, on with life's battle;
Wring sweat from the brow.
What's culture to cattle?
What's art to a cow?
To resume, ladies and gentlemen, the more comprehensible form of discourse I
had temporarily forsaken,
Is it not possible that our mentors, censors et al. may be sadly mistaken?
Or, stay, is it conceivable that they would lock and bar our halls of art and
culture at night
Lest the Common People might,
By some strange chance, absorb so much of the capacity for appreciation that
they would, in time, be able to patronise us?
Nay, even to advise us?
On certain aesthetic matters which - Perish the thought! For who would have
the heart
To vulgarise all Art?
For, consider; how were it possible to feel superior
When none remains any longer who, as one comfortably recognises, is inferior.
And so, for evermore,
Bar, bar and bolt the door
Of our Temple which enshrines works for the edification only of superior
mortals,
Lock, lock and double lock those portals!
Hide from vulgar gaze the treasures that therein lurk -
Except, of course, during those hours when the toilers are at work.
Melbourne, my Melbourne! Never let the souls of thy earthbound people into
the rarer regions take wing!
Wherefore, again, I sing:-
The swine's in his wallow,
Fat porkers are prime;
Then follow, come, follow,
'Tis lamb-tailin' time!
All golden the butter,
There's market for meat;
Tho' Mallee men mutter
Of smut in the wheat.
But 'paintin'' and pitcher'?
(Franz Hals, he was Dutch)
Ah, who grows the richer
For gawping at such?
A 'pitcher' by Carot?
A 'statcher' - all 'nood'?
One fills you with sorrow;
The other is 'rood.'
We toil for men's bodies,
Our minds all a-fog.
What's paintin' to poddies?
What's art to a hog?
Scheme | ABACCDDEFFGGAXAHH IJIJKLKL XMBMNONO XPPXQQXRRXMMSSTTSUUVVEHH IWIWSXSXSYSYAAIXXZDZ |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1001001110100 101101011111010111 0100101000100 1010010010101101 11101010010011110101 10111001001110100011 1111001011010011 10110101011010101010 001001010101 1101010010101001 01101011101 10101100111 011111010 110100001101111011 10010 10101001010101011 111 010010 01101 110110 11101 111010 01001 111010 111001 011010 11 110111 11101 111110 11101 110110 11101 10110010001010011101 10100010 1111001101010111110010 11110100111101101110 1011 1010101 11110111100100100101 1101110111 1101011 11001010110011111 01 1111 1010101100110100 110110101111000110100 01110 110101 110101111000101010100 10 110101110 111010101011 011110110101111 10110101011111001 0101011 10111 010110 11011 110110 1111 110010 11011 11110 11001 11010 11111 111010 1111 01011 0111 111110 01011 111110 101101 1111 11101 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 2,928 |
Words | 512 |
Sentences | 31 |
Stanzas | 5 |
Stanza Lengths | 17, 8, 8, 24, 20 |
Lines Amount | 77 |
Letters per line (avg) | 30 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 457 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 102 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 2:36 min read
- 118 Views
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"The Bucolics" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 24 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/6587/the-bucolics>.
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