The Potato Market--Irish Blight in N.S.W.--Effect in W.A.--Potatoes Pounds 25 a Ton--Dissatisfaction
in Tasmania--Scaband Eel Worm in Warrnamtoool--New Zealand Biologist's Opinion--Recent Excited Newspaper Headings.
O spud ! Neglected spud ! Most highly prized
By farming men, but wholly, ostracised
By poets, Nay, my faith, why should this be ?
O hapless spud ! I'll bring my lute for thee.
They praise the daisy and the violet,
The flaunting poppy and the mignonette;
They sing of withered roses, bloom and
And other vegetables, Now the spud.
Avaunt ! I see some unpoetic boor
Smile that I should immortalise the poor
Potato, languishing beneath the soil.
He knows it but to roast or fry or boil.
A boiled potato by the gravy's brim,
A toothsome boiled potato is to him
And nought beside. His sausages and mash,
Potato pie, potatoes in his hash.
These doth he know and eke appreciate.
O ione, defenceless spudlet, what a fate !
Thou knowest well the world s cold apathy.
May not a poet sympathise with thee ;
Thy fair brown form or mayhap
siightly red Resting, expectant, in its earthy bed—
What grace is here ! Originality !
No other vegetable's like to thee.
The apple, stiff, symmetrical, severe,
The pear the pumpkin carrot—all appear
Uncouthly regular; ail apt to be
Offensive in their similarity.
But what surprises rare doth thou present,
With here a lump, and here a gentle dent,
And there a knob, and there a cavity,
And there an eye where e'en a nose should be.
And then, thine eyes ! On this side frowning low,
With brows o'erhung—a very spud or woe.
Then lo, we turn thee on the other side,
And here thy roguish eyes are smiling wide.
Ah me, I know ye all, and passing well :
"Prolific," "Coronation," and "Brunell,"
The "Snowflake"' and the "Early Kidney" kind,
And others that I cannot call to mind.
So, resting in thy subterranean bed,
Thou dreamest till the autumn months are sped,
With nought to sadden thy existence bright
Unless, perchance, the Scab or Irish Blight.
Mayhap thou dream'st. who knows ? while resting there,
Some heaven awaits thee in the upper air,
Where superphosphate flows in joyful floods
To gladden locomotive super-spuds.
But now, when prices reach "so much" per ton
Thv happy, speculative days are done.
Then comes a callous boor, with digging fork,
Who makes a living out of thee and pork.
An unpoetic boor, whose sole desire
Is to see prices mounting high and higher ;
An earthy boor, with clay upon his pants,
Who comes to cull thee for smug sycophants.
Smug sycophants, who sing thy praises low,
As, thou art "floury," "white," or so and so;
And, praising, eat and end thee in a breath.
Thine breath the unhappy missionary's death.
All, what a fate ! Dreamed thou of this at home ?
When lying snugly in thy native loam
Did'st know of what the future held in store ?
Surely ambition craved for something more.
A very clod is he who cannot feel
The tragedy of cast potato peel.
But. O ! What hints of horror freeze the blood
Of him who contemplates a cold boiled spud ! !
A cold boiled spud of some far yester-meal ;
A sodden thing, sans life, sans eyes, sans peel ;
The very emblem of a blighted life ;
A thing immune from the assaulting knife.
For who would seek, to cut a cold, dead spud
Is capable of murder in cold blood;
From him all sense of reverence is fled ;
He'd gaily desecrate the cherished dead.
Cold spuds ! O what dank tragedy is here !
What chill suggestion of a clammy fear !
A corse-like symbol of frail human clay
And resolutions of last New Year's Day.
Cold with the coldness of the mouldy tomb ;
Dank with the dankness of a charnel-room ;
Cold as the sympathy small poets get ;
Sodden as some dead sin : and colder yet.
I knew a man who ate potatoes cold !
I would not, for the wealth of kings untold,
Venture abroad with him on some dark night
For fear I should behold some ghastly sight.
He wears a gloomy air; his white, fat face
Marks him a member of some haunted race ;
His eyes are dull, he hath a clammy fist :
He is a most confirmed misogamist.
His eyes are dull, he hath a clammy fist :
He is a most confirmed misogamist.
He has a grating voice of mournful tone :
At night he prowls in cemetries alone ;
His-veins run water, never warm, red blood.
For he hath eaten the Forbidden Spud !
Enough ! How can I ponder on the thing
That farmers with long hours of labor bring
To life, and light, and air, and bright blue sky,
But that it ignominiously shall die ?
Yet there be other things I fain would tell,
But that methinks I hear the dinner bell
Reluctantly I lay aside my pen,
And so, to dinner . . What's this?
MASHED AGAIN !
--DEN. (C. J. Dennis)
Notes
From the Adelaide Newspaper The Critic 29 September 1909 p. 10.
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