Robert William Service

You speak to me, but does your speech With truest truth your thought convey? I listen to your words and each Is what I wait to hear you say. The pattern that your lips

A bonny bird I found today Mired in a melt of tar; Its silky breast was silver-grey, Its wings were cinnabar. So still it lay right in the way Of every passing car. Yet

I used to sing, when I was young, The joy of idleness; But now I’m grey I hold my tongue, For frankly I confess If I had not some job to do I would

Each sunny day upon my way A goat I pass; He has a beard of silver grey, A bell of brass. And all the while I am in sight He seems to muse, And

“If you repent,” the Parson said,” Your sins will be forgiven. Aye, even on your dying bed You’re not too late for heaven.” That’s just my cup of tea, I thought, Though for my

The lonely sunsets flare forlorn Down valleys dreadly desolate; The lordly mountains soar in scorn As still as death, as stern as fate. The lonely sunsets flame and die; The giant valleys gulp the

So crystal clear it is to me That when I die I cease to be, All else seems sheer stupidity. All promises of Paradise Are wishful thinking, preacher’s lies, Dogmatic dust flung in our

You’ve heard of Violet de Vere, strip-teaser of renown, Whose sitting-base out-faired the face of any girl in town; Well, she was haled before the Bench for breachin’ of the Peace, Which signifies araisin’

There’s a cry from out the loneliness oh, listen, Honey, listen! Do you hear it, do you fear it, you’re a-holding of me so? You’re a-sobbing in your sleep, dear, and your lashes, how

‘A ticket for the lottery I’ve purchased every week,’ said she ‘For years a score Though desperately poor am I, Oh how I’ve scrimped and scraped to buy One chance more. Each week I

The sunshine seeks my little room To tell me Paris streets are gay; That children cry the lily bloom All up and down the leafy way; That half the town is mad with May,

I think the things I own and love Acquire a sense of me, That gives them value far above The worth that others see. My chattels are of me a part: This chair on

She I’m waiting for the man I hope to wed. I’ve never seen him – that’s the funny part. I promised I would wear a rose of red, Pinned on my coat above my

Ho! we were strong, we were swift, we were brave. Youth was a challenge, and Life was a fight. All that was best in us gladly we gave, Sprang from the rally, and leapt

He burned a hole in frozen muck, He pierced the icy mould, And there in six-foot dirt he struck A sack or so of gold. He burned holes in the Decalogue, And then it

If fortune had not granted me To suck the Muse’s teats, I think I would have liked to be A sweeper of the streets; And city gutters glad to groom, Have heft a bonny

I opened wide the bath-room door, And all at once switched on the light, When moving swift across the floor I saw a streak of ebon bright: Then quick, with slipper in my hand,

Oh I am neither rich nor poor, No worker I dispoil; Yet I am glad to be secure From servitude and toil. For with my lifelong savings I Have bought annuity; And so unto

Just think! some night the stars will gleam Upon a cold, grey stone, And trace a name with silver beam, And lo! ’twill be your own. That night is speeding on to greet Your

By parents I would not be pinned, Nor in my home abide, For I was wanton as the wind And tameless as the tide; So scornful of domestic hearth, And bordered garden path, I

She risked her all, they told me, bravely sinking The pinched economies of thirty years; And there the little shop was, meek and shrinking, The sum of all her dreams and hopes and fears.

In the wilds of Madagascar, Dwelt a Boola-boola maid; For her hand young men would ask her, But she always was afraid. Oh that Boola-boola maid She was living in the shade Of a

Because I have no garden and No pence to buy, Before the flower shop I stand And sigh. The beauty of the Springtide spills In glowing posies Of voilets and daffodils And roses. And

We pitied him because He lived alone; His tiny cottage was His only own. His little garden had A wall around; Yet never was so glad A bit of ground. It seemed to fair

I met an ancient man who mushed With Peary to the Pole. Said I, “In all that land so hushed What most inspired your soul?” He looked at me with bleary eye, He scratched

(Retold in Rhyme) They threw him in a prison cell; He moaned upon his bed. And when he crept from coils of hell: “Last night you killed,” they said. “last night in drunken rage

. . . So I walked among the willows very quietly all night; There was no moon at all, at all; no timid star alight; There was no light at all, at all; I

“I’ll do the old dump in a day,” He told me in his brittle way. “Two more, I guess, I’ll give to Rome Before I hit the trail for home; But while I’m there

I hate my neighbour Widow Green; I’d like to claw her face; But if I did she’d make a scene And run me round the place: For widows are in way of spleen A

The night before I left Milan A mob jammed the Cathedral Square, And high the tide of passion ran As politics befouled the air. A seething hell of human strife, I shrank back from

What d’ye think, lad; what d’ye think, As the roaring crowds go by? As the banners flare and the brasses blare And the great guns rend the sky? As the women laugh like they’d

O Teddy Bear! with your head awry And your comical twisted smile, You rub your eyes do you wonder why You’ve slept such a long, long while? As you lay so still in the

I’d rather be the Jester than the Minstrel of the King; I’d rather jangle cap and bells than twang the stately harp; I’d rather make his royal ribs with belly-laughter ring, Than see him

Said he: “I’ll dive deep in the Past, And write a book of direful days When summer skies were overcast With smoke of humble hearths ablaze; When War was rampant in the land, And

I would rather drink than eat, And though I superbly sup, Food, I feel, can never beat Delectation of the cup. Wine it is that crowns the feast; Fish and fowl and fancy meat

I have a tiny piney wood; My trees are only fifty, Yet give me shade and solitude For they are thick and thrifty. And every day to me they fling With largess undenying, Fat

What have we done, Oh Lord, that we Are evil starred? How have we erred and sinned to be So scourged and scarred? Lash us, Oh Lord, with scorpion whips, We can but run;

Old Man Death’s a lousy heel who will not play the game: Let Graveyard yawn and doom down crash, he’ll sneer and turn away. But when the sky with rapture rings and joy is

My poem may be yours indeed In melody and tone, If in its rhythm you can read A music of your own; If in its pale woof you can weave Your lovelier design, ‘Twill

For oh, when the war will be over We’ll go and we’ll look for our dead; We’ll go when the bee’s on the clover, And the plume of the poppy is red: We’ll go

Obit 23rd April 1616 Is it not strange that on this common date, Two titans of their age, aye of all Time, Together should renounce this mortal state, And rise like gods, unsullied and

But yesterday I banked on fistic fame, Figgerin’ I’d be a champion of the Ring. Today I’ve half a mind to quit the Game, For all them rosy dreams have taken wing, Since last

When I go on my morning walk, Because I’m mild, If I be in the mood to talk I choose a child. I’d rather prattle with a lass Of tender age Than converse in

Of twin daughters I’m the mother – Lord! how I was proud of them; Each the image of the other, Like two lilies on one stem; But while May, my first-born daughter, Was angelic

The Elders of the Tribe were grouped And squatted in the Council Cave; They seemed to be extremely pooped, And some were grim, but all were grave: The subject of their big To-do Was

Lone amid the cafe’s cheer, Sad of heart am I to-night; Dolefully I drink my beer, But no single line I write. There’s the wretched rent to pay, Yet I glower at pen and

There were twin artists A. and B. Who painted pictures two, And hung them in my galley For everyone to view; The one exhibited by A. The name “A Sphere” did bear, While strangely

If you had a friend strong, simple, true, Who knew your faults and who understood; Who believed in the very best of you, And who cared for you as a father would; Who would

A hundred years is a lot of living I’ve often thought. and I’ll know, maybe, Some day if the gods are good in giving, And grant me to turn the century. Yet in all

Said I: “See yon vast heaven shine, What earthly sight diviner? Before such radiant Design Why doubt Designer?” Said he: “Design is just a thought In human cerebration, And meaningless if Man is not