Robert William Service
The Hinterland
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
Oh, It Is Good
Oh, it is good to drink and sup, And then beside the kindly fire To smoke and heap the faggots up, And rest and dream to heart’s desire. Oh, it is good to ride
Old Boy Scout
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
Work And Joy
Each day I live I thank the Lord I do the work I love; And in it find a rich reward, All price and praise above. For few may do the work they love,
Retired
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
Titine
Although I have a car of class, A limousine, I also have a jenny ass I call Titine. And if I had in sober sense To choose between, I know I’d give the preference
The Goat And I
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
The Harpy
There was a woman, and she was wise; woefully wise was she; She was old, so old, yet her years all told were but a score and three; And she knew by heart, from
Repentance
“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
Horatio
His portrait hung upon the wall. Oh how at us he used to stare. Each Sunday when I made my call! And when one day it wasn’t there, Quite quick I seemed to understand
The Land God Forgot
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
Tipperary Days
Oh, weren’t they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them, Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare; Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them, Swinging on to glory and
Reptiles And Roses
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
While The Bannock Bakes
Light up your pipe again, old chum, and sit awhile with me; I’ve got to watch the bannock bake how restful is the air! You’d little think that we were somewhere north of Sixty-three,
Violet De Vere
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’