Robert William Service

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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,

In the Northland there were three Pukka Pliers of the pen; Two of them had Fame in fee And were loud and lusty men; By them like a shrimp was I – Yet alas!

“Gather around me, children dear; The wind is high and the night is cold; Closer, little ones, snuggle near; Let’s seek a story of ages old; A magic tale of a bygone day, Of

So easy ’tis to make a rhyme, That did the world but know it, Your coachman might Parnassus climb, Your butler be a poet. Then, oh, how charming it would be If, when in

Only a Leather Medal, hanging there on the wall, Dingy and frayed and faded, dusty and worn and old; Yet of my humble treasures I value it most of all, And I wouldn’t part

Three men I saw beside a bar, Regarding o’er their bottle, A frog who smoked a rank cigar They’d jammed within its throttle. A Pasha frog it must have been So big it as

The English and the French were met Upon the field of future battle; The foes were formidably set And waiting for the guns to rattle; When from the serried ranks of France The English

I do not swear because I am A sweet and sober guy; I cannot vent a single damn However hard I try. And in viruperative way, Though I recall it well, I never, never,

I grabbed the new Who’s Who to see My name – but it was not. Said I: “The form they posted me I filled and sent – so what?” I searched the essies,” dour

The meal was o’er, the lamp was lit, The family sat in its glow; The Mother never ceased to knit, The Daughter never slacked to sew; The Father read his evening news, The Son

A grey gull hovered overhead, Then wisely flew away. ‘In half a jiffy you’ll be dead,’ I thought I heard it say; As there upon the railway line, Checking an urge to cough, I

When your marrer bone seems ‘oller, And you’re glad you ain’t no taller, And you’re all a-shakin’ like you ‘ad the chills; When your skin creeps like a pullet’s, And you’re duckin’ all the

God gave you guts: don’t let Him down; Brace up, be worthy of His giving. The road’s a rut, the sky’s a frown; I know you’re plumb fed up with living. Fate birches you,

I keep collecting books I know I’ll never, never read; My wife and daughter tell me so, And yet I never head. “Please make me,” says some wistful tome, “A wee bit of yourself.”

I’ve been sittin’ starin’, starin’ at ‘is muddy pair of boots, And tryin’ to convince meself it’s ‘im. (Look out there, lad! That sniper ‘e’s a dysey when ‘e shoots; ‘E’ll be layin’ of

To buy for school a copy-book I asked my Dad for two-pence; He gave it with a gentle look, Although he had but few pence. ‘Twas then I proved myself a crook And came

They asked the Bard of Ayr to dine; The banquet hall was fit and fine, With gracing it a Lord; The poet came; his face was grim To find the place reserved for him

At school I never gained a prize, Proving myself the model ass; Yet how I watched the wistful eyes, And cheered my mates who topped the class. No envy in my heart I found,

Would it be loss or gain To hapless human-kind If we could feel no pain Of body or of mind? Would it be for our good If we were calloused so, And God in

In London City I evade For charming Burlington Arcade – For thee in youth I met a maid By name of Mazie, Who lost no time in telling me The Ritz put up a

From torrid heat to frigid cold I’ve rovered land and sea; And now, with halting heart I hold My grandchild on my knee: Yet while I’ve eighty years all told, Of moons she has

I deem that there are lyric days So ripe with radiance and cheer, So rich with gratitude and praise That they enrapture all the year. And if there is a God babove, (As they

Said Will: “I’ll stay and till the land.” Said Jack: “I’ll sail the sea.” So one went forth kit-bag in hand, The other ploughed the lea. They met again at Christmas-tide, And wistful were

Though I defy the howling horde As bloody-browed I smite, Back to the wall with shattered sword When darkly dooms the night; Though hoarse they cheer as I go down Before their bitter odds,

Black ants have made a musty mound My purple pine tree under, And I am often to be found, Regarding it with wonder. Yet as I watch, somehow it;s odd, Above their busy striving

Bob Briggs went in for Government, And helps to run the State; Some day they say he’ll represent His party in debate: But with punk politics his job, I do not envy Bob. Jim

It’s fine to have a blow-out in a fancy restaurant, With terrapin and canvas-back and all the wine you want; To enjoy the flowers and music, watch the pretty women pass, Smoke a choice

As home from church we two did plod, “Grandpa,” said Rosy, “What is God?” Seeking an answer to her mind, This is the best that I could find. . . . God is the

If starry space no limit knows And sun succeeds to sun, There is no reason to suppose Our earth the only one. ‘Mid countless constellations cast A million worlds may be, With each a

You talk o’ prayer an’ such – Well, I jest don’t know how; I guess I got as much Religion as a cow. I fight an’ drink an’ swear; Red hell I often raise,

“Tuberculosis should not be,” The old professor said. “If folks would hearken unto me ‘Twould save a million dead. Nay, no consumptive needs to die, A cure have I. “From blood of turtle I’ve

Alas! I am only a rhymer, I don’t know the meaning of Art; But I learned in my little school primer To love Eugene Field and Bret Harte. I hailed Hoosier Ryley with pleasure,

His face was like a lobster red, His legs were white as mayonnaise: “I’ve had a jolly lunch,” he said, That Englishman of pleasant ways. “Thy do us well at our hotel: In England

The chapel looms against the sky, Above the vine-clad shelves, And as the peasants pass it by They cross themselves. But I alone, I grieve to state, Lack sentiment divine: A citified sophisticate, I

I I took the clock down from the shelf; “At eight,” said I, “I shoot myself.” It lacked a minute of the hour, And as I waited all a-cower, A skinful of black, boding

(France, August first, 1914) Far and near, high and clear, Hark to the call of War! Over the gorse and the golden dells, Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells, Praying and saying of wild

Dusting my books I spent a busy day: Not ancient toes, time-hallowed and unread, But modern volumes, classics in their way, Whose makers now are numbered with the dead; Men of a generation more

My stretcher is one scarlet stain, And as I tries to scrape it clean, I tell you wot I’m sick with pain For all I’ve ‘eard, for all I’ve seen; Around me is the

I stood before a candy shop Which with a Christmas radiance shone; I saw my parents pass and stop To grin at me and then go on. The sweets were heaped in gleamy rows;

Ma tried to wash her garden slacks but couldn’t get ’em clean And so she thought she’d soak ’em in a bucket o’ benzine. It worked all right. She wrung ’em out then wondered

My Daddy used to wallop me for every small offense: “Its takes a hair-brush back,” said he, “to teach kids common-sense.” And still to-day I scarce can look a hair-brush in the face. Without

You’ve heard of Julot the apache, and Gigolette, his mome. . . . Montmartre was their hunting-ground, but Belville was their home. A little chap just like a boy, with smudgy black mustache, Yet

‘Twas on an iron, icy day I saw a pirate gull down-plane, And hover in a wistful way Nigh where my chickens picked their grain. An outcast gull, so grey and old, Withered of

I am the Cannon King, behold! I perish on a throne of gold. With forest far and turret high, Renowned and rajah-rich am I. My father was, and his before, With wealth we owe

When I was small the Lord appeared Unto my mental eye A gentle giant with a beard Who homed up in the sky. But soon that vasty vision blurred, And faded in the end,

My Louis loved me oh so well And spiered me for his wife; He would have haled me from the hell That was my bawdy life: The mother of his bairns to be, Daftlike

Although my blood I’ve shed In war’s red wrath, Oh how I darkly dread Its aftermath! Oh how I fear the day Of my release, When I must face the fray Of phoney peace!

It isn’t the foe that we fear; It isn’t the bullets that whine; It isn’t the business career Of a shell, or the bust of a mine; It isn’t the snipers who seek To

Till midnight her needle she plied To finish her pretty pink dress; “Oh, bless you, my darling,” she sighed; “I hope you will be a success.” As she entered the Oddfellow’s Hall With the

He took the grade in second – quite a climb, Dizzy and dangerous, yet how sublime! The road went up and up; it curved around The mountain and the gorge grew more profound. He

The man above was a murderer, the man below was a thief; And I lay there in the bunk between, ailing beyond belief; A weary armful of skin and bone, wasted with pain and

Before I drink myself to death, God, let me finish up my Book! At night, I fear, I fight for breath, And wake up whiter than a spook; And crawl off to a bistro

On silver sand where ripples curled I counted sea-gulls seven; Shy, secret screened from all the world, And innocent as heaven. They did not of my nearness know, For dawn was barely bright, And

Time, the Jester, jeers at you; Your life’s a fleeting breath; Your birthday’s flimsy I. O. U. To that old devil, Death. And though to glory you attain, Or be to beauty born, Your

When the boys come out from Lac Labiche in the lure of the early Spring, To take the pay of the “Hudson’s Bay”, as their fathers did before, They are all a-glee for the

I’ve learned Of all the friends I’ve won Dame Nature is the best, And to her like a child I run Craving her mother breast To comfort me in soul distress, And in green

(With apologies to the singer of the “Song of the Banjo”.) I’m a homely little bit of tin and bone; I’m beloved by the Legion of the Lost; I haven’t got a “vox humana”

They told to Marie Antoinette: “The beggers at your gate Have eyes too sad for tears to wet, And for your pity wait.” But Marie only laughed and said: “My heart they will not

A gaunt and hoary slab of stone I found in desert place, And wondered why it lay alone In that abandoned place. Said I: ‘Maybe a Palace stood Where now the lizards crawl, With

If on isle of the sea I have to tarry, With one book, let it be A Dictionary. For though I love life’s scene, It seems absurd, My greatest joy has been The printed

I pawned my sick wife’s wedding ring, To drink and make myself a beast. I got the most that it would bring, Of golden coins the very least. With stealth into her room I

I burned my fingers on the stove And wept with bitterness; But poor old Auntie Maggie strove To comfort my distress. Said she: ‘Think, lassie, how you’ll burn Like any wicked besom In fires

Mother focused with a frown The part of me where I sit down. Said she: “Your pants are wearing through; Let me sew on a patch for you.” And so she did, of azure

Past ash cans and alley cats, Fetid. overflowing gutters, Leprous lines of rancid flats Where the frowsy linen flutters; With a rattle and a jar, Hark! I sing a happy ditty, As I speed

My virtues in Carara stone Cut carefully you all my scan; Beneath I lie, a fetid bone, The marble worth more than the man. If on my pure tomb they should grave My vices,

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska tae Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye: “That’s whit I hate maist aboot fechtin’ it makes ye sae deevilish dry; Noo jist hae a keek at yon ferm-hoose them Gairmans are

O dear little cabin, I’ve loved you so long, And now I must bid you good-bye! I’ve filled you with laughter, I’ve thrilled you with song, And sometimes I’ve wished I could cry. Your

In city shop a hat I saw That to my fancy seemed to strike, I gave my wage to buy the straw, And make myself a one the like. I wore it to the

I cannot flap a flag Or beat a drum; Behind the mob I lag With larynx dumb; Alas! I fear I’m not A Patriot. With acrid eyes I see The soul of things; And

This is the law of the Yukon, and ever she makes it plain: “Send not your foolish and feeble; send me your strong and your sane Strong for the red rage of battle; sane

Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers (I’ve ‘ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin’ feet); Tramp, tramp, the dim road we didn’t ‘ave no pipers, And bellies

Lord, I’m grey, my face is run, But by old Harry, I’ve had my fun; And all about, I seem to see Lads and lassies that look like me; Ice-blue eyes on every hand,

I know a garden where the lilies gleam, And one who lingers in the sunshine there; She is than white-stoled lily far more fair, And oh, her eyes are heaven-lit with dream! I know

My daughter Jane makes dresses For beautiful Princesses; But though she’s plain is Jane, Of needlework she’s vain, And makes such pretty things For relatives of Kings. She reads the picture papers Where Royalties

A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks; GURR! You cochon! Stand and fight! Show your mettle! Snarl and bite! Spawn of an accursed race, Turn and meet me face to face! Here amid the wreck and rout

On the ragged edge of the world I’ll roam, And the home of the wolf shall be my home, And a bunch of bones on the boundless snows The end of my trail. .

A Frenchman and an Englishman Resolved to fight a duel, And hit upon a savage plan, Because their hate was cruel. They each would fire a single shot In room of darkness pitchy, And

We sleep in the sleep of ages, the bleak, barbarian pines; The gray moss drapes us like sages, and closer we lock our lines, And deeper we clutch through the gelid gloom where never

We bore him to his boneyard lot One afternoon at three; The clergyman was on the spot To earn his modest fee. We sprinkled on his coffin ld The customary loam, And so old

I never saw a face so bright With brilliant blood and joy, As was the grinning mug last night Of Dick, our local boy, When with a clumsy, lucky clout He knocked the champion

I wish that I could understand The moving marvel of my Hand; I watch my fingers turn and twist, The supple bending of my wrist, The dainty touch of finger-tip, The steel intensity of

The poppies that in Spring I sow, In rings of radiance gleam and glow, Like lords and ladies gay. A joy are they to dream beside, As in the air of eventide They flutter,

I’m gatherin’ flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill; I’ve sneaked away from the billet, ’cause Jim wouldn’t understand; ‘E’d call me a silly fat’ead, and larf till it made

How grand the human race would be If every man would wear a kilt, A flirt of Tartan finery, Instead of trousers, custom built! Nay, do not think I speak to joke: (You know

Through eyelet holes I watched the crowd Rain of confetti fling; Their joy is lush, their laughter loud, For Carnival is King. Behind his chariot I pace To ean my petty pay; They laugh

I never could imagine God: I don’t suppose I ever will. Beside His altar fire I nod With senile drowsiness but still In old of age as sight grows dim I have a sense

Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she: “Sure the heart of me’s broken entirely now it’s the fortunate woman you are; You’ve still got your Dinnis to cheer up

I wonder ‘oo and wot ‘e was, That ‘Un I got so slick. I couldn’t see ‘is face because The night was ‘ideous thick. I just made out among the black A blinkin’ wedge

“Tell Annie I’ll be home in time To help her with her Christmas-tree.” That’s what he wrote, and hark! the chime Of Christmas bells, and where is he? And how the house is dark

Her smile ineffably is sweet, Devinely she is slim; Yet oh how weary are her feet, How aches her every limb! Thank God it’s near to closing time, Merciful midnight chime. Then in her

I never killed a bear because I always thought them critters was So kindo’ cute; Though round my shack they often came, I’d raise my rifle and take aim, But couldn’t shoot. Yet there

Gas got me in the first World War, And all my mates at rest are laid. I felt I might survive them for I am a gardener by trade. My life is in the

In the shadow of the grave I will be brave; I’ll smile, I know I will E’er I be still; Because I will not smile So long a while. But I’ll be sad, I

Unpenitent, I grieve to state, Two good men stood by heaven’s gate, Saint Peter coming to await. The stopped the Keeper of the Keys, Saying: “What suppliants are these, Who wait me not on

Oh you who are shy of the popular eye, (Though most of us seek to survive it) Just think of the goldfish who wanted to die Because she could never be private. There are

Gazing to gold seraph wing, With wistful wonder in my eyes, A blue-behinded ape, I swing Upon the palms of Paradise. A parakeet of gaudy hue Upon a flame tree smugly rocks; Oh, we’re

There’s a four-pronged buck a-swinging in the shadow of my cabin, And it roamed the velvet valley till to-day; But I tracked it by the river, and I trailed it in the cover, And

Her little head just topped the window-sill; She even mounted on a stool, maybe; She pressed against the pane, as children will, And watched us playing, oh so wistfully! And then I missed her

My mother loved her horses and Her hounds of pedigree; She did not kiss the baby hand I held to her in glee. Of course I had a sweet nou-nou Who tended me with

When I am dead I will not care Forever more, If sky be radiantly fair Or tempest roar. If my life-hoard in sin be spent, My wife re-wed, I’ll be so damned indifferent When

The sheep are in the silver wood, The cows are in the broom; The goats are in the wild mountain And won’t be home by noon. My mother sang that olden tune Most every

When I was brash and gallant-gay Just fifty years ago, I hit the ties and beat my way From Maine to Mexico; For though to Glasgow gutter bred A hobo heart had I, And

He was my one and only love; My world was mirror for his face. We were as close as hand and glove, Until he came with smiling grace To say: ‘We must be wise,

From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn, The guns have brayed without abate; And now the sick sun looks upon The bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate As if it loathed to rise again. How strange

When you come home I’ll not be round To welcome you. They’ll take you to a grassy mound So neat and new; Where I’ll be sleeping O so sound! The ages through. I’ll not

I’m just an ordinary chap Who comes home to his tea, And mostly I don’t care a rap What people think of me; I do my job and take my pay, And love of

Great Grandfather was ninety-nine And so it was our one dread, That though his health was superfine He’d fail to make the hundred. Though he was not a rolling stone No moss he seemed

One said: Thy life is thine to make or mar, To flicker feebly, or to soar, a star; It lies with thee the choice is thine, is thine, To hit the ties or drive

I think I’ll buy a little field, Though scant am I of pelf, And hold the hope that it may yield A living for myself; For I have toiled ten thousand days With ledger

The leaves are falling one and one, Each like a life to me, As over-soonly in the sun They spiral goldenly: So airily and warily They falter free. The leaves are falling two and

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon; The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune; Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous

Here is my Garret up five flights of stairs; Here’s where I deal in dreams and ply in fancies, Here is the wonder-shop of all my wares, My sounding sonnets and my red romances.

This is the pay-day up at the mines, when the bearded brutes come down; There’s money to burn in the streets to-night, so I’ve sent my klooch to town, With a haggard face and

I sought Him on the purple seas, I sought Him on the peaks aflame; Amid the gloom of giant trees And canyons lone I called His name; The wasted ways of earth I trod:

When they shall close my careless eyes And look their last upon my face, I fear that some will say: “her lies A man of deep disgrace; His thoughts were bare, his words were

Alphonso Rex who died in Rome Was quite a fistful as a kid; For when I visited his home, That gorgeous palace in Madrid, The grinning guide-chap showed me where He rode his bronco

Pedlar’s coming down the street, Housewives beat a swift retreat. Don’t you answer to the bell; Heedless what she has to sell. Just discreetly go inside. We must hang a board, I fear: PEDLARS

To be a bony feed Sourdough You must, by Yukon Law, Have killed a moose, And robbed a sluice, AND BUNKED UP WITH A SQUAW. . . . Alas! Sourdough I’ll never be. Oh,

Behold! the Spanish flag they’re raising Before the Palace courtyard gate; To watch its progress bold and blazing Two hundred patient people wait. Though bandsmen play the anthem bravely The silken emblem seems to

To me at night the stars are vocal. They say: ‘Your planet’s oh so local! A speck of dust in heaven’s ceiling; Your faith divine a foolish feeling. What odds if you are chaos

For five and twenty years I’ve run A famous train; But now my spell of speed is done, No more I’ll strain My sight along the treadless tracks, The gleamy rails: My hand upon

They say she speeded wanton wild When she was warm with wine; And so she killed a little child, (Could have been yours or mine). The Judge’s verdict was not mild, And heavy was

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in, A race that can’t stay still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the

While I am emulating Keats My brother fabrics toilet seats, The which, they say, are works of art, Aesthetic features of the mart; So exquisitely are they made With plastic of a pastel shade,

My boy’s come back; he’s here at last; He came home on a special train. My longing and my ache are past, My only son is back again. He’s home with music, flags and

I The Moon is like a ping-pong ball; I lean against the orchard wall, And see it soar into the void, A silky sphere of celluloid. Then fairy fire enkindles it, Like gossamer by

Clorinda met me on the way As I came from the train; Her face was anything but gay, In fact, suggested pain. “Oh hubby, hubby dear!” she cried, “I’ve awful news to tell. .

He gives me such a bold and curious look, That young American across the way, As if he’d like to put me in a book (Fancies himself a poet, so they say.) Ah well!

So often in the mid of night I wake me in my bed With utter panic of affright To find my feet are dead; And pace the floor to easy my pain And make

To visit the Escurial We took a motor bus, And there a guide mercurial Took charge of us. He showed us through room after room, And talked hour after hour, Of place, crypt and

The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist; The Captain kept a-lookin’ at the watch upon his wrist; And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame; ‘Twas wonnerful, I’m

Your children grow from you apart, Afar and still afar; And yet it should rejoice your heart To see how glad they are; In school and sport, in work and play, And last, in

Ever in the ebb and flow Of my dreams that come and go, Reader, I have you in mind, Humbly hoping you will find In my verse a gleam that’s true To the dreams

I Flat as a drum-head stretch the haggard snows; The mighty skies are palisades of light; The stars are blurred; the silence grows and grows; Vaster and vaster vaults the icy night. Here in

We was in a crump-‘ole, ‘im and me; Fightin’ wiv our bayonets was we; Fightin’ ‘ard as ‘ell we was, Fightin’ fierce as fire because It was ‘im or me as must be downed;

I was in Warsaw when the first bomb fell; I was in Warsaw when the Terror came – Havoc and horror, famine, fear and flame, Blasting from loveliness a living hell. Barring the station

Blind Peter Piper used to play All up and down the city; I’d often meet him on my way, And throw a coin for pity. But all amid his sparkling tones His ear was

It was foretold by sybils three That in an air crash he would die. “I’ll fool their prophesy,” said he; “You won’t get me to go on high. Howe’re the need for haste and

Said Hongray de la Glaciere unto his proud Papa: “I want to take a wife mon Père,” The Marquis laughed: “Ha! Ha! And whose, my son?” he slyly said; but Hongray with a frown

From off my calendar today A leaf I tear; So swiftly passes smiling May Without a care. And now the gentleness of June Will fleetly fly And I will greet the glamour moon Of

“Hullo, young Jones! with your tie so gay And your pen behind your ear; Will you mark my cheque in the usual way? For I’m overdrawn, I fear.” Then you look at me in

Why should I be the first to fall Of all the leaves on this old tree? Though sadly soon I know that all Will lose their hold and follow me. While my birth-brothers bravely

Though Virtue hurt you Vice is nice; Aye, Parson says it’s wrong, Yet for my pleasing I’ll suffice With Women, Wine and Song. But though it be with jocund glee My tavern voice is

My worldly wealth I hoard in albums three, My life collection of rare postage stamps; My room is cold and bare as you can see, My coat is old and shabby as a tramp’s;

I to a crumpled cabin came Upon a hillside high, And with me was a withered dame As weariful as I. “It used to be our home,” she said; “How well I remember well!

If the good King only knew, Lindy Lou, What a cherub child are you, It is true, He would step down from his throne, And would claim you for his own, Then whatever would

Mumsie and Dad are raven dark And I am lily blonde. ”Tis strange,’ I once heard nurse remark, ‘You do not correspond.’ And yet they claim me as their own, Born of their flesh

To hell with Government I say; I’m sick of all the piddling pack. I’d like to scram, get clean away, And never, nevermore come back. With heart of hope I long to go To

O God, take the sun from the sky! It’s burning me, scorching me up. God, can’t You hear my cry? Water! A poor, little cup! It’s laughing, the cursed sun! See how it swells

Humping it here in the dug-out, Sucking me black dudeen, I’d like to say in a general way, There’s nothing like Nickyteen; There’s nothing like Nickyteen, me boys, Be it pipes or snipes or

Fearing that she might go one day With some fine fellow of her choice, I called her from her childish play, And made a record of her voice. And now that she is truly

I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight, A-purpose to revisit the old claim. I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate, And the lads who once were with

Now Eddie Malone got a swell grammyfone to draw all the trade to his store; An’ sez he: “Come along for a season of song, which the like ye had niver before.” Then Dogrib,

A-sittin’ in the Bull and Pump With double gins to keep us cheery Says she to me, says Polly Crump” “What makes ye look so sweet. me dearie? As if ye’d gotten back yer

I am a Day. . . My sky is grey, My wind is wild, My sea high-piled: In year of days the first In misery. . . Oh pity me! I am a Day

It’s mighty lonesome-like and drear. Above the Wild the moon rides high, And shows up sharp and needle-clear The emptiness of earth and sky; No happy homes with love a-glow; No Santa Claus to

A little child was sitting Up on her mother’s knee And down down her cheeks the bitter tears did flow. And as I sadly listened I heard this tender plea, ‘Twas uttered in a

A father’s pride I used to know, A mother’s love was mine; For swinish husks I let them go, And bedded with the swine. Since then I’ve come on evil days And most of

‘A man should write to please himself,’ He proudly said. Well, see his poems on the shelf, Dusty, unread. When he came to my shop each day, So peaked and cold, I’d sneak one

Oh Julie Claire was very fair, Yet generous as well, And many a lad of metal had A saucy tale to tell Of sultry squeeze beneath the trees Or hugging in the hay. .

“Where is your little boy to-day?” I asked her at the gate. “I used to see him at his play, And often I would wait: He was so beautiful, so bright, I watched him

Miss Don’t-do-this and Don’t-do-that Has such a sunny smile You cannot help but chuckle at Her cuteness and her guile. Her locks are silken floss of gold, Her eyes are pansy blue: Maybe of

To rest my fagged brain now and then, When wearied of my proper labors, I lay aside my lagging pen And get to thinking on my neighbors; For, oh, around my garret den There’s

He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky! And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I. For my hair is grey, and his was gold;

She was a Philistine spick and span, He was a bold Bohemian. She had the mode, and the last at that; He had a cape and a brigand hat. She was so riant and

‘Twas in a pub just off the Strand When I was in my cups, There passed a bloke with in his hand Two tiny puling pups; And one was on me with a bound,

Zut! it’s two o’clock. See! the lights are jumping. Finish up your bock, Time we all were humping. Waiters stack the chairs, Pile them on the tables; Let us to our lairs Underneath the

“Carry your suitcase, Sir?” he said. I turned away to hide a grin, For he was shorter by a head Than I and pitiably thin. I could have made a pair of him, So

I loved to toy with tuneful rhyme, My fancies into verse to weave; For as I walked my words would chime So bell-like I could scarce believe; My rhymes rippled like a brook, My

Sky’s a-waxin’ grey, Got to be a-goin’; Gittin’ on my way, Where? I ain’t a-knowin’. Fellers, no more jokes, Fun an’ frisky greetin’ So long, all you folks, Been nice our meetin’. Sky’s a-growin’

When I am dead I will not care How future generations fare, For I will be so unaware. Though fields their slain has carpeted, And seas be salt with tears they shed, Not one

We’d left the sea-gulls long behind, And we were almost in mid-ocean; The sky was soft and blue and kind, The boat had scarcely any motion; Except that songfully it sped, And sheared the

Just Home and Love! the words are small Four little letters unto each; And yet you will not find in all The wide and gracious range of speech Two more so tenderly complete: When

He’s yonder, on the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix, The little wizened Spanish man, I see him every day. He’s sitting with his Pernod on his customary chair; He’s staring at the

Let laureates sing with rapturous swing Of the wonder and glory of work; Let pulpiteers preach and with passion impeach The indolent wretches who shirk. No doubt they are right: in the stress of

For supper we had curried tripe. I washed the dishes, wound the clock; Then for awhile I smoked my pipe – Puff! Puff! We had no word of talk. The Misses sewed – a

The aged Queen who passed away Had sixty servants, so they say; Twice sixty hands her shoes to tie: Two soapy ones have I. The old Queen had of beds a score; A cot

They brought the mighty chief to town; They showed him strange, unwonted sights; Yet as he wandered up and down, He seemed to scorn their vain delights. His face was grim, his eye lacked

Where are the dames I used to know In Dawson in the days of yore? Alas, it’s fifty years ago, And most, I guess, have “gone before.” The swinging scythe is swift to mow

With peace and rest And wisdom sage, Ripeness is best Of every age. With hands that fold In pensive prayer, For grave-yard mold Prepare. From fighting free With fear forgot, Let ripeness be, Before

In stilly grove beside the sea He mingles colours, measures space; A bronze and breezy man is he, Yet peace is in his face. Behold him stand and longly stare, Till deft of hand

“How good God is to me,” he said; “For have I not a mansion tall, With trees and lawns of velvet tread, And happy helpers at my call? With beauty is my life abrim,

Let poets piece prismatic words, Give me the jewelled joy of birds! What ecstasy moves them to sing? Is it the lyric glee of Spring, The dewy rapture of the rose? Is it the

No lyric line I ever penned The praise this parasitic bird; And what is more, I don’t intend To write a laudatory word, Since in my garden robins made A nest with eggs of

“But it isn’t playing the game,” he said, And he slammed his books away; “The Latin and Greek I’ve got in my head Will do for a duller day.” “Rubbish!” I cried; “The bugle’s

Of all the men I ever knew The tinkingest was Uncle Jim; If there were any chores to do We couldn’t figure much on him. He’d have a thinking job on hand, And on

For all good friends who care to read, Here let me lyre my living creed. . . One: you may deem me Pacifist, For I’ve no sympathy with strife. Like hell I hate the

Unto his housemaid spoke the Laird: “Tonight the Bishop is our guest; The spare room must be warmed and aired: To please him we will do our best. A worthy haggis you must make,

O meadow lark, so wild and free, It cannot be, it cannot be, That men to merchandise your spell Do close you in a wicker hell! O hedgerow thrush so mad with glee, It

What I seek far yet seldom find Is large simplicity of mind In fellow men; For I have sprouted from the sod, Like Bobbie Burns, my earthly god, From plough to pen. So I

Said Brown: ‘I can’t afford to die For I have bought annuity, And every day of living I Have money coming in to me: While others toil to make their bread I make mine

My Father Christmas passed away When I was barely seven. At twenty-one, alack-a-day, I lost my hope of heaven. Yet not in either lies the curse: The hell of it’s because I don’t know

He used to say: There ain’t a doubt Misfortune is a bitter pill, But if you only pry it out You’ll find there’s good in every ill. There’s comfort in the worst of woe,

‘Nay; I don’t need a hearing aid’ I told Mama-in-law; ‘For if I had I’d be afraid Of your eternal jaw; Although at me you often shout, I’m undisturbed; To tell the truth I

I wonder if successful men Are always happy? And do they sing with gusto when Springtime is sappy? Although I am of snow-white hair And nighly mortal, Each time I sniff the April air

The cruel war was over oh, the triumph was so sweet! We watched the troops returning, through our tears; There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street, And you scarce could hear

All day he lay upon the sand When summer sun was bright, And let the grains sift through his hand With infantile delight; Just like a child, so soft and fair, Though he was

It is not power and fame That make success; It is not rank or name Rate happiness. It is not honour due Nor pile of pelf: The pay-off is: Did you Enjoy yourself? A

What man has not betrayed Some sacred trust? If haply you are made Of honest dust, Vaunt not of glory due, Of triumph won: Think, think of duties you Have left undone. But if

They say that Monte Carlo is A sunny place for shady people; But I’m not in the gambling biz, And sober as a parish steeple. So though this paradisal spot The devil’s playground of

With barbwire hooch they filled him full, Till he was drunker than all hell, And then they peddled him the bull About a claim they had to sell. A thousand bucks they made him

‘Twas in the bleary middle of the hard-boiled Arctic night, I was lonesome as a loon, so if you can, Imagine my emotions of amazement and delight When I bumped into that Missionary Man.

You ask me what I call Success – It is, I wonder, Happiness? It is not wealth, it is not fame, Nor rank, nor power nor honoured name. It is not triumph in the

My first I wed when just sixteen And he was sixty-five. He treated me like any queen The years he was alive. Oh I betrayed him on the sly, Like any other bitch, And

Striving is life, yet life is striving; I fight to live, yet live to fight; The vital urge is in my driving, Yet I must drive with all my might: Each day a battle,

Some carol of the banjo, to its measure keeping time; Of viol or of lute some make a song. My battered old accordion, you’re worthy of a rhyme, You’ve been my friend and comforter

I’ve wearied of so many things Adored in youthful days; Music no more my spirit wings, E’en when Master play. For stage and screen I have no heart, Great paintings leave me cold; Alas!

They turned him loose; he bowed his head, A felon, bent and grey. His face was even as the Dead, He had no word to say. He sought the home of his old love,

Because my teeth are feebly few I cannot bolt my grub like you, But have to chew and chew and chew As you can see; Yet every mouthful seems so good I would not

Three gentlemen live close beside me A painter of pictures bizarre, A poet whose virtues might guide me, A singer who plays the guitar; And there on my lintel is Cupid; I leave my

I’m part of people I have known And they are part of me; The seeds of thought that I have sown In other minds I see. There’s something of me in the throne And

My folks think I’m a serving maid Each time I visit home; They do not dream I ply a trade As old as Greece or Rome; For if they found I’d fouled their name

One spoke: “Come, let us gaily go With laughter, love and lust, Since in a century or so We’ll all be boneyard dust. When unborn shadows hold the screen, (Our betters, I’ll allow) ‘Twill

Some praise the Lord for Light, The living spark; I thank God for the Night The healing dark. When wearily I lie, With aching sight, With what thanksgiving I Turn out the light! When

I gave an eye to save from night A babe born blind; And now with eager semi-sight Vast joy I find To think a child can share with me Earth ecstasy! Delight of dawn

I could have sold him up because His rent was long past due; And Grimes, my lawyer, said it was The proper thing to do: But how could I be so inhuman? And me

Men have navels more or less; Some are neat, some not Being fat I must confess Mine is far from hot. Woman’s is a pearly ring, Lovely to my mind; So of it to

Each morning as I catch my bus, A-fearing I’ll be late, I think: there are in all of us Two folks quite separate; As one I greet the office staff With grim, official mien;

“This bunch of violets,” he said, “Is for my daughter dear. Since that glad morn when she was wed It is today a year. She lives atop this flight of stairs Please give an

Because life’s passing show Is little to his mind, There is a man I know Indrawn from human kind. His dearest friends are books; Yet oh how glad he talks To birds and trees

Oh how it would enable me To titillate my vanity If you should choose to label me A Poet of Profanity! For I’ve been known with vulgar slang To stoke the Sacred Fire, And

All day long when the shells sail over I stand at the sandbags and take my chance; But at night, at night I’m a reckless rover, And over the parapet gleams Romance. Romance! Romance!

How often do I wish I were What people call a character; A ripe and cherubic old chappie Who lives to make his fellows happy; With in his eyes a merry twinkle, And round

Here in the Autumn of my days My life is mellowed in a haze. Unpleasant sights are none to clear, Discordant sounds I hardly hear. Infirmities like buffers soft Sustain me tranquilly aloft. I’m

Softly every night they come To the picture show, That old couple, deaf and dumb In the second row; Wistful watching, hand in hand, Proud they understand. Shut-ins from the world away, All in

(The Dark Side) My mind goes back to Fumin Wood, and how we stuck it out, Eight days of hunger, thirst and cold, mowed down by steel and flame; Waist-deep in mud and mad

They thought I’d be a champion; They boasted loud of me. A dozen victories I’d won, The Press was proud of me. I saw myself with glory crowned, And would, beyond a doubt, Till

While for me gapes the greedy grave It don’t make sense That I should have a crazy crave To paint our fence. Yet that is what I aim to do, Though dim my sight:

‘Come, see,’ said he, ‘my four-foot shelf, A forty volume row; And every one I wrote myself, But that, of course, you know.’ I stared, I searched a memory dim, For though an author

Although you deem it far from nice, And it perchance may hurt you, Let me suggest that cowardice Can masquerade as virtue; And many a maid remains a maid Because she is afraid. And

Let us be thankful, Lord, for little things – The song of birds, the rapture of the rose; Cloud-dappled skies, the laugh of limpid springs, Drowned sunbeams and the perfume April blows; Bronze wheat

My Boss keeps sporty girls, they say; His belly’s big with cheer. He squanders in a single day What I make in a year. For I must toil with bloody sweat, And body bent

“You’re bloody right – I was a Red,” The Man from Cook’s morosely said. And if our chaps had won the War Today I’d be the Governor Of all Madrid, and rule with pride,

Because my eyes were none to bright Strong spectacles I bought, And lo! there sprang into my sight A life beyond my thought: A world of wonder and delight My magic lenses brought. Aye,

Say! You’ve struck a heap of trouble Bust in business, lost your wife; No one cares a cent about you, You don’t care a cent for life; Hard luck has of hope bereft you,

Of all the boys with whom I fought In Africa and Sicily, Bill was the bravest of the lot In our dare-devil Company. That lad would rather die than yield; His gore he glorified

“Flowers, only flowers bring me dainty posies, Blossoms for forgetfulness,” that was all he said; So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses, Lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed. Soft his

The red-roofed house of dream design Looks three ways on the sea; For fifty years I’ve made it mine, And held it part of me. The pines I planted in my youth Triumpantly are

No man can be a failure if he thinks he’s a success; He may not own his roof-tree overhead, He may be on his uppers and have hocked his evening dress – (Financially speaking

A hundred people I employed, But when they struck for higher pay, I was so damnably annoyed I told them they could stay away. I simply shut my business down; I closed my doors

Selecting in the dining-room The silver of his choice, The burglar heard from chamber gloom A female voice. As cold and bitter as a toad, She spat a nasty name, So even as his

Six bulls I saw as black as jet, With crimsoned horns and amber eyes That chewed their cud without a fret, And swished to brush away the flies, Unwitting their soon sacrifice. It is

When I blink sunshine in my eyes And hail the amber morn, Before the rosy dew-drop dries With sparkle on the thorn; When boughs with robin rapture ring, And bees hum in the may,

“And when I come to die,” he said, “Ye shall not lay me out in state, Nor leave your laurels at my head, Nor cause your men of speech orate; No monument your gift