Distracted Druggist
‘A shilling’s worth of quinine, please,’ The customer demanded. The druggist went down on his knees And from a cupboard handed The waiting man a tiny flask: ‘Here, Sir, is what you ask.’ The
Indifference
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 Scribe's Prayer
When from my fumbling hand the tired pen falls, And in the twilight weary droops my head; While to my quiet heart a still voice calls, Calls me to join my kindred of the
The Wildy Ones
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
My Hundred Books
A thousand books my library Contains; And all are primed, it seems to me With brains. Mine are so few I scratch in thought My head; For just a hundred of the lot I’ve
Bindle Stiff
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
My Favourite Fan
Being a writer I receive Sweet screeds from folk of every land; Some are so weird you’d scarce believe, And some quite hard to understand: But as a conscientious man I type my thanks
Mistinguette
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,
Brave Coward
Elisabeth imagines I’ve A yellow streak She deems I have no dash and drive, Jest dogoned weak. ‘A man should be a man,’ says Liz ‘Trade blow for blow.’ Poor kid! What my position
The Lark
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
The Ballad Of Pious Pete
“The North has got him.” Yukonism. I tried to refine that neighbor of mine, honest to God, I did. I grieved for his fate, and early and late I watched over him like a
Sailor Son
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
Dylan
And is it not a gesture grand To drink oneself to death? Oh sure ’tis I can understand, Being of sober breath. And so I do not sing success, But dirge the damned who
The Silent Ones
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
Each Day A Life
I count each day a little life, With birth and death complete; I cloister it from care and strife And keep it sane and sweet. With eager eyes I greet the morn, Exultant as