You Can't Can Love
I don’t know how the fishes feel, but I can’t help thinking it odd, That a gay young flapper of a female eel should fall in love with a cod. Yet – that’s exactly
My Childhood God
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,
A Plea
Why need we newer arms invent, Poor peoples to destroy? With what we have let’s be content And perfect their employ. With weapons that may millions kill, Why should we seek for more, A
Katie Drummond
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
The Spell Of The Yukon
I wanted the gold, and I sought it, I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy I fought it; I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold,
The Aftermath
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!
Young Fellow My Lad
“Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad, On this glittering morn of May?” “I’m going to join the Colours, Dad; They’re looking for men, they say.” “But you’re only a boy, Young Fellow
A Song Of Winter Weather
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
The Man From Eldorado
He’s the man from Eldorado, and he’s just arrived in town, In moccasins and oily buckskin shirt. He’s gaunt as any Indian, and pretty nigh as brown; He’s greasy, and he smells of sweat
Wallflower
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
Growing Old
Somehow the skies don’t seem so blue As they used to be; Blossoms have a fainter hue, Grass less green I see. There’s no twinkle in a star, Dawns don’t seem so gold. .
Alpine Holiday
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
Old Sweethearts
Oh Maggie, do you mind the day We went to school together, And as we stoppit by the way I rolled you in the heather? My! but you were the bonny lass And we
My Friends
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
At Thirty-Five
Three score and ten, the psalmist saith, And half my course is well-nigh run; I’ve had my flout at dusty death, I’ve had my whack of feast and fun. I’ve mocked at those who
My Book
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
The Leaning Tower
Having an aged hate of height I forced myself to climb the Tower, Yet paused at every second flight Because my heart is scant of power; Then when I gained the sloping summit Earthward
Flight
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
The Squaw Man
The cow-moose comes to water, and the beaver’s overbold, The net is in the eddy of the stream; The teepee stars the vivid sward with russet, red and gold, And in the velvet gloom
Fortitude
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
Jean Desprez
Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War’s romance, Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France; A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial
Athabaska Dick
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
Six Feet Of Sod
This is the end of all my ways, My wanderings on earth, My gloomy and my golden days, My madness and my mirth. I’ve bought ten thousand blades of grass To bed me down
The Learner
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
The Sewing-Girl
The humble garret where I dwell Is in that Quarter called the Latin; It isn’t spacious truth to tell, There’s hardly room to swing a cat in. But what of that! It’s there I
The Song Of The Mouth-Organ
(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”
Vanity
My tangoing seemed to delight her; With me it was love at first sight. I mentioned That I was a writer: She asked me: “What is it you write?” “Oh, only best-sellers,” I told
Marie Antoinette
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
O Lovely Lie
I told a truth, a tragic truth That tore the sullen sky; A million shuddered at my sooth And anarchist was I. Red righteousness was in my word To winnow evil chaff; Yet while
Imagination
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
My Dog's My Boss
Each day when it’s anighing three Old Dick looks at the clock, Then proudly brings my stick to me To mind me of our walk. And in his doggy rapture he Does everything but
Words
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
Maternity
There once was a Square, such a square little Square, And he loved a trim Triangle; But she was a flirt and around her skirt Vainly she made him dangle. Oh he wanted to
The Wedding Ring
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
The Telegraph Operator
I will not wash my face; I will not brush my hair; I “pig” around the place There’s nobody to care. Nothing but rock and tree; Nothing but wood and stone, Oh, God, it’s
The Shorter Catechism
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
The Palace
Grimy men with picks and shovels Who in darkness sweat unseen, Climb from out your lousy hovels, Build a palace for the Queen; Praise the powers that be for giving You a chance to
Patches
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
Our Daily Bread
“Give me my daily bread. It seems so odd, When all is done and said, This plea to God. To pray for cake might be The thing to do; But bread, it seems to
Jaloppy Joy
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
The Locket
From out her shabby rain-coat pocket The little Jew girl in the train Produced a dinted silver locket With pasted in it portraits twain. “These are my parents, sir” she said; “Or were, for
Humility
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,
Euthansia
A sea-gull with a broken wing, I found upon the kelp-strewn shore. It sprawled and gasped; I sighed: “Poor thing! I fear your flying days are o’er; Sad victim of a savage gun, So
The Twa Jocks
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
The Odyssey Of 'Erbert 'Iggins
Me and Ed and a stretcher Out on the nootral ground. (If there’s one dead corpse, I’ll betcher There’s a ‘undred smellin’ around.) Me and Eddie O’Brian, Both of the R. A. M. C.
Good-Bye, Little Cabin
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
Evenfall
When day is done I steal away To fold my hands in rest, And of my hours this moment grey I love the best; So quietly I sit alone And wait for evenfall, When
The Hat
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
Jim
Never knew Jim, did you? Our boy Jim? Bless you, there was the likely lad; Supple and straight and long of limb, Clean as a whistle, and just as glad. Always laughing, wasn’t he,
At The Parade
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
The Woman And The Angel
An angel was tired of heaven, as he lounged in the golden street; His halo was tilted sideways, and his harp lay mute at his feet; So the Master stooped in His pity, and
The Law Of The Yukon
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
Work
When twenty-one I loved to dream, And was to loafing well inclined; Somehow I couldn’t get up steam To welcome work of any kind. While students burned the midnight lamp, With dour ambition as
The Red Retreat
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
Priscilla
Jerry MacMullen, the millionaire, Driving a red-meat bus out there How did he win his Croix de Guerre? Bless you, that’s all old stuff: Beast of a night on the Verdun road, Jerry stuck
Village Don Juan
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,
My Chapel
In idle dream with pipe in hand I looked across the Square, And saw the little chapel stand In eloquent despair. A ruin of the War it was, A dreary, dingy mess: It worried
Unforgotten
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
Sea Sorcery
Oh how I love the laughing sea, Sun lances splintering; Or with a virile harmony In salty caves to sing; Or mumbling pebbles on the shore, Or roused to monster might: By day I
Jane
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
Black Moran
The mule-skinner was Bill Jerome, the passengers were three; Two tinhorns from the dives of Nome, and Father Tim McGee. And as for sunny Southland bound, through weary woods they sped, The solitude that
My Foe
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
Resolutions
Each New Year’s Eve I used to brood On my misdoings of the past, And vowed: “This year I’ll be so good – Well, haply better than the last.” My record of reforms I
The Nostomaniac
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. .
The End Of The Trail
Life, you’ve been mighty good to me, Yet here’s the end of the trail; No more mountain, moor and sea, No more saddle and sail. Waves a-leap in the laughing sun Call to me
Duello
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
At San Sebastian
The Countess sprawled beside the sea As naked a she well could be; Indeed her only garments were A “G” string and a brassière Her washerwoman was amazed, And at the lady gazed and
The Pines
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
The Enigma
The Sergeant of a Highland Reg- -Iment was drilling of his men; With temper notably on edge He blest them every now and then. A sweet old lady standing by, Was looking on with
Alias Bill
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
Shiela
When I played my penny whistle on the braes above Lochgyle The heather bloomed about us, and we heard the peewit call; As you bent above your knitting something fey was in your smile,
Local Lad
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
The Ballad Of The Brand
‘Twas up in a land long famed for gold, where women were far and rare, Tellus, the smith, had taken to wife a maiden amazingly fair; Tellus, the brawny worker in iron, hairy and
The Wonderer
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
Abandoned Dog
They dumped it on the lonely road, Then like a streak they sped; And as along the way I strode I thought that it was dead: And then I saw that yelping pup Rise,
Gipsy
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,
A Casualty
That boy I took in the car last night, With the body that awfully sagged away, And the lips blood-crisped, and the eyes flame-bright, And the poor hands folded and cold as clay Oh,
Bill's Grave
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
Allouette
Singing larks I saw for sale – (Ah! the pain of it) Plucked and ready to impale On a roasting spit; Happy larks that summer-long Stormed the radiant sky, Adoration in their song. .
A Song For Kilts
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
Hate
I had a bitter enemy, His heart to hate he gave, And when I died he swore that he Would dance upon my grave; That he would leap and laugh because A livid corpse
Ripe Fruit
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
Celebates
They must not wed the Doctor said, For they were far from strong, And children of their marriage bed Might not live overlong. And yet each eve I saw them pass With rapt and
The Host
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
Brother Jim
My brother Jim’s a millionaire, While I have scarce a penny; His face is creased with lines of care, While my mug hasn’t any. With inwardness his eyes are dim, While mine laugh out
Missis Moriarty's Boy
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
The Seed
I was a seed that fell In silver dew; And nobody could tell, For no one knew; No one could tell my fate, As I grew tall; None visioned me with hate, No, none
Bonehead Bill
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
Carry On
It’s easy to fight when everything’s right, And you’re mad with the thrill and the glory; It’s easy to cheer when victory’s near, And wallow in fields that are gory. It’s a different song
The Wife
“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
Relax
Do you recall that happy bike With bundles on our backs? How near to heaven it was like To blissfully relax! In cosy tavern of good cheer To doff our heavy packs, And with
Weary Waitress
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
Tourist
To Italy a random tour I took to crown my education, Returning relatively poor In purse yet rich in conversation. Old Rome put up a jolly show, But I am not a classic purist,
My Bear
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
Eyrie
Between the mountain and the sea I’ve made a happy landing; And here a peace has come to me That passeth understanding; A shining faith and purity Beyond demanding. With palm below and pine
Flower Gardener
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
Epitaph
No matter how he toil and strive The fate of every man alive With luck will be to lie alone, His empty name cut in a stone. Grim time the fairest fame will flout,
Courage
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
God's Skallywags
The God of Scribes looked down and saw The bitter band of seven, Who had outraged his holy law And lost their hope of Heaven: Came Villon, petty thief and pimp, And obscene Baudelaire,
Two Husbands
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