Man Child
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
An Epicure
Should you preserve white mice in honey Don’t use imported ones from China, For though they cost you less in money You’ll find the Japanese ones finer. But if Chinese, stuff them with spice,
The Sum-Up
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
Only A Boche
We brought him in from between the lines: we’d better have let him lie; For what’s the use of risking one’s skin for a tyke that’s going to die? What’s the use of tearing
Ommission
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
The Old Armchair
In all the pubs from Troon to Ayr Grandfather’s father would repair With Bobby Burns, a drouthy pair, The glass to clink; And oftenwhiles, when not too “fou,” They’d roar a bawdy stave or
The Pigeon Shooting
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
The Lone Trail
Ye who know the Lone Trail fain would follow it, Though it lead to glory or the darkness of the pit. Ye who take the Lone Trail, bid your love good-by; The Lone Trail,
Dumb Swede
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
A Hero
Three times I had the lust to kill, To clutch a throat so young and fair, And squeeze with all my might until No breath of being lingered there. Three times I drove the
The Ballad Of Salvation Bill
‘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.
The Trail Of Ninety-Eight
Gold! We leapt from our benches. Gold! We sprang from our stools. Gold! We wheeled in the furrow, fired with the faith of fools. Fearless, unfound, unfitted, far from the night and the cold,
Success
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
Finistere
Hurrah! I’m off to Finistere, to Finistere, to Finistere; My satchel’s swinging on my back, my staff is in my hand; I’ve twenty louis in my purse, I know the sun and sea are
My Husbands
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