Kelly Of The Legion
Now Kelly was no fighter; He loved his pipe and glass; An easygoing blighter, Who lived in Montparnasse. But ‘mid the tavern tattle He heard some guinney say: “When France goes forth to battle,
A Canvas For A Crust
Aye, Montecelli, that’s the name. You may have heard of him perhaps. Yet though he never savoured fame, Of those impressionistic chaps, Monet and Manet and Renoir He was the avatar. He festered in
The Parson's Son
This is the song of the parson’s son, as he squats in his shack alone, On the wild, weird nights, when the Northern Lights shoot up from the frozen zone, And it’s sixty below,
The Damned
My days are haunted by the thought Of men in coils of Justice caught With stone and steel, in chain and cell, Of men condemned to living hell, Yet blame them not. In my
Familiarity
Familiarity some claim Can breed contempt, So from it let it be your aim To be exempt. Let no one exercise his brawn To slap your back, Lest he forget your name is John,
Bed Sitter
He stared at me with sad, hurt eyes, That drab, untidy man; And though my clients I despise I do the best I can To comfort them with cheerful chat; (Quite comme il faut,
The Ape And I
Said a monkey unto me: “How I’m glad I am not you! See, I swing from tree to tree, Something that you cannot do. In gay greenery I drown; Swift to skyey hights I
The Atavist
What are you doing here, Tom Thorne, on the white top-knot o’ the world, Where the wind has the cut of a naked knife and the stars are rapier keen? Hugging a smudgy willow
The Ape And God
Son put a poser up to me That made me scratch my head: “God made the whole wide world,” quoth he; “That’s right, my boy,” I said. Said son: “He mad the mountains soar,
The Answer
Bill has left his house of clay, Slammed the door and gone away: How he laughed but yesterday! I had two new jokes to tell, Salty, but he loved them well: Now I see
Pullman Porter
The porter in the Pullman car Was charming, as they sometimes are. He scanned my baggage tags: “Are you The man who wrote of Lady Lou?” When I said “yes” he made a fuss
The Heart Of The Sourdough
There where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon, There where the sullen sun-dogs glare in the snow-bright, bitter noon, And the glacier-glutted streams sweep down at the clarion call of June.
Bingo
The daughter of the village Maire Is very fresh and very fair, A dazzling eyeful; She throws upon me such a spell That though my love I dare not tell, My heart is sighful.
Careers
I knew three sisters, all were sweet; Wishful to wed was I, And wondered which would mostly meet The matrimonial tie. I asked the first what fate would she Wish joy of life to
My Rocking-Chair
When I am old and worse for wear I want to buy a rocking-chair, And set it on a porch where shine The stars of morning-glory vine; With just beyond, a gleam of grass,