In the little Crimson Manual it’s written plain and clear That who would wear the scarlet coat shall say good-bye to fear; Shall be a guardian of the right, a sleuth-hound of the trail

Be honest, kindly, simple, true; Seek good in all, scorn but pretence; Whatever sorrow come to you, Believe in Life’s Beneficence! The World’s all right; serene I sit, And cease to puzzle over it.

Said he: “You saw the Master clear; By Rushy Pond alone he sat, Serene and silent as a seer, In tweedy coat and seedy hat. You tell me you did not intrude, (Although his

Oh happy he who cannot see With scientific eyes; Who does not know how flowers grow, And is not planet wise; Content to find with simple mind Joys as they are: To whom a

Italian people peaceful are, Let it be to their credit. They mostly fail to win a war, Oh they themselves have said it. “Allergic we to lethal guns And military might: We love our

I saw the Greatest Man on Earth, Aye, saw him with my proper eyes. A loin-cloth spanned his proper girth, But he was naked otherwise, Excepting for his grey sombrero; And when his domelike

You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier’s rosy gleam; You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear; You lift it with your bay’nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam; The very breath

Enthusiastic was the crowd That hailed him with delight; The wine was bright, the laughter loud And glorious the night. But when at dawn he drove away With echo of their cheer, To where

Oh, I was born a lyric babe (That last word is a bore – It’s only rhyme is astrolabe,” Whose meaning I ignore.) From cradlehood I lisped in numbers, Made jingles even in my

Like prim Professor of a College I primed my shelves with books of knowledge; And now I stand before them dumb, Just like a child that sucks its thumb, And stares forlorn and turns

There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have

My garden robin in the Spring Was rapturous with glee, And followed me with wistful wing From pear to apple tree; His melodies the summer long He carolled with delight, As if he could

God’s truth! these be the bitter times. In vain I sing my sheaf of rhymes, And hold my battered hat for dimes. And then a copper collars me, Barking: “It’s begging that you be;

If dogs could speak, O Mademoiselle, What funny stories they could tell! For instance, take your little “peke,” How awkward if the dear could speak! How sad for you and all of us, Who

In Mike Maloney’s Nugget bar the hooch was flowin’ free, An’ One-eyed Mike was shakin’ dice wi’ Montreal Maree, An roarin’ rageful warning when the boys got overwild, When peekin’ through the double door

“The aristocratic ne’er-do-well in Canada frequently finds his way Into the ranks of the Royal North-West Mounted Police.” Extract. Hark to the ewe that bore him: “What has muddied the strain? Never his brothers

Because I was a woman lone And had of friends so few, I made two little ones my own, Whose parents no one knew; Unwanted foundlings of the night, Left at the convent door,

Deeming that I was due to die I framed myself a coffin; So full of graveyard zeal was I, I set the folks a-laughing. I made it snugly to my fit, My joinering was

When Aunt Jane died we hunted round, And money everywhere we found. How much I do not care to say, But no death duties will we pay, And Aunt Jane will be well content

He asked the lady in the train If he might smoke: she smiled consent. So lighting his cigar and fain To talk he puffed away content, Reflecting: how delightful are Fair dame and fine

I was Mojeska’s leading man And famous parts I used to play, But now I do the best I can To earn my bread from day to day; Here in this Burg of Breaking

Up from the evil day Of wattle and of woad, Along man’s weary way Dark Pain has been the goad. Back from the age of stone, Within his brutish brain, What pleasure he has

A prisoner speaks: Majority of twenty-three, I face the Judge with joy and glee; For am I not a lucky chap – No more hanging, no more cap; A “lifer,” yes, but well I

Between the cliff-rise and the beach A slip of emerald I own; With fig and olive, almond, peach, Cherry and plum-tree overgrown; Glad-watered by a crystal spring That carols through the silver night, And

My garden hath a slender path With ivy overgrown, A secret place where once would pace A pot all alone; I see him now with fretted brow, Plunged deep in thought; And sometimes he

When you have sailed the seven seas And looped the ends of earth, You’ll long at last for slippered ease Beside a bonny hearth; A cosy cottage in the sun, A pleasant page to

Because I love the soothing weed And am of sober type, I’d choose me for a friend in need A man who smokes a pipe. A cove who hasn’t much to say, And spits

A barefoot boy I went to school To save a cobbler’s fee, For though the porridge pot was full A frugal folk were we; We baked our bannocks, spun our wool, And counted each

It’s slim and trim and bound in blue; Its leaves are crisp and edged with gold; Its words are simple, stalwart too; Its thoughts are tender, wise and bold. Its pages scintillate with wit;

The harridan who holds the inn At which I toss a pot, Is old and uglier than sin, I’m glad she knows me not. Indeed, for me it’s hard to think, Although my pow’s

In the moonless, misty night, with my little pipe alight, I am sitting by the camp-fire’s fading cheer; Oh, the dew is falling chill on the dim, deer-haunted hill, And the breakers in the

Up into the sky I stare; All the little stars I see; And I know that God is there O, how lonely He must be! Me, I laugh and leap all day, Till my

You’ve heard of Belching Billy, likewise known as Windy Bill, As punk a chunk of Yukon scum as ever robbed a sluice; A satellite of Soapy Smith, a capper and a shill, A slimy

Hot digitty dog! Now, ain’t it queer, I’ve been abroad for over a year; Seen a helluva lot since then, Killed, I reckon, a dozen men; Six was doubtful, but six was sure, Three

To Dawson Town came Percy Brown from London on the Thames. A pane of glass was in his eye, and stockings on his stems. Upon the shoulder of his coat a leather pad he

When we might make with happy heart This world a paradise, With bombs we blast brave men apart, With napalm carbonize. Where we might till the sunny soil, And sing for joy of life,

A passion to be free Has ever mastered me; To none beneath the sun Will I bow down, not one Shall leash my liberty. My life’s my own; I rise With glory in my

I like to think that when I fall, A rain-drop in Death’s shoreless sea, This shelf of books along the wall, Beside my bed, will mourn for me. Regard it. . . . Aye,

It hurts my pride that I should be The issue of a night of lust; Yet even Bishops, you’ll agree, Obey the biologic ‘must’; Though no doubt with more dignity Than we of layman

Moko, the Educated Ape is here, The pet of vaudeville, so the posters say, And every night the gaping people pay To see him in his panoply appear; To see him pad his paunch

Mary and I were twenty-two When we were wed; A well-matched pair, right smart to view The town’s folk said. For twenty years I have been true To nuptial bed. But oh alas! The

My daughter Susie, aged two, Apes me in every way, For as my household chores I do With brooms she loves to play. A scrubbing brush to her is dear; Ah! Though my soul

First time I dared propose, A callow lad was I; I donned my Sunday clothes, I wore my Old School Tie. Awaiting me Louise Was dolled to beat the band, So going on my

While I make rhymes my brother John Makes shiny shoes which dames try on, And finding to their fit and stance They buy and wear with elegance; But mine is quite another tale, For

Cinderella in the street In a ragged gown, Sloven slippers on her feet, Shames our tidy town; Harsh her locks of ashen grey, Vapour vague her stare, By the curb this bitter day Selling

Heed me, feed me, I am hungry, I am red-tongued with desire; Boughs of balsam, slabs of cedar, gummy fagots of the pine, Heap them on me, let me hug them to my eager

Out of the night a crash, A roar, a rampart of light; A flame that leaped like a lash, Searing forever my sight; Out of the night a flash, Then, oh, forever the Night!

Up in my garret bleak and bare I tilted back on my broken chair, And my three old pals were with me there, Hunger and Thirst and Cold; Hunger scowled at his scurvy mate:

Said President MacConnachie to Treasurer MacCall: “We ought to have a piper for our next Saint Andrew’s Ball. Yon squakin’ saxophone gives me the syncopated gripes. I’m sick of jazz, I want to hear

All day with brow of anxious thought The dictionary through, Amid a million words he sought The sole one that would do. He wandered on from pub to pub Yet never ceased to seek