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