The Christmas Tree-Robert Service (1878-1958)

       "I administer the subsidiary rights to this poetry throughout the British Commonwealth based upon a British statute of 1911 which reverts copyright to estates 25 years after death. U.S. rights have a renewal provision for copyrights upon their 28th year but many are the Robert Service poems that are of an age from before 1923 wherein public domain sets in which means no U.S. copyright control or right to object to use."

This work is in the PUBLIC DOMAIN in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1923.

The author died in 1958, so this work is in the PUBLIC DOMAIN in countries and areas (such as the internet) where longer copyright terms might be in effect but that apply the rule of the shorter term to FOREIGN WORKS.

This poem (and all other works of Robert William Service) is PUBLIC DOMAIN

 not subject to any copyright my blogs and postings do NOT infringe upon anyone else's rights
and should NOT be linked to any other site.

Neither this blog, or any of my postings there in, should not be linked to and there is absolutely no connection between, my blogs and or anything posted by Bryant McGill.

 While it is obvious that he very much likes to pretend that he has: HE DOES NOT HAVE ANY LEGAL COPYRIGHTS ON WORKS THAT ARE;

 PART OF EVERY ONE'S HERITAGE.

By so pretending Mr McGill becomes guilty of very blatant plagiarism.

     The Christmas Tree

        While very few think of it as such, 
        the famous Robert W. Service. poem,
        The Cremation of Sam McGee
        can also be labelled as a
        Christmas poem. 

In the dark and damp of the alley cold, Lay the Christmas tree that hadn't been sold; By a shopman dourly thrown outside; With the ruck and rubble of Christmas-tide; Trodden deep in the muck and mire, Unworthy even to feed a fire... So I stopped and salvaged that tarnished tree, And thus is the story it told to me: "My Mother was Queen of the forest glade, And proudly I prospered in her shade; For she said to me: 'When I am dead, You will be monarch in my stead, And reign, as I, for a hundred years, A tower of triumph amid your peers, When I crash in storm I will yield you space; Son, you will worthily take my place.' "So I grew in grace like a happy child, In the heart of the forest free and wild; And the moss and the ferns were all about, And the craintive mice crept in and out; And a wood-dove swung on my highest twig, And a chipmunk chattered: 'So big! So big!' And a shy fawn nibbled a tender shoot, And a rabbit nibbled under my root... Oh, I was happy in rain and shine As I thought of the destiny that was mine! Then a man with an axe came cruising by And I knew that my fate was to fall and die. "With a hundred others he packed me tight, And we drove to a magic city of light, To an avenue lined with Christmas trees, And I thought: may be I'll be one of these, Tinselled with silver and tricked with gold, A lovely sight for a child to behold; A-glitter with lights of every hue, Ruby and emerald, orange and blue, And kiddies dancing, with shrieks of glee - One might fare worse than a Christmas tree. "So they stood me up with a hundred more In the blaze of a big department store; But I thought of the forest dark and still, And the dew and the snow and the heat and the chill, And the soft chinook and the summer breeze, And the dappled deer and the birds and the bees... I was so homesick I wanted to cry, But patient I waited for someone to buy. And some said 'Too big,' and some 'Too small,' And some passed on saying nothing at all. Then a little boy cried: Ma, buy that one,' But she shook her head: 'Too dear, my son." So the evening came, when they closed the store, And I was left on the littered floor, A tree unwanted, despised, unsold, Thrown out at last in the alley cold." Then I said: "Don't sorrow; at least you'll be A bright and beautiful New Year's tree, All shimmer and glimmer and glow and gleam, A radiant sight like a fairy dream. For there is a little child I know, Who lives in poverty, want and woe; Who lies abed from morn to night, And never has known an hour's delight..." So I stood the tree at the foot of her bed: "Santa's a little late," I said. "Poor old chap! Snowbound on the way, But he's here at last, so let's be gay." Then she woke from sleep and she saw you there, And her eyes were love and her lips were prayer. And her thin little arms were stretched to you With a yearning joy that they never knew. She woke from the darkest dark to see Like a heavenly vision, that Christmas Tree. Her mother despaired and feared the end, But from that day she began to mend, To play, to sing, to laugh with glee... Bless you, O little Christmas Tree! You died, but your life was not in vain: You helped a child to forget her pain, And let hope live in our hearts again. Robert Service 1878-1958

White Christmas-Robert W. Service (1874-1958)

The Younger Son

My folks think I'm a serving maid
Each time I visit home;
They do not dream I ply a trade
As old as Greece or Rome;
For if they found I'd fouled their name
And was not white as snow,
I'm sure that they would die of shame . . .
Please, God, they'll never know.

I clean the paint from off my face,
In sober black I dress;
Of coquetry I leave no trace
To give them vague distress;
And though it causes me a pang
To play such sorry tricks,
About my neck I meekly hang
A silver crufix.

And so with humble step I go
Just like a child again,
To greet their Christmas candle-glow,
A soul without a stain;
So well I play my contrite part
I make myself believe
There's not a stain within my heart
On Holy Christmas Eve.

With double natures we are vext,
And what we feel, we are;
A saint one day, a sinner next,
A red light or a star;
A prostitute or proselyte,
And in each part sincere:
So I become a vestal white
One week in every year.

For this I say without demur
From out life's lurid lore,
Each righteous women has in her
A tincture of the whore;
While every harpy of the night,
As I have learned too well;
Holds in her heart a heaven-light
To ransom her from hell.

So I'll go home and sweep and dust;
I'll make the kitchen fire,
And be a model of daughters just
The best they could desire;
I'll fondle them and cook their food,
And Mother dear will say:
"Thank God! my darling is as good
As when she went away."

But after New Year's Day I'll fill
My bag and though they grieve,
I'll bid them both good-bye until
Another Christmas Eve;
And then . . . a knock upon the door:
I'll find them waiting there,
And angel-like I'll come once more
In answer to their prayer.

Then Lo! one night when candle-light
Gleams mystic on the snow,
And music swells of Christmas bells,
I'll come, no more to go:
The old folks need my love and care,
Their gold shall gild my dross,
And evermore my breast shall bear
My little silver cross. 

The Song my Paddle Sings-E Pauline Johnson (Tekahioniwake)

West wind, blow from your prairie nest,
Bow from the mountains, blow from the west
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
O! wind of the west, we wait for you.
Blow, blow! I have wooed you so,
But never a favour you bestow,
 You rock your cradle the hills between,
 But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail, unship the mast:
I wooed you long but my wooing's past;
My paddle will lull you into rest.
O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep
By your mountain steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.

August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.

The river rolls in its rocky bed;
My paddle is plying its  say ahead;
Dip, Dip
While the water flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.

And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow.
Swirl, swirl!
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!

And forward far the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore.
Dash, dash
With a mighty crash,

They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, Reel.
On your trembling keel,
 But never a fear my craft will feel.

We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead!
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
Swings, swings,
 Its emerald sings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

The Pilot of the Plains-E Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake)

"False," they said, "thy Pale-face lover from the land of waking morn;
Rise and wed thy Red skin wooer, nobler warrior ne'er was born;
Cease thy watching, cease thy dreaming,
Show the white thine Indian scorn."

Thus they taunted her declaring, "He remembers naught of thee:
Likely some white maid he wooeth, far beyond the inland sea."
But she answered ever kindly,
"He will come again to me,"

Till the dusk of Indian summer crept athwart the western skies;
But a deeper dusk was burning in her dark and dreaming eyes,
As she scanned the rolling prairie,
Where the foothills fall, and rise.
Till the autumn came and vanished, till the season of the rains
Till the western world lay fettered in midwinter's crystal chains,
Still she listened for his coming,
Still she watched the distant plains.

Then a night with lor'land tempest, nor'land snows a-swiring fast,
Out upon the pathless prairie came the Pale-face through the blast,
Calling, calling "Yakonwita,
I am coming, love at last."

Hovered night above, about him, dark its wigs and cold and dread;
Never unto trail or tepee were his straying footsteps led;
Till benumbed, he sank, and pillowed
On drifting snows his head.

Saying, "o! my Yakonwita call me, call me, be my guide
To the lodge beyond the prairie--for I vowed ere winter died
I would come again beloved;
I would claim my Indian bride."

"Yakonwita, Yakonwita! "Oh the dreariness that strains
Through the voice that calling, quivers, till a whisper but remains,
"Yakonwita, Yakonwita,
I am lost upon the plains."

But the Silent Spirit hushed him, lulled him as he cried anew,
Save me, save me! O beloved, I am Pale but I am true.

Yakonwita, Yakonwita
I am dying, love, for you."

Leagues afar, across the prairie, she had risen from her bed,
Roused her kinsmen from their slumber: "He has come to-night," she said.
"I can hear him calling, calling;
But his voice is as the dead.

"Listen!" and they sate all silent, while the tempest louder grew,
And a spirit-voice called faintly, I"I am dying, love, for you."
Then they wailed, "O! Yakonwita.
He was Pale, but he was true."

Wrapped she then her ermine round her, stepped without the tepee door,
Saying, "I must follow, follow, though he dall for evermore,
Yakonwita, Yakonwita;"
And they never saw her more.

Late at night, say Indian hunters, when the starlight clouds or wanes,
Far away they see a maiden, misty as autumn rains,
Guiding with her lamp of moon light
Hunters lost upon the plains

Brier: Good Friday-E. Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake)

Because, dear Christ, your ender, wounded arm
Bends back the briar that edges lifes's long way,
That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm,
I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.

Because I never knew your care to tire,
Your hand to weary guiding me aright,
Because you walk before and crush the brier,
It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.

Because so often you have hearkened to
My selfish prayeres, I ask but one thing now,
That these harsh hands of mine add not unto
The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.

Shadow River: Muskoka-E. Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwakea0

March 10, 1861-March 7, 1913

A stream of tender gladness,

Of filmy sun, and opal tinted skies;

Of warm midsummer air that lightly lies

In mystic rings,

Where softly swings

'The music of a thousand wings

That almost tones to sadness.

Midway 'twixt earth and heaven,

A bubble in the pearly air I seem

To float upon the sapphire ,floor, a dream

of clouds of snow,

Above, below,

Drift with my darling, dim and slow,

As twilight drifts to even.

The little fern-leaf, bending

Upon the brink, its green reflection greets,

And kisses soft the shadow that it meets

With touch so fine,

The border line

The keenest vision can't define;

So perfect is the blending.

The far, fir trees that cover

The brownish hills with needles green and gold,

The arching elms o'erhead, vinegrown and old,

Repictured are

Beneath me far,

Where not a ripple moves to mat

Shades underneath, or over.

Mine is the undertone;

The beauty, strength, and power of land

Will never stir or bend at my command;

But all the shade

is marred or made,

If I but dip my paddle blade; And it is mine alone.

O1pathless world of seeming!

O! pathless life of mine whose deep ideal

Is more my own than ever was the real.

For others Fame

And love's red flame,

And yellow gold: I only claim

The shadows and the dreaming.

Beloved Son Songs, Poems, and Quotations

In memory of  Robert (Sandy-Sandy-Man) Girvan, my son.

A Dad Hurts Too

People don’t always see the tears a DAD cries,

His heart is broken too, when his beloved child dies.

He tries to hold it together, tries to be strong,

He holds on to the daughter, as her tears fall.

He comforts her throughout it all.

He goes through his day doing what he’s supposed to do.

But, a piece of his heart has been ripped away too.

Though only when he’s alone does he let out the pain,

His world too; has come crashing in, all around him.

And all that was bright has gone completely dim.

As he searches for answers ,when none are to be found.

Who offers to help a Dad up, when he’s hit the ground,

As he smiles through his fears,

Struggles to hold back his tears?

What you see on the outside is not the real.

Men were taught not to show how they feel,

So, he feels he has to be strong for the others.

But it’s not just the daughters and mothers.

DADS do hurt too.

©Al (Alex-Alexander) D. Girvan. All rights reserved

Son, You’re 

Never Missing From Our Lives, 

Just Watching Over us.

Though somebody is missing from our dinner table,

From his bedroom, and our home;

Though his body may be missing from celebrations,

Family vacations and in between.

That someone's only missing, if his memory be gone.

Only then, will he not have parties, graduations, celebrations;

To be missed throughout the rest of eternity.

Only when, our lives he does not in some way touch;

When, a family, we are not;

Only then, will he be missing, when his memory be gone.

We must continue on.

Though his abode be with THE Creator now;

If, he still lives, in our hearts and minds,

Then, his memory keeps US alive.

Yes, we were all blessed by his short mortal life;

It’s He that keeps US strong-HIS memory not gone.

He is never missing from our lives.

Just Watching over us.

© Al (Alex-Alexander) D Girvan. All rights reserved.

The S.ON, Watching Over ME.

I sit here and I ponder, how very much

I’d like to talk with you today;

There are just too many things,

That we didn't get to say.

Oh, I know how much I care for you.

And each time I think of you;

How much you care for me.

For you said and you wrote it too.

That was before the calling you clearly heard said;

Your place was now ready, somewhere far above.

What or why the calling; only the creator knew.

You had so much to live for; so much yet to do.

It still seems impossible that Nature was taking you.

But though one short life here is past,

 The real calling starts anew.

You will live for all eternity, just as the Creator promised you.

We are never really far apart; you are always in my heart

Any time I need to talk, I know;

YOU are there;
The SON watching over ME. 

©Al (Alex-Alexander) D Girvan. All rights reserved

For My Heart is Filled With Memories

My heart is filled 

with MEMORIES,

of a brilliant young MAN, 

who touched my WORLD

FOREVER.

I'm so GLAD.

You are my SON,

still watching over ME,

FOREVER.

Although my darling son

Was with me just a while

He'll live on in my heart,

FOREVER.

MEMORIES,

 I'll treasure them,

 with LOVE,

and a sweet remembered smile,

FOREVER.

.—Al (Alex, Alexander) D. Girvan

In Beechmount Cemetery

Here the dead sleep-- the quiet dead. No sound

Disturbs them ever, and no storm dismays.

Winter mid snow caresses the tired ground,

And the wind roars about the woodland ways.

Springtime and summer and red autumn pass,

With leaf and bloom and pipe of wind and bird,

And the old earth puts forth her tender grass,

By them unfelt, unheeded and unheard.

Our centuries to them are but as strokes

In the dim gamut of some far-off chime.

Unaltering rest their perfect cloaks--

A thing too vast to hear or feel or see--

Children of Silence and Eternity,

They know no season but the end of time.

Loss.

He was so very, very special 

And was so from the start

I held him in my arms 

But mainly in my heart 

And like a single drop of rain

That on still waters fall, 

His life did ripples make 

And touched the lives of all. 

He's gone to play with angels 

In heaven up above

So I keep my special memories
though still hurting from our loss.

I Thought of You With Love Today,
 As Did I Yesterday.
I thought of you with love today
but that is nothing new;
for I thought about you yesterday;
and the days before that too.

I think about you in silence
but often speak your name;
 for all I have are the memories;
and your picture in a frame.

You memory is my treasure
with which I will never part;
THE MOTHER has you in her keeping;
I; have you, forever, in my heart.

Man Child
All day he lay upon the sand
When summer sun was bright,
And let the grains sift thorough his hand
With infantile delight;
Just like a child, so soft and fair,
Though he was twenty-five-
An innocent, my mother-care
Had kept so long alive.

Oh it is hard to bear a cross
For five-and-twenty years;
A daft son and a husband's loss
Are woes out-weighing tears
Yet bright and beautiful was he,
Though barely could he walk;
And when he signalled out to sea
His talk was baby talk.

The man I loved was drowned out there
When we were ten weeks wed.
'Tis bitter hard a boy to bear
That' fathered by the dead.
And now I give my life to him
Because he needs me so;
And as I look my sight is dim
With pity, love and woe....

"Dear Mother mine," I hear him say,
"The curse that bound me fast,
Some miracle has swept away,
And all you pain is past.
Now I am strong and sane and free,
And you shall have your due; 
For as loved and cherished me,
I'll love and cherish you."

His kisses sooth away my pain,
His clasp is paradise....
Then-then I look at him again
With terror in my eyes:

For down he sinks upon the sand,
And heavy droops his head;
The golden grains drift through his hand...
I know-my boy is dead.
--Robert William Service

Son
He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky!
And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I.
For my hair is grey, and his was gold; he'd the best of his life to live;
And I'd loved him so, and I'm old, I'm old; and he's all I had to give.

Ah yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but oh how my eyes were dim!
With the sun in his heart he went away, but he took the sun with him.
For look! How the leaves are falling now,
and the winter won't be long. . . .
Oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and the lips of love and of song!

How we used to sit at the day's sweet end, we two by the firelight's gleam,
And we'd drift to the Valley of Let's Pretend,
on the beautiful river of Dream.
Oh dear little heart! All wealth untold would I gladly, gladly pay
Could I just for a moment closely hold that golden head to my grey.

For I gaze in the fire, and I'm seeing there a child, and he waves to me;
And I run and I hold him up in the air, and he laughs and shouts with glee;
A little bundle of love and mirth, crying: "Come, Mumsie dear!"
Ah me! If he called from the ends of the earth
I know that my heart would hear.. . . . .

Yet the thought comes thrilling through all my pain:
how worthier could he die?
Yea, a loss like that is a glorious gain, and pitiful proud am I.
For Peace must be bought with blood and tears,
and the boys of our hearts must pay;
And so in our joy of the after-years, let us bless them every day.

And though I know there's a hasty grave with a poor little cross at its head,
And the gold of his youth he so gladly gave, yet to me he'll never be dead.
And the sun in my Devon lane will be gay, and my boy will be with me still,
So I'm finding the heart to smile and say: "Oh God, if it be Thy Will!"
--Robert W. Service, The Ayrshire Poet

A Father

A father overheard his son pray:
Dear Mother,

 Make me the kind of man my Daddy is.
Later that night, the Father prayed,

Dear Mother, 

Make me the kind of man my son wants me to be

.—Author Unknown

"Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak, and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid, one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat, and humble and gentle in victory."

Author: Douglas MacArthur

"A boy is a magical creature - you can lock him out of your workshop, but you can’t lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your study, but you can’t get him out of your mind. Might as well give up—he is your captor, your jailer, your boss and your master—a freckled-faced, pint-sized, cat-chasing bundle of noise. But when you come home at night with only the shattered pieces of your hopes and dreams, he can mend them like new with two magic words - “Hi, Dad!”"

Author: Alan Beck

"By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he's wrong."

Author: Charles Wadsworth

"He has the spirit of the sun, the moods of the moon, and the will of the wind."

Author: Julie Perkins Centrell

"Let him sleep for when he wakes he will move mountains!!"

Author: Unknown

A son is the happy memories of the past, the joyful moments of the present, and the hope and promise of the future. .Author Unknown.

When you teach your son, you teach your son's son.

“If you can keep your wits about you while all others are losing theirs, and blaming you. . . . The world will be yours and everything in it, what's more, you'll be a man, my son.” 

Rudyard Kipling 

Every father should remember that one day his son will follow his example instead of his advice.--Author Unknown

The Minstrel Boy

Thomas Moore 1779-1852

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death ye will find him;
His father's sword he hath girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him;
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,
"Tho' all the world betray thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free
They shall never sound in slavery!"

A concentrated, single verse version exists:

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death ye may find him;
His father's sword he hath girded on,
With his wild harp slung along behind him;
Land of Song, the lays of the warrior bard,
May some day sound for thee,
But his harp belongs to the brave and free
And shall never sound in slavery!"

During the US Civil War a third verse was written

 by an unknown author, and is sometimes included

 in renditions of the song:

The Minstrel Boy will return we pray
When we hear the news we all will cheer it,
The minstrel boy will return one day,
Torn perhaps in body, not in spirit.
Then may he play on his harp in peace,
In a world such as heaven intended,
For all the bitterness of man must cease,
And ev'ry battle must be ended.

Sunny Boy - Al Jolson

Morris Stoloff (1946)

Climb up on my knee sonny boy
Though you're only three sonny boy
You've no way of knowing,
there's no way of showing
What you mean to me sonny boy.

When there are grey skies
I don't mind the grey skies.
You make them blue, Sonny Boy.
Friends may forsake me,
let 'em all forsake me.
I still have you, Sonny boy

You're sent from heaven
and I know your worth.
You made a heaven for me here on the earth.
When I'm old and grey, dear,
promise you won't stray, dear,
for I love you so, Sonny Boy.

When there are grey skies
I don't, I don't mind grey skies.
You make them blue, Sonny Boy.
Friends, friends may forsake me,
let 'em all, let 'em all forsake me.
I still have you, Sonny boy

You're sent from heaven
and I know your worth.
You made a heaven for me here on earth.
And the angels grew lonely
Took you because they were lonely
I'm lonely too Sonny Boy.

Danny Boy-Words by Fred E. Weatherly

Sung to the tune of Londonderry Air

(Old Irish Folk Song)

This has always been my favourite song; but, 

now when singing, or playing, it;

I usually change the words

 Danny-boy to Sandy- Man;

for my Son did promise to come back to me.

Oh, Danny-boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling--

from glen to glen and down the mountain side.--

The summer's gone, and all the roses falling,--

It's you, it's you must go and I must bide.--

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,--

Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow.--
It's I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow.--
Oh Danny boy, Oh Danny boy, I love you so.--
But when you come, and all the flowers are dying--
If I am dead, as dead I well may be,--
You'll come and find the place where I am lying,--
And Kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.
And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me,--
And all my grave will warm and sweeter be,--
For you'll not fail to tell me that you love me,--
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.