Short Poems--NON-COPYRIGHT, PUBLIC DOMAIN---Robert William Service (1874-1958), the Ayrshire Poet

Interestingly, starting with what are probably his two shortest commercially published poems, (The Sunshine Seeks my Little Room and No Sourdough-Read also, his shortest poem), the short poems of Robert Service (The Ayrshire Poet) show a side of him that many people; especially those that think of him as being a Canadian—WHICH HE WAS NOT-- are not, at all, familiar with.

Robert Service Memorial, Kilwinning, Ayrshire.

 These poems, like all of his works, are PUBLIC DOMAIN:

THEY ARE NOT, AND CANNOT AGAIN, BE COPYRIGHTED BY ANYONE.
What really confounds me is that there are postings, on various web-sites, by people who think they have  "RIGHTS" to this material; which was written, and published, by a talent, far beyond their comprehension, long before they were even conceived--these people, can not, could not, do not have, any"RIGHTS".

The Sunshine Seeks my Little Room

The sunshine seeks my little room

To tell me Paris streets are gay;

That children cry the lily bloom

All up and down the leafy way;

That half the town is mad with May,

With flame of flag and boom of bell:

For Carnival is King to-day;

So pen and page, awhile farewell.

No Sourdough

To be a bony feed Sourdough

You must, by Yukon Law,

Have killed a moose,

And robbed a sluice,

AND BUNKED UP WITH A SQUAW….

Alas! Sourdough I’ll never be.

Oh, sad is my excuse:

My shooting’s so damn bad, you see….

I’ve never killed a moose

The Yukoner

He burned a hole in frozen muck,

He pierced the icy mould,

And there in six-foot dirt he struck

A sack or so of gold.

He burned holes in the Decalogue,

And then it cam about,

For Fortune’s just a lousy rogue,

His “pocket” petered out.

And lo! ‘twas but a year all told,

When there in a shadow grim,

In six feet deep of icy mould

 They burned a hole for him

Funk

When your marrer bone seems ‘oller,

And you’re glad you ain’t no taller,

And you’re all a-shakin’ like you ‘ad the chills;

When your skin creeps like a pullet’s,

And you’re duckin all the bullets,

And your green s gorgonzola round the gills;

When your legs seem made of jelly,

And you’re squeamish in the belly,

And you want to turn about and do a bunk:

For Gawd’s sake, kid don’t show it!

Don’t let your mateys know it—

You’re just sufferin’ from funk, funk funk.

Of course there’s no denyin’

That it ain’t so easy tryin’

To grin and grip your rifle by the butt,

When the ‘ole world rips asunder,

And you sees yer pal go under,

As a bunch of shrapnel sprays ‘im on the nut;

I admit it’s ‘ard contrivin’

When you ‘ears the shells arrivin’,

To discover you’re a bloomin’ bit o’ spunk;

But, my lad, you’ve got to do it,

For wot ‘E ‘ates is funk, funk, funk.

So stand up son; look gritty,

And just ‘um a lively ditty,

And only be afraid to be afraid;

Just ‘old yer rifle steady,

And ‘ave yer bay’nit ready’

For that’s the way  good soldier-men is made.

And if you ‘as to die,

As it sometimes ‘appens, why,

Far better die a ‘ero than a skunk;

A-doin’ of yer bit,

And so—to ‘ell with it,

There ain’t no bloomin’ funk, funk, funk

Grin

If you’re up against a bruiser and you’re getting knocked about—

Grin.

If you’re feeling pretty groggy, and you’re licked beyond a doubt—

Grin.

Don’t let him see you’re funking, let him know with every clout,

Though your face is battered to a pulp, your blooming heart is stout;

Just stand upon your pins until the beggar knocks you out—

And grin.

This life’s a bally battle, and the same advice holds true

Of grin.

If you’re up against it badly, then it’s only one on you

So grin.

 If the future’s black as thunder, don’t let people see you’re blue;

Just cultivate a cast-iron smile of joy the whole day through;

If they call you “Little Sunshine”, wish THEY”D no troubles, too—

You may—grin.

Rise up in the morning with the will that, smooth or rough,

 You’ll grin.

Sink to sleep at midnight, and although you’re feeling tough,

Yet grin.

There’s nothing gained by whining, and you’re not that kind of stuff;

You’re a fighter from away back, and you WON”T take a rebuff;

Your trouble is that you don’t know when you have had enough—

Don’t give in.

If Fate should down you, just get up and take another cuff;

You may bank on it that there is no philosophy like bluff,

And grin.

A Grain of Sand, a Poem to Think About

If starry space no limit knows

And sun succeeds to sun,

There is no reason to suppose

Our earth the only one.

‘Mid countless constellations cast

A million worlds may be,

With each a God to bless or blast

And steer to destiny.

Just think! Q million gods or so

To guide each vital stream,

With over all to boss the show

A Deity supreme.

Such magnitudes oppress my mind;

From cosmic space it swings;

So ultimately glad to find

Relief in little things.

For look! Within my hollow hand,

 While round the earth careens,

 I hold a single grain of sand

And wonder what it means.

 Ah! If I had the eyes to see,

And brain to understand,

 I think Life’s mystery might be

 Solved in this grain of sand.

The Ape And God, Another Poem to Think About.

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 made the mountains soar,

And all the plains lie flat;

But Dad, what did he do before

He did all that?

Said I: “Creation was his biz;

He set the stars to shine;

The sun and moon and all that is

 Were His unique design.

The Cosmos is his concrete thought,

The Universe his chore…”

Said Son: I understand, but what

Did He before?

I gave it up; I could not cope

With his enquiring prod,

And must admit I’ve little hope

Of understanding God.

Indeed I find more to my mind

The monkey in the tree

In whose crude form Nature defined

Our human destiny.

Thought I: “Why search for Deity

 In visionary shape?

“’Twould better be if we could see

The angel in the ape.

 Let mystic seek a God above

Far wiser he who delves,

To find kindness and love

 God in ourselves.

The Hand

Throughout my life I see

A guiding hand;

The pitfalls set for me

Were grimly planned.

But always when and where

They opened wide,

Someone who seemed to care

Stood by my side.

When up the pathway dark

I stumbled on,

Afar, ahead a spark

Of guidance shone.

When forked the tragic trail

And sad my plight,

My guardian without fail

Would lead me right.

How merciful a Mind

My life has planned!

Aye, though mine eyes were blind

I touched the Hand;

Though weary ways and wan

My feet have trod,

Always led me on,

Starways to God

A Cabbage Patch

Folk ask if I’m alive,

Most think I’m not;

Yet gaily contrive

To till my plot.

The world its say can go,

I little heed,

So long as I can grow

The grub I need.

For though long overdue,

The years to me,

Have taught a lesson true,

--Humility.

Such better men than I

I’ve seen pass on;

Their pay-off when they die;

--Oblivion.

And so I mock at fame,

With books unread;

No monument I claim

When I am dead;

Contented as I see

My cottage thatch

That my last goal should be

--A cabbage patch.

Little Brother

Wars have been and wars will be

Till the human race is run;

Battles red by land and sea,

Never peace beneath the sun,

I am old and little care;

I’ll be cold, my lips be dumb;

Brother mine, beware, beware…

Evil looms the wrath to come.

Eastern skies are dark with strife,

 Western lands are stark with fear;

Rumours of world-war are rife,

Armageddon draweth near.

 If your carcase you would save,

Hear, oh hear the dreadful drum!

 Fly to forest, cower in cave…

Brother, heed the wrath to come!

Brother, you were born too late;

Human life is but a breath.

Men delve deep where darkly wait

Sinister the weeds of death,

There’s no monument to delay;

Sorrowing the stars are blind.

Little Brother, how I prey

 You may sanctuary find.

Peoples of the world succumb…

Fly, poor fools the WRATH TO COME!

The above image of Robert W. Service in front of the cabin  is PUBLIC DOMAIN

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cabin_of_Robert_Service.JPG

Good-bye, Little Cabin

O dear little cabin, I loved you so long,

And now I must bid you good-bye!

I’ve filled you with laughter; I’ve thrilled you with song,

And sometimes I wished I could cry.

Your walls they have witnessed a weariful fight,

And rung to a won Waterloo:

But oh, in my triumph I’m dreary to-night—

Good-bye little cabin, to you!

Your roof is bewhiskered, your floor is a-slant,

Your walls seem to sag and to swing;

I’m trying to find just your faults, but I can’t—

You poor, tired, heart-broken old thing!

I’ve seen when you’ve been the best friend that I had,

Your light like a gem on the snow;

You’re sort of a part of me—Gee! But I’m sad;

I hate, little cabin, to go.

Below your cracked window red raspberries climb;

A hornet’s nest hangs from a beam;

Your rafters are scribbled with adage and rhyme, 
And dimed with tobacco and dream.

“Each day has its laugh”, and “Don’t worry, just work”.

Such mottoes reproachfully shine.

Old calendars dangle—what memories lurk

About you, dear cabin of mine!

I hear the world-call and clang of the fight;

I hear the hoarse cry of my kind;

Yet well do I know, as I quit you to-night,

It’s Youth that I’m leaving behind.

And often I’ll think of you, empty and black,

Moose antlers nailed over your door:

Oh, if I should perish my ghost will come back

To dwell in you cabin, once more!

How cold, still and lonely, how weary you seem!

A last wistful look and I’ll go.

Oh, will you remember the lad with his dream!

The lad that you comforted so.

The shadows enfold you, it’s drawing to-night;

The evening star needles the sky:

And huh! But it’s stinging and stabbing my sight—

God bless you, old cabin, good-bye

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 his empty shell.

Poker-faced he looks at me;

Peeved to miss them jokes- how he,

Would have belly laughed with Glee!

He gives me the pip, I swear;

Seems just like he isn’t there:

Flown the coop- I wonder where?

Bill had no belief in “soul;

Thought the body was the whole,

And the grave the final goal.

Didn’t recon when we pass,

This old carcass maybe has

Spirit that sneaks out like gas.

“Look here, Bill, I’m asking you

What’ the Answer? Tell me true:

Is death the end of all we do?

Hand me out the dope-are we

No more than monkeys on a tree?”

..And then I swear to God I see

Bill bat an eye and-wink at me

A Sourdough Story, to Think About.

Hark to the Sourdough story, told at sixty below,

When the pipes are lit and we smoke and spit

Into the campfire glow.

Rugged are we and hoary, and attain’ a general rule,

A genooine Sourdough story

Ain’t no yarn for the Sunday school.

A Sourdough came to stake his claim in Heav’n one morning early.

Saint Peter cried: who waits outside them gates so bright and pearly?”

“I’m recent dead”, the Sourdough said, “and crave to visit Hades,

Where haply pine some pals o’ mine, includin’ certain ladies.”

Said Peter: “go, you old Sourdough, from life so crooly riven;

And if ye fail to find their trail, we’ll have a snoop round Heaven.”

He waved, and lo! That old Sourdough dropped down to Hell’s red spaces;

But though ‘twas hot he couldn’t spot them old familiar faces.

The bedrock burned, and so he turned, and climbed with footsteps fleeter,

The stairway straight to Heaven’s gate, and there, of course, was Peter.

“I  cannot see my mates,” sez he, “among those damned forever.

I have a hunch some of the bunch in Heaven I’ll discover.”

Said Peter: true; and this I’ll do (since Sourdough re my failing)

You see them guys in Paradise, lined up against the railing-

As bald as coots, in birthday suits, with beards below the middle..

Well, I’ll allow you in right now, if you can solve a riddle:

Among that gang of stiffs who hang and dodder round the portals,

Is one whose name is known to fame-it’s Adam, first of mortals.

For quiets sake he makes a break from Eve, which is his Madame..

Well, there’s the gate-to crash it straight, just spy the guy that’s Adam.”

The old Sourdough went down the row of greybeards ruminatin’

With optics dim, they peered at him, and pressed agin the gratin’.

In every face he sought some trace of our ancestral father;

But though he stared, he soon despaired the faintest clue to gather,

Then suddenly he whooped with glee: Ha! Ha! An inspiration.”

And to and fro, along the row, he ran with animation.

To Peter, bold he cried: “behold, all told there are eleven

Suppose I fix on Number Six-say Boy! How’s that for Heaven?”

“By gosh! You win,” said Pete. “Step in. but tell me how you chose him.

They’re like as pins; all might be twins. There’s nothing to disclose him.”

The Sourdough said: “’twas hard; my head was seething with commotion.

I felt a dunce; then all at once, I had a gorgeous notion.

I stooped and peered beneath each beard that drooped like fleece of mutton.
 My search was crowned.. That bird I found- aint got no belly button.”

My Cuckoo Clock

I bought a cuckoo clock

And glad was I

To hear its tick and tock,

Its dulcet cry.

But Jones, whose wife is young

And pretty too,

Winced when that bird gave tongue:

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

I have a lady friend

Whom I would wed,

For dalliance should end

In bridal bed.

Until the thought occurred:

Can she be true?

And then I heard that bird:

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Though ignorance is bliss

And love be blind,

Faithless may be the kiss

Of womankind.

So now sweet echoes mock

My wish to woo:

Confound that cursed clock!

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

 My Rival

If she met him or he met her,

I knew that something must occur;

For they were just like flint and steel

To strike the spark of woe and weal;

Or like two splinters broken fine,

 In perfect fitness to combine;

And so I ept them well apart,

For she was precious to my heart.

One time we all three met at church

I tried to give the lad the lurch,

But heard him say: how like a rose!

Is it your daughter, I suppose?

: Why no,” said I; my wife to be,

And six months gone wi’ child is she.”

He looked astonished and distraught:

My boy, that’s one for you I thought.

The wife asked: what a handsome lad!

A sailor…” Somehow she looked sad;

And then his memory grew dim,

For nevermore she mentioned him.

 And as I be nigh twice her age

I’ve always thought it mighty sage.

Lest she might one day go astray,

To keep her in the breeding way.

Oh did she ever dream of Jack?

The boy who nevermore came back,

And never will, I heard that he

Was drowned in the China Sea.

I told her not, lest she be sad

And me? It’s mean, but I was glad;

For if he’s come into my life

He would have robbed me of my wife.

But when at night by her I lie,

And in her sleep I hear her sigh,

I have a doubt if I did well

In separating Jack and Nell.

And though we have a brood of seven,

Yet marriage may be made in Heaven;

For Nell has cancer, Doctors state,

So maybe ‘tis the way of fate

That in the end them two may mate.

Death and Life

‘Twas in the grave-yard’s gruesome gloom

That May and I were mated;

We sneaked inside and on a tomb

Our love was consummated.

It’s quite all right, no doubt we’ll wed,

Our sin will go unchildden…

Ah! Sweeter than the nuptial bed

Are ecstasies forbidden.

And as I held my sweetheart close,

And she was softly sighing,

A could not help but think of those

In peace below us lying.

Poor folks! No disrespect we meant,

And beg you’ll be forgiving;

We hopes the dead will not resent

The rapture of the living.

And when in death I, too, shall lie,

And lost to those who love me,

Oh do not think that I will grieve

To hear the vows they’re voicing,

And if their love new life conceive,

‘Tis I will be rejoicing

A Year Ago

I’m sitting by the fire tonight,

The cat purrs on the rug;

The room’s abrim with rosy light,

Suavely soft and snug;

And safe and warm from dark and storm

It’s cosiness I hug.

Then petulant the window pane

Quakes in tempest moan,

And cries: forlornly in the rain

There starkly streams a stone,

Where one so dear who shared your cheer

Now lies alone, alone.

Go forth! Go forth into the gale

And pass and hour in prayer;

This night of sorrow do not fail

The one you deemed so fair,

The girl below the bitter snow

Who died your child to “bear.”

So wails the wind, yet here I sit

Beside the ember’s glow;

My grog is hot, my pipe is lit,

And loth am I to go

To her who died a ten-month bride,

Only a year ago.

To-day we weep: each morrow is

A littling of regret;

The saddest part of sorrow is

That we in time forget…

Christ! Let me go to graveyard woe,--

Yea, I will sorrow yet

Gangrene

So often in the mid of night

I wake me in my bed

With utter panic of affright

To find my feet are dead;

And pace the floor to ease my pain

And make them live again.

The folks at home are so discreet;

They see me walk and walk

 To keep the blood-flow in my feet,

And though they never talk

I’ve heard them whisper: Mother may

Have them cut off some day.

Cut off my feet! I’d rather die…

And yet the years of pain,

When in the darkness I will lie

And pray to God in vain,

Thinking in agony: Oh why

Can doctors not annul our breath

In honourable death?

Strip Teaser

My precious grand-child aged two,

Is eager to unlace one shoe,

And then the other;

Her cotton socks she’ll deftly doff

Despite the mild reproaches of

Her mother.

Around the house she loves to fare,

And with her rosy tootsies bare,

Pit-pat the floor;

And though remonstrances we make

She presently decides to take

Off something more.

Her pinafore she next unties,

And then before we realise,

Her dress drops down; 
Her panties and her brassiere,

Her chemise and her underwear

Are round her strown.

And now she dances all about,

As naked as a new-caught trout,

With impish glee;

And though she’s beautiful like that,

(A cherubim, but not so fat).

Quite shocked are we.

And so we dread with dim dismay

Some day she may her charms display

In skimpy wear;

Aye, even in a gee-string she

May frolic on the stage of the

 Folies-Bergère

But e’er she does, I hope she’ll read

This worldly wise and warning screed,

 That to conceal,

Unto the ordinary man

Is often more alluring than

To ALL reveal

Heart O’ The North

And when I come to the dim trail-end,

I who have been life’s rover,

This is all I would ask, my friend,

Over and over and over:

A little space on a stony hill

With never another near me,

Sky o’ the North that’s vast and still,

With a single star to cheer me;

Star that gleams on a moss-grey stone

Graven by those who love me—
There would I lie alone, alone,

With a single pine above me;

Pine that the north wind whinneys through—

Oh, I have been Life’s lover!

But there I’d lie and listen to

Eternity passing over

The Stretcher-Bearer—Speaks out Against Racism and War

My stretcher is one scarlet stain,

And as I tries I tries to scrape it clean,

I tll you wot—I’m sick with pain

For all I’ve ‘eard, for all I’ve seen;

Around me is the ‘ellish night,

And as the war’s red rim I trace,

I wonder if in ‘Eaven’s height,

Our Gos don’t turn away ‘Is Face.

I don’t care ‘oose the Crime may be;

I ‘olds no brief for kin or clan;

I ‘ymns no ‘ate: I only see

As man destroys his brother man;

I waves no flag: I only know,

As ‘ere beside the dead I wait,

A million ‘earts is weighed with woe,

A mill ‘omes is desolate.

In drippin’ darkness, far and near,

All night I’ve sought them woeful ones.

Dawn shudders up and still I ‘ear

The crimson chorus of the guns.

Look! Like a ball of blood the sun

‘Angs o’er the scene of wrath and wrong….

“Quick!  Stretcher-bearers on the run!”

O Prince of Peace! ‘Ow long, ‘ow long?

The End of The Trail

Life, you’ve been mighty good to me,

Yet here’s the end of the trail;

No more mountain, moor and sea,

No more saddle and sail.

Waves a-leap in the laughing sun

Call to me as of yore….

Alas! My errant days are done:

I’ll rove no more, no more.

Life, you’ve cheered me all the way;

You’ve been my bosom friend;

But gayest dog will have his day,

And biggest binge must end.

Shorebound I watch and see afar

A wistful isle grow wan,

While over is a last lone star

Dims out in lilac dawn.

Life, you’ve been wonderful to me,

But fleetest foot must fail;

The hour must come when all will see

The last lap of the trail.

Yet holding in my heart a hymn

Of praise for gladness gone,

Serene I wait my star to dim

In the glow of the Greater Dawn

My Bear

I never killed a bear because

I always thought them critters was

So kindo’ cute;

Though round my shack they often came,

I’d raise my rifle and take aim,

But couldn’t shoot.

Yet there was one full six-feet tall

Who came each night and gobbled all

The grub in sight;

On my pet garden truck he’d feast,

Until I thought I must at least

Give him a fight.

I put some corn mush in a pan;

He lapped it swiftly down and ran

With bruin glee;

A second day I did the same,

Again with eagerness he came

To gulp and flee.

The third day I mixed up a cross

Of mustard and tobacco sauce,

And ginger too,

Well spiced with pepper of cayenne,

Topped it with treacled mush, and then

Set out the brew.

He was a huge and husky chap;

I saw him shamble to the trap,

The dawn was dim.

He squatted down on his behind,

And through the cheese-cloth window-blind

I peeked at him.

I never saw a bear so glad;

A look of joy seraphic had

His visage brown;

He slavered, and without suspish-

-lon hugged that horrid dish,

And swilled it down.

Just for a moment he was still,

Then he erupted loud and shrill

With frantic yell;

The picket fence he tried to vault;

He turned a double somersault,

And ran like hell.

I saw him leap into the lake,

As if a thirst of fire to slack,

And thrash up foam;

And then he sped along the shore,

And beat his breast with raucous roar,

And made for home.

I guess he told the folks back there

My homestead was taboo for bear

For since that day,

Although my pumpkins star the ground,

No other bear has come around,

Nor trace of bruin have I found,

-Well, let me pray

Grey Gull

‘Twas on an iron, icy day

I saw a pirate gull down-pane,

And hover in a wistful way

Nigh where my chickens picked their grain.

An outcast gull, so grey and old,

Withered of leg I watched it hop,

By hunger goaded and by cold,

To where each fowl full-filled its crop.

They hospitably welcomed it,

And at the food rack gave it place;

It at and ate, it preened a bit,

By way of gratitude and grace.

It parleyed with my barnyard cock,

Then resolutely winged away;

But I am fey in feather talk,

And this is what I heard it say:

“I know that you and all your tribe

Are shielded warm and fenced from fear;

With food and comfort you would bribe

My weary wings to linger here.

An outlaw scarred and leather-lean,

I battle with the winds of woe:

You think me scaly and unclean…

And yet my soul you do not know,

“I storm the golden gates of day,

I wing the silver lanes of night;

I plumb the deep for finny prey,

On wave I sleep in tempest height.

Conceived was I by sea and sky,

Their elements are fused in me;

Of brigand birds that float and fly

I am the freest of the free.

From peak to plain, from palm to pine

I coast creation at my will;

The chartless solitudes are mine,

And no one seeks to do me ill.

Until some cauldron of the sea

Shall gulp for me and I shall cease…

Oh I have lived enormously

And I shall have prodigious peace.”

With yellow bill and beady eye

This spoke, I think, that od grey gull;

And as I watched it Southward fly

Life seemed to be a-sudden dull.

For I have often held this thought-

If I could change this mouldy me,

By heaven I would choose the lot,

Of all the gypsy birds, to be

A gull that spans the spacious sea.

The Rhyme of the Restless Ones

We couldn’t sit and study for law;

The stagnation of a bank we couldn’t stand;

 For our riot blood was surging, and we didn’t need much urging

To excitements and excesses that are banned.

So we took to wine and drink and other things,

And the devil in us struggled to be free;

Till our friends rose up in wrath, and they pointed out the path,

And they paid our debts and packed us o’er the sea.

 Oh, they shook us off and shipped us o’er the foam,

To the larger lands that lure a man to roam;

And we took the chance they gave

Of a far and foreign grave,

And we bade goo-bye for evermore to home.

And some of us are climbing on the peak,

 And some of us are camping on the plain;

By pine and palm you’ll find us, with never claim to bind us,

By track and trail you’ll meet us once again.

We are the fated serfs to freedom—sky and sea;

We have failed where slummy cities overflow;

But the stranger ways of earth know our pride and know our worth,

And we go into the dark as fighters go.

Yes, we go into the night as brave men go,

Though our faces they be often streaked with woe;

Yet we’re hard as cats to kill,

And our hearts are reckless still,

And we’ve danced with death a dozen times or so.

And you’ll find us in Alaska after gold,

And you’ll find us herding cattle in the South.

 We like strong drink and fun, and, when the race is run,

We often die with curses in our mouth.

We are wild as colts unbroken, but never mean.

Of our sins we’ve shoulders broad to bear the blame;

But we’ll never stay in town and we’ll never settle down,

And we’ll never have an object or an aim.

No, there’s that in us that time can never tame;

And life will always seem a careless game;

And they’d better far forget—

Those who say they love us yet—

Forget; blot out with bitterness our name.

At Thirty-Five

Three score and ten, the psalmist saith,

And half my course is well-nigh run;

I’ve had my flout at dusty death,

I’ve had my whack of feast and fun.

I’ve mocked at those who praise and preach;

I’ve laughed with any man alive;

But now with sobered heart I reach

The Great Divide of Thirty-five

And looking back I must confess

I’ve little cause to feel elate.

 I’ve played the mummer more or less;

I fumbled fortune, flouted fate.

 I’ve vastly dreamed and little done;

I’ve idly watched my brothers strive;

Oh, I have loitered in the sun

By primrose paths to Thirty-five!

And those who matched me in the race,

Well, some are out and trampled down’

The others jog with sober pace;

Yet one wins delicate renown.

O midnight feast and famished dawn!

O gay, hard life, with hope alive!

O golden youth, forever gone,

How sweet you seem at Thirty-five!

Each of our lives is just a book

As absolute as Holy Writ;

We humbly read, and may not look

Ahead, nor change one word of it.

And here are joys and here are pains;

And here we fail and here we thrive;

O wondrous volume! What remains

When we reach chapter Thirty-five?

The very best, I dare to hope,

Ere Fate writes Finis to the tome;

A wiser head, a wider scope,

And for the gipsy heart, a home;

A songful home, with loved ones near,

With joy, with sunshine all alive:

Watch me grow younger every year—

Old Age! Thy name is Thirty-five.

The Pines

We sleep in the sleep of ages, the bleak, barbarian pines;

The grey moss drapes us like sages, and closer we lock our lines,

And deeper we clutch through the gelid gloom where never a sunbeam shines.

On the flanks of the storm-gored ridges are our black battalions massed;

We surge in a host to the sullen coast, and we sing in the oceans blast;

From empire of sea to empire of snow we grip our empire fast.

To the niggard lands were we driven, ‘twixt desert and floes are we penned;

To us the Northland given, ours to stronghold and defend;

Ours till world be riven in the crash of the utter end;

Ours from the bleak beginning, through the aeons of death-like sleep;

 Ours from the shock when the naked pock was hurled from the hissing deep;

Ours through the twilight ages of weary glacier creep.

Wind of the East, wind of the west, wandering to and fro,

Chant your songs in our topmost boughs, that the sons of men may know

The peerless pine was the first to come, and the pine will be last to go!

We pillar the halls of perfumed gloom; we plume where eagles soar;

The North-wind swoops from the brooding Pole, and our ancients crash and roar;

But where one falls from crumbling walls shoots up a handy score.

We spring from the gloom of the canyon’s womb; in the valley’s lap we lie;

From the white foam-fringe, where breakers cringe to the peaks that tusk the sky,

We climb, and we peer on the crag-locked mere that gleams like a golden eye.

Gain to the verge of the hog-back ridge where vision ranges free;

Pines and pines and the shadow f pines as far as the eye can see;

A stead fast legion of stalwart knights in dominant empery.

Sun, moon and stars give answer; shall we not staunchly stand,

Even as now, forever, wards of the wilder strand

Sentinels of the stillness, lords of the last, lone land?

Milking Time

There’s a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane;

There’s old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain;

There are cherry petals falling, and cuckoo calling, calling,

And a score of larks (God bless ‘em)…but its all pain, pain.

For you see I am not really there at all, not at all;

For you see I’m in the trenches where the crump-crumps fakk;

And the bits o’ shells are screaming and it’s inly blessed dreaming

That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol.

Oh I’ve thought of it so often since I’ve come down here;

And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear;

The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses,

And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring clear.

And the mothers sitting knitting where her roses climb,

And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime,

And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light’s a golden blessing,

And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it’s milking time.

Oh it’s Sunday, for she’s wearing of her broidered gown;

And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down;

 And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow,

And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown.

And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue;

And her lips are made for laughter and her white teeth too;

And her mouth is like a cherry and a dimple mocking merry

Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you.

So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me;

And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree;

And golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling,

And a thousand birds are telling how it’s good to be.

And what are pouting lips for if they can’t be kissed?

And I’ve filled her arms with blossoms so she can’t resist;

And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying

That Yvonne is long delaying…God! How close that missed.

A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh;

That we’re here to fight like devils, and if need-be die;

That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches

O the battered, tattered trenches is far, far cry.

Yet still I’m sitting dreaming in the glare and grime;

And once again I’m hearing of them church-bells chime;

And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather

We will fetch the cows together when it’s milking time….

(English voice, months later):--

“Ow Bill! A rotten’ Frenchy. Whew! ‘E ain’t arf prime.”

Include Me Out

I grabbed the new Who’s Who to see

My name-but it was not.

Said I: “the form they posted me

I filled and sent-so what?

I searched the essies, “dour with doubt…

Darn! It was plain as day

The scurvy knaves had left me out..

Oh was I mad? I’ll say.

Then all at once I sensed the clue;

‘Twas simple you’ll allow…

The book I held was Who WAS Who

Oh was I glad-and how!

The Headliner and the Breadliner

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 with dainty cheer,

Puff his perfecto, swill champagne, ane sway

Just like a gentleman, yet all in play,

Then bow himself off stage with brutish leer.

And as to-night, with noble knowledge crammed,

I ‘mid this human compost take my place,

I once a poet, now so dead and damned,

The woeful tears half freezing in my face:

“O God! I cry, “Let me but take his shape,

Mokos, the blessed, the Educated Ape.

Home and Love

Just Home and Love! the words are small

Four little letters unto each;

And yet you will not find in all

The wide and gracious range of speech

Two more so tenderly complete:

When angels talk in Heaven above,

I'm sure they have no words more sweet

Than Home and Love.

Just Home and Love! it's hard to guess

Which of the two were best to gain;

Home without Love is bitterness;

Love without Home is often pain.

No! each alone will seldom do;

Somehow they travel hand and glove:

If you win one you must have two,

Both Home and Love.

And if you've both, well then I'm sure

You ought to sing the whole day long;

It doesn't matter if you're poor

With these to make divine your song.

And so I praisefully repeat,

When angels talk in Heaven above,

There are no words more simply sweet

Than Home and Love.

The Low-down White

This is the pay-day up at the mines, when the bearded brutes come down;
There's money to burn in the streets to-night, so I've sent my klooch to town,
With a haggard face and a ribband of red entwined in her hair of brown.

And I know at the dawn she'll come reeling home with the bottles, one, two, three --
One for herself, to drown her shame, and two big bottles for me,
To make me forget the thing I am and the man I used to be.

To make me forget the brand of the dog, as I crouch in this hideous place;
To make me forget once I kindled the light of love in a lady's face,
Where even the squalid Siwash now holds me a black disgrace.

Oh, I have guarded my secret well! And who would dream as I speak
In a tribal tongue like a rogue unhung, 'mid the ranch-house filth and reek,
I could roll to bed with a Latin phrase and rise with a verse of Greek?

Yet I was a senior prizeman once, and the pride of a college eight;
Called to the bar -- my friends were true! but they could not keep me straight;
Then came the divorce, and I went abroad and "died" on the River Plate.

But I'm not dead yet; though with half a lung there isn't time to spare,
And I hope that the year will see me out, and, thank God, no one will care --
Save maybe the little slim Siwash girl with the rose of shame in her hair.

She will come with the dawn, and the dawn is near; I can see its evil glow,

Like a corpse-light seen trough a frosty paane in a night of want and woe;

And yonder she domes by the bleak bull-pines, swift staggering through the snow.

--Robert William Service