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Poems

A Bachelor Read Poem

'Why keep a cow when I can buy,'
Said he, 'the milk I need,'
I wanted to spit in his eye
Of selfishness and greed;
But did not, for the reason he
Was stronger than I be.

I told him: ''Tis our human fate,
For better or for worse,
That man and maid should love and mate,
And little children nurse.

Of course, if you are less than man
You can't do what we can.

'So many loving maids would wed,
And wondrous mothers be.

'
'I'll buy the love I want,' he said,
'No squally brats for me.

'
.

.

.

I hope the devil stoketh well
For him a special hell.

A Busy Man Read Poem

This crowded life of God's good giving
No man has relished more than I;
I've been so goldarned busy living
I've never had the time to die.

So busy fishing, hunting, roving,
Up on my toes and fighting fit;
So busy singing, laughing, loving,
I've never had the time to quit.

I've never been one for thinking
I've always been the action guy;
I've done my share of feasting, drinking,
And lots of wenching on the sly.

What all the blasted cosmic show meant,
I've never tried to understand;
I've always lived just for the moment,
And done the thing that came to hand.

And now I'll toddle to the garden
And light a good old Henry Clay.

I'm ninety odd, so Lord, please pardon
My frequent lapses by the way.

I'm getting tired; the sunset lingers;
The evening star serenes the sky;
The damn cigar burns to my fingers .

.

.

I guess .

.

.

I'll take .

.

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time off .

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to die.

A Cabbage Patch Read Poem

Folk ask if I'm alive,
Most think I'm not;
Yet gaily I contrive
To till my plot.

The world its way 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.

A Canvas For A Crust Read Poem

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 a Marseilles slum,
A starving genius, god-inspired.

You'd take him for a lousy bum,
Tho' poetry of paint he lyred,
In dreamy pastels each a gem: .

.

.

How people laughed at them!
He peddled paint from bar to bar;
From sordid rags a jewel shone,
A glow of joy and colour far
From filth of fortune woe-begone.

'Just twenty francs,' he shyly said,
'To take me drunk to bed.

'
Of Van Gogh and Cezanne a peer;
In dreams of ecstasy en-skied,
A genius and a pioneer,
Poor, paralysed and mad he died:
Yet by all who hold Beauty dear
May he be glorified!

A Casualty Read Poem

That boy I took in the car last night,
With the body that awfully sagged away,
And the lips blood-crisped, and the eyes flame-bright,
And the poor hands folded and cold as clay —
Oh, I've thought and I've thought of him all the day.

For the weary old doctor says to me:
"He'll only last for an hour or so.

Both of his legs below the knee
Blown off by a bomb.

.

.

.

So, lad, go slow,
And please remember, he doesn't know.

"
So I tried to drive with never a jar;
And there was I cursing the road like mad,
When I hears a ghost of a voice from the car:
"Tell me, old chap, have I `copped it' bad?

"
So I answers "No," and he says, "I'm glad.

"
"Glad," says he, "for at twenty-two
Life's so splendid, I hate to go.

There's so much good that a chap might do,
And I've fought from the start and I've suffered so.

'Twould be hard to get knocked out now, you know.

"
"Forget it," says I; then I drove awhile,
And I passed him a cheery word or two;
But he didn't answer for many a mile,
So just as the hospital hove in view,
Says I: "Is there nothing that I can do?

"
Then he opens his eyes and he smiles at me;
And he takes my hand in his trembling hold;
"Thank you — you're far too kind," says he:
"I'm awfully comfy — stay .

.

.

let's see:
I fancy my blanket's come unrolled —
My feet, please wrap 'em — they're cold .

.

.

they're cold.

"

A Character Read Poem

How often do I wish I were
What people call a character;
A ripe and cherubic old chappie
Who lives to make his fellows happy;
With in his eyes a merry twinkle,
And round his lips a laughing wrinkle;
Who radiating hope and cheer
Grows kindlier with every year.

For this ideal let me strive,
And keep the lad in me alive;
Nor argument nor anger know,
But my own way serenely go;
The woes of men to understand,
Yet walk with humour hand in hand;
To love each day and wonder why
Folks are not so jocund as I.

So be you simple, decent, kind,
With gentle heart and quiet mind;
And if to righteous anger stung,
Restrain your temper and your tongue.

Let thought for others be your guide,
And patience triumph over pride .

.

.

With charity for those who err,
Live life so folks may say you were—
God bless your heart!—A Character.

A Domestic Tragedy Read Poem

Clorinda met me on the way
As I came from the train;
Her face was anything but gay,
In fact, suggested pain.

"Oh hubby, hubby dear!" she cried,
"I've awful news to tell.

.

.

.

"
"What is it, darling?

" I replied;
"Your mother — is she well?

"
"Oh no! oh no! it is not that,
It's something else," she wailed,
My heart was beating pit-a-pat,
My ruddy visage paled.

Like lightning flash in heaven's dome
The fear within me woke:
"Don't say," I cried, "our little home
Has all gone up in smoke!"
She shook her head.

Oh, swift I clasped
And held her to my breast;
"The children! Tell me quick," I gasped,
"Believe me, it is best.

"
Then, then she spoke; 'mid sobs I caught
These words of woe divine:
"It's coo-coo-cook has gone and bought
A new hat just like mine.

"

A Grain Of Sand Read Poem

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! A 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.

A Hero Read Poem

Three times I had the lust to kill,
To clutch a throat so young and fair,
And squeeze with all my might until
No breath of being lingered there.

Three times I drove the demon out,
Though on my brow was evil sweat.

.

.

.

And yet I know beyond a doubt
He'll get me yet, he'll get me yet.

I know I'm mad, I ought to tell
The doctors, let them care for me,
Confine me in a padded cell
And never, never set me free;
But Oh how cruel that would be!
For I am young - and comely too .

.

.

Yet dim my demon I can see,
And there is but one thing to do.

Three times I beat the foul fiend back;
The fourth, I know he will prevail,
And so I'll seek the railway track
And lay my head upon the rail,
And sight the dark and distant train,
And hear its thunder louder roll,
Coming to crush my cursed brain .

.

.

Oh God, have mercy on my soul!

A Little Prayer Read Poem

Let us be thankful, Lord, for little things -
The song of birds, the rapture of the rose;
Cloud-dappled skies, the laugh of limpid springs,
Drowned sunbeams and the perfume April blows;
Bronze wheat a-shimmer, purple shade of trees -
Let us be thankful, Lord of Life, for these!
Let us be praiseful, Sire, for simple sights; -
The blue smoke curling from a fire of peat;
Keen stars a-frolicking on frosty nights,
Prismatic pigeons strutting in a street;
Daisies dew-diamonded in smiling sward -
For simple sights let us be praiseful, Lord!
Let us be grateful, God, for health serene,
The hope to do a kindly deed each day;
The faith of fellowship, a conscience clean,
The will to worship and the gift to pray;
For all of worth in us, of You a part,
Let us be grateful, God, with humble heart.

A Lyric Day Read Poem

I deem that there are lyric days
So ripe with radiance and cheer,
So rich with gratitude and praise
That they enrapture all the year.

And if there is a God b\above,
(As they would tell me in the Kirk,)
How he must look with pride and love
Upon his perfect handiwork!
To-day has been a lyric day
I hope I shall remember long,
Of meadow dance and roundelay,
Of woodland glee, of glow and song.

Such joy I saw in maidens eyes,
In mother gaze such tender bliss .

.

.

How earth would rival paradise
If every day could be like this!
Why die, say I?

Let us live on
In lyric world of song and shine,
With ecstasy from dawn to dawn,
Until we greet the dawn Divine.

For I believe, with star and sun,
With peak and plain, with sea and sod,
Inextricably we are one,
Bound in the Wholeness - God.

A Mediocre Man Read Poem

I'm just a mediocre man
Of no high-brow pretence;
A comfortable life I plan
With care and commonsense.

I do the things most people do,
I echo what they say;
And through my morning paper view
The problems of the day.

No doubt you think I'm colourless,
Profoundly commonplace;
And yet I fancy, more or less,
I represent the race.

My name may stand for everyone,
At least for nine in ten,
For all in all the world is run
By mediocre men.

Of course you'll maybe not agree
That you are average,
And unlike ordinary me
You strut your little stage,
Well, you may even own a Bank,
And mighty mergers plan,
But Brother, doff your tile and thank
The Mediocre Man.

A Plea Read Poem

Why need we newer arms invent,
Poor peoples to destroy?

With what we have let's be content
And perfect their employ.

With weapons that may millions kill,
Why should we seek for more,
A brighter spate of blood to spill,
A deeper sea of gore?

The lurid blaze of atom light
Vast continents will blind,
And steep in centuries of night
Despairing humankind.

So let's be glad for gun and blade,
To fight with honest stuff:
Are tank, block-buster, hand-grenade
And napalm not enough?

Oh to go back a thousand years
When arrows winged their way,
When foemen fell upon the spears
And swords were swung to slay!
Behold! Belching in Heaven black
Mushrooms obscene!
Dear God, the brave days give us back,
When wars were clean!

A Pot Of Tea Read Poem

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 of it is ripe with cheer.

You're awful cold and dirty, and a-cursin' of your lot;
You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot;
It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot:
God bless the man that first discovered Tea!
Since I came out to fight in France, which ain't the other day,
I think I've drunk enough to float a barge;
All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay,
To rum they serves you out before a charge.

In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled pints of cham;
I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt a bloomin' dam;
But 'struth! they all ain't in it with the vintage of Assam:
God bless the man that first invented Tea!
I think them lazy lumps o' gods wot kips on asphodel
Swigs nectar that's a flavour of Oolong;
I only wish them sons o' guns a-grillin' down in 'ell
Could 'ave their daily ration of Suchong.

Hurrah! I'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 'eaven too;
And if I don't give some poor bloke a sexton's job to do,
To-night, by Fritz's campfire, won't I 'ave a gorgeous brew
(For fightin' mustn't interfere with Tea).

To-night we'll all be tellin' of the Boches that we slew,
As we drink the giddy victory in Tea.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, Robert W.

Service, published by Barses & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

122-123.

A Rolling Stone Read Poem

There's sunshine in the heart of me,
My blood sings in the breeze;
The mountains are a part of me,
I'm fellow to the trees.

My golden youth I'm squandering,
Sun-libertine am I;
A-wandering, a-wandering,
Until the day I die.

I was once, I declare, a Stone-Age man,
And I roomed in the cool of a cave;
I have known, I will swear, in a new life-span,
The fret and the sweat of a slave:
For far over all that folks hold worth,
There lives and there leaps in me
A love of the lowly things of earth,
And a passion to be free.

To pitch my tent with no prosy plan,
To range and to change at will;
To mock at the mastership of man,
To seek Adventure's thrill.

Carefree to be, as a bird that sings;
To go my own sweet way;
To reck not at all what may befall,
But to live and to love each day.

To make my body a temple pure
Wherein I dwell serene;
To care for the things that shall endure,
The simple, sweet and clean.

To oust out envy and hate and rage,
To breathe with no alarm;
For Nature shall be my anchorage,
And none shall do me harm.

To shun all lures that debauch the soul,
The orgied rites of the rich;
To eat my crust as a rover must
With the rough-neck down in the ditch.

To trudge by his side whate'er betide;
To share his fire at night;
To call him friend to the long trail-end,
And to read his heart aright.

To scorn all strife, and to view all life
With the curious eyes of a child;
From the plangent sea to the prairie,
From the slum to the heart of the Wild.

From the red-rimmed star to the speck of sand,
From the vast to the greatly small;
For I know that the whole for good is planned,
And I want to see it all.

To see it all, the wide world-way,
From the fig-leaf belt to the Pole;
With never a one to say me nay,
And none to cramp my soul.

In belly-pinch I will pay the price,
But God! let me be free;
For once I know in the long ago,
They made a slave of me.

In a flannel shirt from earth's clean dirt,
Here, pal, is my calloused hand!
Oh, I love each day as a rover may,
Nor seek to understand.

To enjoy is good enough for me;
The gipsy of God am I;
Then here's a hail to each flaring dawn!
And here's a cheer to the night that's gone!
And may I go a-roaming on
Until the day I die!
Then every star shall sing to me
Its song of liberty;
And every morn shall bring to me
Its mandate to be free.

In every throbbing vein of me
I'll feel the vast Earth-call;
O body, heart and brain of me
Praise Him who made it all!

A Rusty Nail Read Poem

I ran a nail into my hand,
The wound was hard to heal;
So bitter was the pain to stand
I thought how it would feel,
To have spikes thrust through hands and feet,
Impaled by hammer beat.

Then hoisted on a cross of oak
Against the sullen sky,
With all about the jeering follk
Who joyed to see me die;
Die hardly in insensate heat,
With bleeding hands and feet.

Yet was it not that day of Fate,
Of cruelty insane,
Climaxing centuries of hate
That woke our souls to pain!
And are we not the living seed
Of those who did the deed!
Of course, with thankful heart I know
We are not fiends as then;
And in a thousand years or so
We may be gentle men.

But it has cost a poisoned hand,
And pain beyond a cry,
To make me strangely understand
A Cross against the sky.

A Snifter Read Poem

After working hard all day
In the office,
How much worse on homeward way
My old cough is!
Barney's Bar is gaily lit,
Let me stop there;
Just to buck me up a bit
Have a drop there.

As I stand beside the screen
Hesitating,
I have thought of how Noreen
Will be waiting;
Baby Patsy in her lap
Gay and laughing,
While at Barney's foaming tap
I am quaffing.

Barney's Bar is mighty bright,
Looks so cheery.

Wonder what I'll drink tonight?

Gee! I'm weary.

Will I have Scotch or Rye?

Bourbon maybe .

.

.

Then I see with mental eye
Wife and baby.

So I say 'tis malted milk
I'll be skoffin';
Sooth my throttle sleek as silk,
Ease my coughin' .

.

.

Say, I love them two to death,
Sure they miss me:
With no whisky on my breath
How they'll kiss me!

A Song For Kilts Read Poem

How grand the human race would be
If every man would wear a kilt,
A flirt of Tartan finery,
Instead of trousers, custom built!
Nay, do not think I speak to joke:
(You know I'm not that kind of man),
I am convinced that all men folk.

Should wear the costume of a Clan.

Imagine how it's braw and clean
As in the wind it flutters free;
And so conducive to hygiene
In its sublime simplicity.

No fool fly-buttons to adjust,—
Wi' shanks and maybe buttocks bare;
Oh chiels, just take my word on trust,
A bonny kilt's the only wear.

'Twill save a lot of siller too,
(And here a canny Scotsman speaks),
For one good kilt will wear you through
A half-a-dozen pairs of breeks.

And how it's healthy in the breeze!
And how it swings with saucy tilt!
How lassies love athletic knees
Below the waggle of a kilt!
True, I just wear one in my mind,
Since sent to school by Celtic aunts,
When girls would flip it up behind,
Until I begged for lowland pants.

But now none dare do that to me,
And so I sing with lyric lilt,—
How happier the world would be
If every male would wear a kilt!

A Song Of Sixty-Five Read Poem

Brave Thackeray has trolled of days when he was twenty-one,
And bounded up five flights of stairs, a gallant garreteer;
And yet again in mellow vein when youth was gaily run,
Has dipped his nose in Gascon wine, and told of Forty Year.

But if I worthy were to sing a richer, rarer time,
I'd tune my pipes before the fire and merrily I'd strive
To praise that age when prose again has given way to rhyme,
The Indian Summer days of life when I'll be Sixty-five;
For then my work will all be done, my voyaging be past,
And I'll have earned the right to rest where folding hills are green;
So in some glassy anchorage I'll make my cable fast, —
Oh, let the seas show all their teeth, I'll sit and smile serene.

The storm may bellow round the roof, I'll bide beside the fire,
And many a scene of sail and trail within the flame I'll see;
For I'll have worn away the spur of passion and desire.

.

.

.

Oh yes, when I am Sixty-five, what peace will come to me.

I'll take my breakfast in my bed, I'll rise at half-past ten,
When all the world is nicely groomed and full of golden song;
I'll smoke a bit and joke a bit, and read the news, and then
I'll potter round my peach-trees till I hear the luncheon gong.

And after that I think I'll doze an hour, well, maybe two,
And then I'll show some kindred soul how well my roses thrive;
I'll do the things I never yet have found the time to do.

.

.

.

Oh, won't I be the busy man when I am Sixty-five.

I'll revel in my library; I'll read De Morgan's books;
I'll grow so garrulous I fear you'll write me down a bore;
I'll watch the ways of ants and bees in quiet sunny nooks,
I'll understand Creation as I never did before.

When gossips round the tea-cups talk I'll listen to it all;
On smiling days some kindly friend will take me for a drive:
I'll own a shaggy collie dog that dashes to my call:
I'll celebrate my second youth when I am Sixty-five.

Ah, though I've twenty years to go, I see myself quite plain,
A wrinkling, twinkling, rosy-cheeked, benevolent old chap;
I think I'll wear a tartan shawl and lean upon a cane.

I hope that I'll have silver hair beneath a velvet cap.

I see my little grandchildren a-romping round my knee;
So gay the scene, I almost wish 'twould hasten to arrive.

Let others sing of Youth and Spring, still will it seem to me
The golden time's the olden time, some time round Sixty-five.

A Song of Success Read Poem

Ho! we were strong, we were swift, we were brave.

Youth was a challenge, and Life was a fight.

All that was best in us gladly we gave,
Sprang from the rally, and leapt for the height.

Smiling is Love in a foam of Spring flowers:
Harden our hearts to him — on let us press!
Oh, what a triumph and pride shall be ours!
See where it beacons, the star of success!
Cares seem to crowd on us — so much to do;
New fields to conquer, and time's on the wing.

Grey hairs are showing, a wrinkle or two;
Somehow our footstep is losing its spring.

Pleasure's forsaken us, Love ceased to smile;
Youth has been funeralled; Age travels fast.

Sometimes we wonder: is it worth while?

There! we have gained to the summit at last.

Aye, we have triumphed! Now must we haste,
Revel in victory .

.

.

why! what is wrong?

Life's choicest vintage is flat to the taste —
Are we too late?

Have we laboured too long?

Wealth, power, fame we hold .

.

.

ah! but the truth:
Would we not give this vain glory of ours
For one mad, glad year of glorious youth,
Life in the Springtide, and Love in the flowers.

A Song Of Suicide Read Poem

Deeming that I were better dead,
"How shall I kill myself?

" I said.

Thus mooning by the river Seine
I sought extinction without pain,
When on a bridge I saw a flash
Of lingerie and heard a splash .

.

.

So as I am a swimmer stout
I plunged and pulled the poor wretch out.

The female that I saved?

Ah yes,
To yield the Morgue of one corpse the less,
Apart from all heroic action,
Gave me a moral satisfaction.

was she an old and withered hag,
Too tired of life to long to lag?

Ah no, she was so young and fair
I fell in love with her right there.

And when she took me to her attic
Her gratitude was most emphatic.

A sweet and simple girl she proved,
Distraught because the man she loved
In battle his life-blood had shed .

.

.

So I, too, told her of my dead,
The girl who in a garret grey
Had coughed and coughed her life away.

Thus as we sought our griefs to smother,
With kisses we consoled each other .

.

.

And there's the ending of my story;
It wasn't grim, it wasn't gory.

For comforted were hearts forlorn,
And from black sorrow joy was born:
So may our dead dears be forgiving,
And bless the rapture of the living.

A Song Of The Sandbags Read Poem

No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh
(The cove be'ind the sandbags ain't a death-or-glory cuss).

And though I strafes 'em good and 'ard I doesn't 'ate the Boche,
I guess they're mostly decent, just the same as most of us.

I guess they loves their 'omes and kids as much as you or me;
And just the same as you or me they'd rather shake than fight;
And if we'd 'appened to be born at Berlin-on-the-Spree,
We'd be out there with 'Ans and Fritz, dead sure that we was right.

A-standin' up to the sandbags
It's funny the thoughts wot come;
Starin' into the darkness,
'Earin' the bullets 'um;
(
Zing! Zip! Ping! Rip!
'ark 'ow the bullets 'um!
)
A-leanin' against the sandbags
Wiv me rifle under me ear,
Oh, I've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-go
Than I used to 'ave in a year.

I wonder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' like me
Wot's at the bottom of it all?

Wot all the slaughter's for?

'E thinks 'e's right (of course 'e ain't) but this we both agree,
If them as made it 'ad to fight, there wouldn't be no war.

If them as lies in feather beds while we kips in the mud;
If them as makes their fortoons while we fights for 'em like 'ell;
If them as slings their pot of ink just 'ad to sling their blood:
By Crust! I'm thinkin' there 'ud be another tale to tell.

Shiverin' up to the sandbags,
With a hicicle 'stead of a spine,
Don't it seem funny the things you think
'Ere in the firin' line:
(
Whee! Whut! Ziz! Zut!
Lord! 'ow the bullets whine!
)
Hunkerin' down when a star-shell
Cracks in a sputter of light,
You can jaw to yer soul by the sandbags
Most any old time o' night.

They talks o' England's glory and a-'oldin' of our trade,
Of Empire and 'igh destiny until we're fair flim-flammed;
But if it's for the likes o' that that bloody war is made,
Then wot I say is: Empire and 'igh destiny be damned!
There's only one good cause, Bill, for poor blokes like us to fight:
That's self-defence, for 'earth and 'ome, and them that bears our name;
And that's wot I'm a-doin' by the sandbags 'ere to-night.

.

.

.

But Fritz out there will tell you 'e's a-doin' of the same.

Starin' over the sandbags,
Sick of the 'ole damn thing;
Firin' to keep meself awake,
'Earin' the bullets sing.

(
Hiss! Twang! Tsing! Pang!
Saucy the bullets sing.

)
Dreamin' 'ere by the sandbags
Of a day when war will cease,
When 'Ans and Fritz and Bill and me
Will clink our mugs in fraternity,
And the Brotherhood of Labour will be
The Brotherhood of Peace.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, Robert W.

Service, published by Barses & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

570-73.

A Song Of Winter Weather Read Poem

It isn't the foe that we fear;
It isn't the bullets that whine;
It isn't the business career
Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;
It isn't the snipers who seek
To nip our young hopes in the bud:
No, it isn't the guns,
And it isn't the Huns —
It's the
mud,
mud,
mud.

It isn't the
melee
we mind.

That often is rather good fun.

It isn't the shrapnel we find
Obtrusive when rained by the ton;
It isn't the bounce of the bombs
That gives us a positive pain:
It's the strafing we get
When the weather is wet —
It's the
rain,
rain,
rain.

It isn't because we lack grit
We shrink from the horrors of war.

We don't mind the battle a bit;
In fact that is what we are for;
It isn't the rum-jars and things
Make us wish we were back in the fold:
It's the fingers that freeze
In the boreal breeze —
It's the
cold,
cold,
cold.

Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold,
The cold, the mud, and the rain;
With weather at zero it's hard for a hero
From language that's rude to refrain.

With porridgy muck to the knees,
With sky that's a-pouring a flood,
Sure the worst of our foes
Are the pains and the woes
Of the
rain,
the
cold,
and the
mud.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, Robert W.

Service, published by Barses & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

45-46.

A Sourdough Story Read Poem

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 statin' 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 Sourdoughs are 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 know to Fame - it's Adam, first of mortals.

For quiet's 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 - ain't got no belly button.

"

A Verseman's Apology Read Poem

Alas! I am only a rhymer,
I don't know the meaning of Art;
But I learned in my little school primer
To love Eugene Field and Bret Harte.

I hailed Hoosier Ryley with pleasure,
To John Hay I took off my hat;
These fellows were right to my measure,
And I've never gone higher than that.

The Classics! Well, most of them bore me,
The Moderns I don't understand;
But I keep Burns, my kinsman before me,
And Kipling, my friend, is at hand.

They taught me my trade as I know it,
Yet though at their feet I have sat,
For God-sake don't call me a poet,
For I've never been guilty of that.

A rhyme-rustler, rugged and shameless,
A Bab Balladeer on the loose;
Of saccarine sonnets I'm blameless,
My model has been - Mother Goose.

And I fancy my grave-digger griping
As he gives my last lodging a pat:
"This guy wrote McGrew;
'Twas the best he could do" .

.

.

So I'll go to my maker with that.

A Year Ago Read Poem

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 the 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.

Abandoned Dog Read Poem

They dumped it on the lonely road,
Then like a streak they sped;
And as along the way I strode
I thought that it was dead:
And then I saw that yelping pup
Rise, race to catch them up.

You know how silly wee dogs are.

It thought they were in fun.

Trying to overtake their car
I saw it run and run:
But as they faster, faster went,
It stumbled, sore and spent.

I found it prone upon the way;
Of life was little token.

As limply in the dust it lay
I thought its heart was broken:
Then one dim eye it opened and
It sought to lick my hand.

Of course I took it gently up
And brought it to my wife
Who loves all dogs, and now that pup
Shares in our happy life:
Yet how I curse the bastards who
Its good luck never knew!

Accordion Read Poem

Some carol of the banjo, to its measure keeping time;
Of viol or of lute some make a song.

My battered old accordion, you're worthy of a rhyme,
You've been my friend and comforter so long.

Round half the world I've trotted you, a dozen years or more;
You've given heaps of people lots of fun;
You've set a host of happy feet a-tapping on the floor .

.

.

Alas! your dancing days are nearly done.

I've played you from the palm-belt to the suburbs of the Pole;
From the silver-tipped sierras to the sea.

The gay and gilded cabin and the grimy glory-hole
Have echoed to your impish melody.

I've hushed you in the dug-out when the trench was stiff with dead;
I've lulled you by the coral-laced lagoon;
I've packed you on a camel from the dung-fire on the bled,
To the hell-for-breakfast Mountains of the Moon.

I've ground you to the shanty men, a-whooping heel and toe,
And the hula-hula graces in the glade.

I've swung you in the igloo to the lousy Esquimau,
And the Haussa at a hundred in the shade.

The Nigger on the levee, and the Dinka by the Nile
have shuffled to your insolent appeal.

I've rocked with glee the chimpanzee, and mocked the crocodile,
And shocked the pompous penquin and the seal.

I've set the yokels singing in a little Surrey pub,
Apaches swinging in a Belville bar.

I've played an obligato to the tom-tom's rub-a-dub,
And the throb of Andalusian guitar.

From the Horn to Honolulu, from the Cape to Kalamazoo,
From Wick to Wicklow, Samarkand to Spain,
You've roughed it with my kilt-bag like a comrade tried and true.

.

.

.

Old pal! We'll never hit the trail again.

Oh I know you're cheap and vulgar, you're an instrumental crime.

In drawing-rooms you haven't got a show.

You're a musical abortion, you're the voice of grit and grime,
You're the spokesman of the lowly and the low.

You're a democratic devil, you're the darling of the mob;
You're a wheezy, breezy blasted bit of glee.

You're the headache of the high-bow, you're the horror of the snob,
but you're worth your weight in ruddy gold to me.

For you've chided me in weakness and you've cheered me in defeat;
You've been an anodyne in hours of pain;
And when the slugging jolts of life have jarred me off my feet,
You've ragged me back into the ring again.

I'll never go to Heaven, for I know I am not fit,
The golden harps of harmony to swell;
But with asbestos bellows, if the devil will permit,
I'll swing you to the fork-tailed imps of Hell.

Yes, I'll thank you, and I'll spank you,
And I'll everlasting yank you
To the cinder-swinging satellites of Hell.

Adoption Read Poem

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,
Whose tiny hands in piteous plight
Seemed to implore.

By Deed to them I gave my name,
And never will they know
That from the evil slums they came,
Two waifs of want and woe;
I fostered them with love and care
As if they were my own:
Now John, my son, is tall and fair,
And dark is Joan.

My boy's a member of the Bar,
My girl a nurse serene;
Yet when I think of what they are
And what they might have been,
With shuddering I glimpse a hell
Of black and bitter fruit .

.

.

Where John might be a criminal,
And Joan—a prostitute.

Adventure Read Poem

Out of the wood my White Knight came:
His eyes were bright with a bitter flame,
As I clung to his stirrup leather;
For I was only a dreaming lad,
Yet oh, what a wonderful faith I had!
And the song in my heart was never so glad,
As we took to the trail together.

"Friends and lovers, good-bye," I said;
Never once did I turn my head,
Though wickedly wild the weather
min were the rover's rags and scars,
And the rover's bed beneath the stars,
But never the shadow of prison bars,
As we ranged the world together.

Dreary and darkling was the trail,
But my Knight was clad in a gleaming mail,
And he plucked from his plume a feather.

And oh how foolishly proud was I!
"I'll wear it," I told him, "till I die;
Freemen we'll be of sea and sky,
To the ends of the earth together.

"
Yet now I know by my failing breath
I'm ripe for the last adventure, Death,
And I've reached the end of my tether:
But my Knight of the shining mail is there,
And his eyes are bright and he bids me dare:
So into the Dark let's boldly fare,
Into the Dark .

.

.

together.

Afternoon Tea Read Poem

As I was saying .

.

.

(No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea;
Cows weren't allowed in the trenches — got out of the habit, y'see.

)
As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten:
"Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em," and he sprang to the head of the men.

Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, and he fell on his face with a slam.

.

.

.

Oh, he died like a true British soldier, and the last word he uttered was "Damn!"
And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain,
And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain.

'Twas an awf'ly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea);
I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free.

Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws,
Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was.

So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own,
And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone;
With the bullets and shells ding-donging, and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap;
And I found myself humming "Ben Bolt" .

.

.

(Will you pass me the sugar, old chap?

Two lumps, please).

.

.

.

What was I saying?

Oh yes, the jolly old dash;
We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash.

My fellows — Old Nick couldn't stop 'em.

On, on they went with a yell,
Till they tripped on the Boches' sand-bags, — nothing much left to tell:
A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live;
Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve.

The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show,
And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe.

So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again,
Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain.

Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank,
And our Major roars in a fury: "We've got to take it on flank.

"
He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes,
As full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums.

So I took his job and we got 'em.

.

.

.

By gad! we got 'em like rats;
Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats.

'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range,
With someone you
saw
to go for — it made an agreeable change.

And the Boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt,
And all the time, I remember, I whistled and hummed "Ben Bolt".

Well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran,
On to the second line trenches, — that's where the fun began.

For though we had strafed 'em like fury, there still were some Boches about,
And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed 'em out.

Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and I shouted: "Is anyone there?

"
And a voice, "Yes, one; but I'm wounded," came faint up the narrow stair;
And my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot!
(I say, this cake is delicious.

You make it yourself, do you not?

)
My man?

Oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten;
So after I'd bombed 'em sufficient I went down at the head of my men,
And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, but we cornered the rotters all right;
I'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that bit of the fight.

But all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of pleasanter things:
The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things,
So short that they show.

.

.

.

Oh, hang it! Well, if I must, I must.

We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet thrust;
And on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now;
And some of our fellows who'd passed us were making a deuce of a row;
And my chaps — well, I just couldn't hold 'em; (It's strange how it is with gore;
In some ways it's just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.

)
Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir! they
couldn't
be calmed,
So I headed 'em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-damned.

Oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all;
The machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal.

Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I'd wounds on the chest and the head,
And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red.

I'm thinking I looked like a madman; I fancy I felt one too,
Half naked and swinging a rifle.

.

.

.

God! what a glorious "do".

As I sit here in old Piccadilly, sipping my afternoon tea,
I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's hard to believe that it's me;
I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right,
And humming "Ben Bolt" rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight.

And as for my men, may God bless 'em! I've loved 'em ever since then:
They fought like the shining angels; they're the pick o' the land, my men.

And the trench was a reeking shambles, not a Boche to be seen alive —
So I thought; but on rounding a traverse I came on a covey of five;
And four of 'em threw up their flippers, but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game,
And though I'd a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same.

A sporty thing that, I tell you; I just couldn't blow him to hell,
So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell.

And then when I'd brought him to reason, he wasn't half bad, that Hun;
He bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the Doc could have done.

So back I went with my Boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt,
And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I still was a-humming "Ben Bolt".

And now, by Jove! how I've bored you.

You've just let me babble away;
Let's talk of the things that
matter
— your car or the newest play.

.

.

.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, Robert W.

Service, published by Barses & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

181-187.

Agnostic Read Poem

The chapel looms against the sky,
Above the vine-clad shelves,
And as the peasants pass it by
They cross themselves.

But I alone, I grieve to state,
Lack sentiment divine:
A citified sophisticate,
I make no sign.

Their gesture may a habit be,
Mechanic in a sense,
Yet somehow it awakes in me
Strange reverence.

And though from ignorance it stem,
Somehow I deeply grieve,
And wish down in my heart like them
I could believe.

Suppose a cottage I should buy,
And little patch of vine,
With pure and humble spirit I
Might make the Sign.

Aye, though I godless way I go,
And sceptic in my trend,
A faith in something I don't know
Might save me in the end.

Agnostic Apology Read Poem

I am a stout materialist;
With abstract terms I can't agree,
And so I've made a little list
Of words that don't make sense to me.

To fool my reason I refuse,
For honest thinking is my goal;
And that is why I rarely use
Vague words like Soul.

In terms of matter I am sure
This world of our can be defined;
And so with theories obscure
I will not mystify my mind;
And though I use it more or less,
Describing alcoholic scenes,
I do not know, I must confess,
What Spirit means.

When I survey this cosmic scene,
The term "Creator" seems absurd;
The Universe has always been,
Creation never has occurred.

But in my Lexicon of Doubt
It strikes me definitely odd,
One word I never dare to flout,
One syllable the mountains shout,
Three letters that the stars spell out:
GOD.

Alias Bill Read Poem

We bore him to his boneyard lot
One afternoon at three;
The clergyman was on the spot
To earn his modest fee.

We sprinkled on his coffin lid
The customary loam,
And so old Bill was snugly slid
To his last home.

A lonesome celibate we thought,
For close as clam was he;
We never guessed that he had got
A lawful family,
Till lo! we saw a gorgeous wreath
Reposing on his bier,
With on a scarlet scroll beneath:
"To Father Dear.

"
He ordered it hisself, they said,
Before he had to go.

His folks don't know that he is dead -
Maybe they'll never know.

His step was frail, his hair was grey,
But though his sight was dim,
He liked to kid hisself that they
Still thought of him.

Maybe they did: we never knew,
And he would never tell;
Perhaps their hearts were broken too -
His was, I think .

.

.

Ah well,
We left him in the boneyard lot
With none to shed a tear,
And just a wreath, the one he bought:
"To Father Dear.

"

Allouette Read Poem

Singing larks I saw for sale -
(Ah! the pain of it)
Plucked and ready to impale
On a roasting spit;
Happy larks that summer-long
Stormed the radiant sky,
Adoration in their song .

.

.

Packed to make a pie.

>
Hark! from springs of joy unseen
Spray their jewelled notes.

Tangle them in nets of green,
Twist their lyric throats;
Clip their wings and string them tight,
Stab them with a skewer,
All to tempt the apptite
Of the epicure.

Shade of Shelley! Come not nigh
This accursèd spot,
Where for sixpence one can buy
Skylarks for the pot;
Dante, paint a blacker hell,
Plunge in deeper darks
Wretches who can slay and sell
Sunny-hearted larks.

You who eat, you are the worst:
By internal pains,
May you ever be accurst
Who pluck these poor remains.

But for you wingèd joy would soar
To heaven from the sod:
In ecstasy a lark would pour
Its gratitude to God.

Alpine Holiday Read Poem

He took the grade in second - quite a climb,
Dizzy and dangerous, yet how sublime!
The road went up and up; it curved around
The mountain and the gorge grew more profound.

He drove serenely, with no hint of haste;
And then she felt his arm go round her waist.

She shrank: she did not know him very well,
Being like her a guest at the hotel.

Nice, but a Frenchman.

On his driving hand
He wore like benedicks a golden band .

.

.

Well, how could she with grace refuse a drive
So grand it made glad to be alive?

Yet now she heard him whisper in her ear:
"Don't be afraid.

With one hand I can steer,
With one arm hold you .

.

.

Oh what perfect bliss!
Darling, please don't refuse me just one kiss.

Here, nigh to Heaven, let is us rest awhile .

.

.

Nay, don't resist - give me your lips, your smile .

.

.

"
So there in that remote and dizzy place
He wrestled with her for a moment's space,
Hearing her cry: "Oh please, please let me go!
Let me get out .

.

.

You brute, release me! No, no,
NO!"
.

.

.

In that ravine was found their burnt-out car -
Their bodies trapped and crisped into a char.

Amateur Poet Read Poem

You see that sheaf of slender books
Upon the topmost shelf,
At which no browser ever looks,
Because they're by .

.

.

myself;
They're neatly bound in navy blue,
But no one ever heeds;
Their print is clear and candid too,
Yet no one ever reads.

Poor wistful books! How much they cost
To me in time and gold!
I count them now as labour lost,
For none I ever sold;
No copy could I give away,
For all my friends would shrink,
And look at me as if to say:
"What waste of printer's ink!"
And as I gaze at them on high,
Although my eyes are sad,
I cannot help but breathe a sigh
To think what joy I had -
What ecstasy as I would seek
To make my rhyme come right,
And find at last the phrase unique
Flash fulgent in my sight.

Maybe that rapture was my gain
Far more than cheap success;
So I'll forget my striving vain,
And blot out bitterness.

Oh records of my radiant youth,
No broken heart I'll rue,
For all my best of love and truth
Is there, alive in you.

Ambition Read Poem

They brought the mighty chief to town;
They showed him strange, unwonted sights;
Yet as he wandered up and down,
He seemed to scorn their vain delights.

His face was grim, his eye lacked fire,
As one who mourns a glory dead;
And when they sought his heart's desire:
"Me like'um tooth same gold," he said.

A dental place they quickly found.

He neither moaned nor moved his head.

They pulled his teeth so white and sound;
They put in teeth of gold instead.

Oh, never saw a man so gay!
His very being seemed to swell:
"Ha! ha!" he cried, "Now Injun say
Me heap big chief, me look like hell.

"

An Epicure Read Poem

Should you preserve white mice in honey
Don't use imported ones from China,
For though they cost you less in money
You'll find the Japanese ones finer.

But if Chinese, stuff them with spice,
Which certainly improves their savour,
And though the Canton mice are nice,
The Pekinese have finer flavour.

If you should pickle bracken shoots
The way the wily Japanese do,
Be sure to pluck then young - what suits
Our Eastern taste may fail to please you.

And as for nettles, cook them well;
To eat them raw may give you skin-itch;
But if you boil them for a spell
They taste almost as good as spinach.

So Reader, if you chance to be
Of Oriental food a lover,
And care to share a meal with me,
I'll add the addled eggs of plover;
And gaily I will welcome you
To lunch within an arbour sunny,
On nettle broth and bracken stew.

And nice white mice, conserved in honey.

An Old Story Read Poem

(Retold in Rhyme)
They threw him in a prison cell;
He moaned upon his bed.

And when he crept from coils of hell:
"Last night you killed," they said.

"Last night in drunken rage you slew
A being brave with breath;
A radiant soul, because of you
Lies dark in death.

"
"Last night I killed," he moaned distraught,
"When I was wild with wine;
I slew, and I remember naught .

.

.

O Mother, Mother mine!
"To what unbridled rage may lead
You taught me at your knee.

Why did I not your warning heed .

.

.

And now - the gallows tree.

"O Mother, Mother, come to me,
For I am sore distrest,
And I would kneel beside your knee
And weep upon your breast.

.

.

.

"
They stared at him; their lips were dumb,
Their eyes tear filled;
Then spoke the Priest: "She cannot come .

.

.

'Twas she you killed.

"

An Olive Fire Read Poem

An olive fire's a lovely thing;
Somehow it makes me think of Spring
As in my grate it over-spills
With dancing flames like daffodils.

They flirt and frolic, twist and twine,
The brassy fire-irons wink and shine.

.

.

.

Leap gold, you flamelets! Laugh and sing:
An olive fire's a lovely thing.

An olive fire's a household shrine:
A crusty loaf, a jug of wine,
An apple and a chunk of cheese -
Oh I could be content with these.

But if my curse of oil is there,
To fry a fresh-caught fish, I swear
I do not envy any king,
As sitting by my hearth I sing:
An olive fire's a lovely thing.

When old and worn, of life I tire,
I'll sit before an olive fire,
And watch the feather ash like snow
As softly as a rose heart glow;
The tawny roots will loose their hoard
Of sunbeams centuries have stored,
And flames like yellow chicken's cheep,
Till in my heart Peace is so deep:
With hands prayer-clasped I sleep .

.

.

and sleep.

Annuitant Read Poem

Oh I am neither rich nor poor,
No worker I dispoil;
Yet I am glad to be secure
From servitude and toil.

For with my lifelong savings I
Have bought annuity;
And so unto the day I die
I'll have my toast and tea.

When on the hob the kettle sings
I'll make an amber brew,
And crunch my toast and think of things
I do not have to do.

In dressing-gown and deep arm-chair
I'll give the fire a poke;
Then worlds away from cark and care
I'll smoke and smoke and smoke.

For I believe the very best
Of Being is the last;
And I will crown with silver zest
My patience in the past.

Since compensation is the law
Of life it's up to me
To round the century and draw
My Life Annuity.

Anonymous Read Poem

When at the sign: Anthology
I climbed aboard the lyric bus,
The poems that appeal to me
Are often by Anonymous.

Behold amid the classic crew
Is one of whom Fame made no fuss,
A rhyming rascal no one knew,--Anonymous.

My name's a dud: 'mid poets I'm
A leek among asparagus;
Yet let me make a lilt of rhyme
And publish it anonymous;
Sweet, simple, short, a snatch of song
Anthologists might prize, and thus
My lyric life I might prolong,--Anonymous.

So when senile and all forgot
My memory is minimus,
In some anthology new-bought
I'll read a rhyme anonymous:
A saucy air that pleaseth me,
And I will say: "Who is this cuss?

"
And wonder: "Are you he or she,--Anonymous?

"

Ant Hill Read Poem

Black ants have made a musty mound
My purple pine tree under,
And I am often to be found,
Regarding it with wonder.

Yet as I watch, somehow it's odd,
Above their busy striving
I feel like an ironic god
Surveying human striving.

Then one day came my serving maid,
And just in time I caught her,
For on each lusty arm she weighed
A pail of boiling water.

She said with glee: "When this I spill,
Of life they'll soon be lacking.

"
Said I: "If even one you kill,
You bitch! I'll send you packing.

"
Just think - ten thousand eager lives
In that toil-worn upcasting,
Their homes, their babies and their wives
Destroyed in one fell blasting!
Imagine that swift-scalding hell! .

.

.

And though, mayhap, it seems a
Fantastic, far-fetched parallel -
Remember .

.

.

Hiroshima.

Anti-Profanity Read Poem

I do not swear because I am
A sweet and sober guy;
I cannot vent a single damn
However hard I try.

And in vituperative way,
Though I recall it well,
I never, never, never say
A naughty word like hell.

To rouse my wrath you need not try,
I'm milder than a lamb;
However you may rile me I
Refuse to say: Goddam!
In circumstances fury-fraught
My tongue is always civil,
And though you goad me I will not
Consign you to the divvle.

An no, I never, never swear;
Profanity don't pay;
To cuss won't get you anywhere,
(And neither will to pray.

)
And so all blasphemy I stem.

When milk of kindness curds:
But though I never utter them -
Gosh! how I know the words.

Apollo Belvedere Read Poem

A-sittin' on a cracker box an' spittin' in the stove,
I took a sudden notion that I'd kindo' like to rove;
An' so I bought a ticket, jest as easy as could be,
From Pumpkinville in Idaho to Rome in Italy;
An' found myself in seven days of mostly atmosphere
A-starin' at a statoo called Appoller Belvydeer.

Now I'm a rum-soaked sinner, an' religion ain't my plan,
Yet, I was flabbergasted by that gol-darned Vattyican;
An' when I seed Saint Peter's dome, all I could do was swear,
The which I reckon after all may be a form o' prayer;
Abut as I sought amid them sights bewildered to steer,
The king-pin was the one they called Appoller Belvydeer.

Say, I ain't got no culture an' I don't know any art,
But that there statoo got me, standin' in its room apart,
In an alcove draped wi' velvet, lookin' everlastin' bright,
Like the vision o' a poet, full o' beauty, grace an' light;
An' though I know them kind o' words sound sissy in the ear,
It's jest how I was struck by that Appoller Belvydeer.

I've gazed at them depictions in the glossy magazines,
Uv modern Art an' darned if I can make out what it means:
Will any jerk to-day outstand a thousand years of test?

Why, them old Pagans make us look like pikers at the best.

An' maybe, too, their minds was jest as luminous and clear
As that immortal statoo o' Appoller Belvydeer.

An' all yer march o' progress an' machinery as' such,
I wonder if, when all is said, they add up to so much?

An' were not these old fellers in their sweet an' simple way
Serener souled an' happier than we poor mugs to-day?

They have us licked, I thought, an' stood wi' mingled gloom an' cheer
Before that starry statoo o' Appoller Belvydeer.

So I'll go back to Pumpkinville an' to my humble home,
An' dream o' all the sights I saw in everlastin' Rome;
But I will never speak a word o' that enchanted land
That takes you bang into the Past - folks wouldn't understand;
An' midmost in my memories I'll cherish close an' dear
That bit o' frozen music, that Appoller Belvydeer.

Armistice Day (1953) Read Poem

Don't jeer because we celebrate
Armistice Day,
Though thirty years of sorry fate
Have passed away.

Though still we guard the Sacred Flame,
And fly the Flag,
That World War Two with grief and shame
Revealed—a rag.

For France cannot defend to-day
Her native land;
And she is far to proud to pray
For helping hand.

Aye, though she stands amid the Free,
In love with life,
No more her soil will shambles be
In world-war strife.

Still we who tend the deathless Flame
Of Verdun speak;
It is our glory and our shame,
For we are weak.

We have too much of blood and blight
To answer for .

.

.

No, France will never, never fight
Another war!

Artist Read Poem

He gave a picture exhibition,
Hiring a little empty shop.

Above its window: FREE ADMISSION
Cajoled the passers-by to stop;
Just to admire - no need to purchase,
Although his price might have been low:
But no proud artist ever urges
Potential buyers at his show.

Of course he badly needed money,
But more he needed moral aid.

Some people thought his pictures funny,
Too ultra-modern, I'm afraid.

His painting was experimental,
Which no poor artist can afford-
That is, if he would pay the rental
And guarantee his roof and board.

And so some came and saw and sniggered,
And some a puzzled brow would crease;
And some objected: "Well, I'm jiggered!"
What price Picasso and Matisse?

The artist sensitively quivered,
And stifled many a bitter sigh,
But day by day his hopes were shivered
For no one ever sought to buy.

And then he had a brilliant notion:
Half of his daubs he labeled: SOLD.

And lo! he viewed with queer emotion
A public keen and far from cold.

Then (strange it is beyond the telling),
He saw the people round him press:
His paintings went - they still are selling…
Well, nothing succeeds like success.

Aspiration Read Poem

When I was daft (as urchins are),
And full of fairy lore,
I aimed an arrow at a star
And hit - the barnyard door.

I've shot at heaps of stars since then,
but always it's the same -
A barnyard door has mocked me when
Uranus was my aim.

So, I'll shoot starward as of yore,
Though wide my arrows fall;
I'd rather hit a big barn door
Then never aim at all.

At Eighty Years Read Poem

As nothingness draws near
How I can see
Inexorably clear
My vanity.

My sum of worthiness
Always so small,
Dwindles from less to less
To none at all.

As grisly destiny
Claims me at last,
How grievous seem to me
Sins of my past!
How keen a conscience edge
Can come to be!
How pitiless the dredge
Of memory!
Ye proud ones of the earth
Who count your gains,
What cherish you of worth
For all your pains?

E'er death shall slam the door,
Will you, like me,
Face fate and count the score—
FUTILITY.

At San Sebastian Read Poem

The Countess sprawled beside the sea
As naked a she well could be;
Indeed her only garments were
A "G" string and a brassière
Her washerwoman was amazed,
And at the lady gazed and gazed, -
From billowy-bosom swell
To navel like a pink sea shell.

The Countess has of robes three score,
She doffs and leaves them on the floor;
She changes gowns ten times a day,
Her chambermaid puts them away.

"How funny!" thinks the washer-wife;
"I've toiled and toiled throughout my life,
And only have, to hide my skin,
This old rag that I'm standing in.

"
The Countess never toiled at all;
She begged for coin when she was small,
And later, in the ancient fashion,
In gay resorts she peddled passion.

But now to noble rank arrived,
(Tom wed the old Count she contrived)
Her youthful lover, lounging there,
Is hirsute as a teddy-bear.

The Countess will be honoured when
She dies past three-score years and ten.

The washer-women will wear out
With labour fifty years about .

.

.

Yet as the two look at each other
The Countess thinks: "So was my mother;
And washer-wife to live and die,
But for God's grace so would be I.

"

At The Golden Pig Read Poem

Where once with lads I scoffed my beer
The landlord's lass I've wed.

Now I am lord and master here;—
Thank God! the old man's dead.

I stand behind a blooming bar
With belly like a tub,
And pals say, seeing my cigar:
'Bill's wed a pub.

'
I wonder now if I did well,
My freedom for to lose;
Knowing my wife is fly as hell
I mind my 'Ps' and 'Qs'.

Oh what a fuss she made because
I tweaked the barmaid's bub:
Alas! a sorry day it was
I wed a pub.

Fat landlord of the Golden Pig,
They call me 'mister' now;
And many a mug of beer I swig,
Yet don't get gay, somehow.

So farmer fellows, lean and clean
Who sweat to earn your grub,
Although you haven't got a bean:
Don't wed a pub.

At The Parade Read Poem

I cannot flap a flag
Or beat a drum;
Behind the mob I lag
With larynx dumb;
Alas! I fear I'm not
A Patriot.

With acrid eyes I see
The soul of things;
And equal unto me
Are cooks and kings;
I would not cross the street
A duke to meet.

Oh curse me for a fool
To be so proud;
To stand so still and cool
Amid the crowd.

For President or Peer
God, let me cheer!
But no, despite the glee
My heart is cold;
I think that it may be
Because I'm old;
I'm dumb where millions yell .

.

.

Oh what the hell!

At Thirty-Five Read Poem

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 prate 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!

Athabaska Dick Read Poem

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 jamboree, and they make the Landing ring
With a whoop and a whirl, and a "Grab your girl", and a rip and a skip and a roar.

For the spree of Spring is a sacred thing, and the boys must have their fun;
Packer and tracker and half-breed Cree, from the boat to the bar they leap;
And then when the long flotilla goes, and the last of their pay is done,
The boys from the banks of Lac Labiche swing to the heavy sweep.

And oh, how they sigh! and their throats are dry, and sorry are they and sick:
Yet there's none so cursed with a lime-kiln thirst as that Athabaska Dick.

He was long and slim and lean of limb, but strong as a stripling bear;
And by the right of his skill and might he guided the Long Brigade.

All water-wise were his laughing eyes, and he steered with a careless care,
And he shunned the shock of foam and rock, till they came to the Big Cascade.

And here they must make the long portage, and the boys sweat in the sun;
And they heft and pack, and they haul and track, and each must do his trick;
But their thoughts are far in the Landing bar, where the founts of nectar run:
And no man thinks of such gorgeous drinks as that Athabaska Dick.

'Twas the close of day and his long boat lay just over the Big Cascade,
When there came to him one Jack-pot Jim, with a wild light in his eye;
And he softly laughed, and he led Dick aft, all eager, yet half afraid,
And snugly stowed in his coat he showed a pilfered flask of "rye".

And in haste he slipped, or in fear he tripped, but — Dick in warning roared —
And there rang a yell, and it befell that Jim was overboard.

Oh, I heard a splash, and quick as a flash I knew he could not swim.

I saw him whirl in the river swirl, and thresh his arms about.

In a queer, strained way I heard Dick say: "I'm going after him,"
Throw off his coat, leap down the boat — and then I gave a shout:
"Boys, grab him, quick! You're crazy, Dick! Far better one than two!
Hell, man! You know you've got no show! It's sure and certain death.

.

.

.

"
And there we hung, and there we clung, with beef and brawn and thew,
And sinews cracked and joints were racked, and panting came our breath;
And there we swayed and there we prayed, till strength and hope were spent —
Then Dick, he threw us off like rats, and after Jim he went.

With mighty urge amid the surge of river-rage he leapt,
And gripped his mate and desperate he fought to gain the shore;
With teeth a-gleam he bucked the stream, yet swift and sure he swept
To meet the mighty cataract that waited all a-roar.

And there we stood like carven wood, our faces sickly white,
And watched him as he beat the foam, and inch by inch he lost;
And nearer, nearer drew the fall, and fiercer grew the fight,
Till on the very cascade crest a last farewell he tossed.

Then down and down and down they plunged into that pit of dread;
And mad we tore along the shore to claim our bitter dead.

And from that hell of frenzied foam, that crashed and fumed and boiled,
Two little bodies bubbled up, and they were heedless then;
And oh, they lay like senseless clay! and bitter hard we toiled,
Yet never, never gleam of hope, and we were weary men.

And moments mounted into hours, and black was our despair;
And faint were we, and we were fain to give them up as dead,
When suddenly I thrilled with hope: "Back, boys! and give him air;
I feel the flutter of his heart.

.

.

.

" And, as the word I said,
Dick gave a sigh, and gazed around, and saw our breathless band;
And saw the sky's blue floor above, all strewn with golden fleece;
And saw his comrade Jack-pot Jim, and touched him with his hand:
And then there came into his eyes a look of perfect peace.

And as there, at his very feet, the thwarted river raved,
I heard him murmur low and deep:
"Thank God! the whiskey's saved.

"

Atoll Read Poem

The woes of men beyond my ken
Mean nothing more to me.

Behold my world, and Eden hurled
From Heaven to the Sea;
A jeweled home, in fending foam
Tempestuously tossed;
A virgin isle none dare defile,
Far-flung, forgotten, lost.

And here I dwell, where none may tell
Me tales of mortal strife;
Let millions die, immune am I,
And radiant with life.

No echo comes of evil drums,
To vex my dawns divine;
Aloof, alone I hold my throne,
And Majesty is mine.

Ghost ships pass by, and glad am I
They make no sign to me.

The green corn springs, the gilt vine clings,
The net is in the sea.

My paradise around me lies,
Remote from wrath and wrong;
My isle is clean, unsought, unseen,
And innocent with song.

Here let me dwell in beauty's spell,
As tranquil as a tree;
Here let me bide, where wind and tide
Bourdon that I am free;
Here let me know from human woe
The rapture of release:
The rich caress of Loveliness,
The plenitude of Peace.

Aunt Jane Read Poem

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
We bilked the bloody Government.

While others spent she loved to save,
But couldn't take it to her grave.

While others save we love to spend;
She hated us but in the end
Because she left no Testament
To us all her possessions went.

That is to say they did not find
A lawyer's Will of any kind.

Yet there was one in her own hand,
A Home for Ailing Cats she planned.

Well, you can understand my ire:
Promptly I put it in the fire.

In misery she chose to die,
Yet we will make her money fly.

And as we mourn for poor Aunt Jane
The thought alleviates our pain:
Perhaps her savings in the end
Gave her more joy than we who spend.

Awake To Smile Read Poem

When I blink sunshine in my eyes
And hail the amber morn,
Before the rosy dew-drop dries
With sparkle on the thorn;
When boughs with robin rapture ring,
And bees hum in the may,—
Then call me young, with heart of Spring,
Though I be grey.

But when no more I know the joy
And urgence of that hour,
As like a happy-hearted boy
I leap to land aflower;
When gusto I no longer feel,
To rouse with glad hooray,—
Then call me old and let me steal
From men away.

Let me awaken with a smile
And go to garden glee,
For there is such a little while
Of living left to me;
But when star-wist I frail away,
Lord, let the hope beguile
That to Ecstatic Light I may
Awake to smile.

Babette Read Poem

My Lady is dancing so lightly,
The belle of the Embassy Ball;
I lied as I kissed her politely,
And hurried away from it all.

I'm taxiing up to Montmartre,
With never a pang of regret,
To toy for awhile with the garter
Of her whom I know as Babette.

My Lady's an exquisite creature,
As rare as a queen on a throne;
She's faultless in form and in feature,
But oh, she      is cold as a stone.

And so from her presence I hurry,
Her iciness quick to forget
In sensuous joy as I bury
My face in the breast of Babette.

She's only a flower of the pavement;
With Paris and Spring in her eyes;
Yet I who foresaw what the grave meant
Of passion behold with surprise,
When she greets me as gay as a linnet,
Afar from life's fever and fret
I'm twenty years younger the minute
I enter the room of Babette.

The poor little supper she offers
Is more than a banquet to me;
A different bif-tik she proffers,
Pommes frit and a morsel of Brie;
We finish with coffee and kisses,
Then sit on the sofa and pet .

.

.

At the Embassy Mumm never misses,
But pinard's my drink with Babette.

Somehow and somewhere to my thinking,
There's a bit of apache in us all;
In bistros I'd rather be drinking,
Than dance at the Embassy Ball.

How often I feel I would barter
My place in the social set,
To roam in a moonlit Montmartre,
Alone with my little Babette.

I'm no longer young and I'm greying;
I'm tailored, top-hatted, kid-gloved,
And though in dark ways I be straying,
It's heaven to love and beloved;
The passion of youth to re-capture.

.

.

.

My Lady's perfection and yet
When I kiss her I think of the rapture
I find in the charms of Babette -
Entwined in the arms of Babettte.

Baby Sitter Read Poem

From torrid heat to frigid cold
I've rovered land and sea;
And now, with halting heart I hold
My grandchild on my knee:
Yet while I've eighty years all told,
Of moons she has but three.

She sleeps, that fragile miniature
Of future maidenhood;
She will be wonderful, I'm sure,
As over her I brood;
She is so innocent, so pure,
I know she will be good.

My way I've won from woe to weal,
And hard has been the fight;
Yet in my ingle-nook I feel
A wondrous peace to-night;
And over me serenely steal
Warm waves of love and light.

"What sloppy stuff!" I hear you say.

"Give us a lusty song.

"
Alas! I'm bent and gnarled and grey,—
My life may not be long:
Yet let its crown of glory be
This child upon me knee.

Balloon Read Poem

I bought my little grandchild Ann
A bright balloon,
And I was such a happy man
To hear her croon.

She laughed and babbled with delight,
So gold its glow,
As by a thread she held it tight,
Then—let it go.

As if it gloried to be free
It climbed the sky;
But oh how sorrowful was she,
And sad was I!
And when at eve with sobbing cry
She saw the moon,
She pleaded to the pensive sky
For her balloon.

O Little One, I pray that you
In years to be,
Will hold a tiny baby too,
And know its glee;
That yours will always be the thrill
And joy of June,
And that you never, never will
Cry for the moon.

Bank Robber Read Poem

I much admire, I must admit,
The man who robs a Bank;
It takes a lot of guts and grit,
For lack of which I thank
The gods: a chap 'twould make of me
You wouldn't ask to tea.

I do not mean a burglar cove
Who climbs into a house,
From room to room flash-lit to rove
As quiet as a mouse;
Ah no, in Crime he cannot rank
With him who robs a Bank.

Who seemeth not to care a whoop
For danger at its height;
Who handles what is known as 'soup,'
And dandles dynamite:
Unto a bloke who can do that
I doff my bowler hat.

I think he is the kind of stuff
To be a mighty man
In battlefield,—aye, brave enough
The Cross Victorian
To win and rise to high command,
A hero in the land.

What General with all his swank
Has guts enough to rob a Bank!

Barb-Wire Bill Read Poem

At dawn of day the white land lay all gruesome-like and grim,
When Bill Mc'Gee he says to me: "We've got to do it, Jim.

We've got to make Fort Liard quick.

I know the river's bad,
But, oh! the little woman's sick .

.

.

why! don't you savvy, lad?

"
And me! Well, yes, I must confess it wasn't hard to see
Their little family group of two would soon be one of three.

And so I answered, careless-like: "Why, Bill! you don't suppose
I'm scared of that there `babbling brook'?

Whatever you say — goes.

"
A real live man was Barb-wire Bill, with insides copper-lined;
For "barb-wire" was the brand of "hooch" to which he most inclined.

They knew him far; his igloos are on Kittiegazuit strand.

They knew him well, the tribes who dwell within the Barren Land.

From Koyokuk to Kuskoquim his fame was everywhere;
And he did love, all life above, that little Julie Claire,
The lithe, white slave-girl he had bought for seven hundred skins,
And taken to his wickiup to make his moccasins.

We crawled down to the river bank and feeble folk were we,
That Julie Claire from God-knows-where, and Barb-wire Bill and me.

From shore to shore we heard the roar the heaving ice-floes make,
And loud we laughed, and launched our raft, and followed in their wake.

The river swept and seethed and leapt, and caught us in its stride;
And on we hurled amid a world that crashed on every side.

With sullen din the banks caved in; the shore-ice lanced the stream;
The naked floes like spooks arose, all jiggling and agleam.

Black anchor-ice of strange device shot upward from its bed,
As night and day we cleft our way, and arrow-like we sped.

But "Faster still!" cried Barb-wire Bill, and looked the live-long day
In dull despair at Julie Claire, as white like death she lay.

And sometimes he would seem to pray and sometimes seem to curse,
And bent above, with eyes of love, yet ever she grew worse.

And as we plunged and leapt and lunged, her face was plucked with pain,
And I could feel his nerves of steel a-quiver at the strain.

And in the night he gripped me tight as I lay fast asleep:
"The river's kicking like a steer .

.

.

run out the forward sweep!
That's Hell-gate Canyon right ahead; I know of old its roar,
And .

.

.

I'll be damned! the ice is jammed! We've GOT to make the shore.

"
With one wild leap I gripped the sweep.

The night was black as sin.

The float-ice crashed and ripped and smashed, and stunned us with its din.

And near and near, and clear and clear I heard the canyon boom;
And swift and strong we swept along to meet our awful doom.

And as with dread I glimpsed ahead the death that waited there,
My only thought was of the girl, the little Julie Claire;
And so, like demon mad with fear, I panted at the oar,
And foot by foot, and inch by inch, we worked the raft ashore.

The bank was staked with grinding ice, and as we scraped and crashed,
I only knew one thing to do, and through my mind it flashed:
Yet while I groped to find the rope, I heard Bill's savage cry:
"That's my job, lad! It's me that jumps.

I'll snub this raft or die!"
I saw him leap, I saw him creep, I saw him gain the land;
I saw him crawl, I saw him fall, then run with rope in hand.

And then the darkness gulped him up, and down we dashed once more,
And nearer, nearer drew the jam, and thunder-like its roar.

Oh God! all's lost .

.

.

from Julie Claire there came a wail of pain,
And then — the rope grew sudden taut, and quivered at the strain;
It slacked and slipped, it whined and gripped, and oh, I held my breath!
And there we hung and there we swung right in the jaws of death.

A little strand of hempen rope, and how I watched it there,
With all around a hell of sound, and darkness and despair;
A little strand of hempen rope, I watched it all alone,
And somewhere in the dark behind I heard a woman moan;
And somewhere in the dark ahead I heard a man cry out,
Then silence, silence, silence fell, and mocked my hollow shout.

And yet once more from out the shore I heard that cry of pain,
A moan of mortal agony, then all was still again.

That night was hell with all the frills, and when the dawn broke dim,
I saw a lean and level land, but never sign of him.

I saw a flat and frozen shore of hideous device,
I saw a long-drawn strand of rope that vanished through the ice.

And on that treeless, rockless shore I found my partner — dead.

No place was there to snub the raft, so — he had served instead;
And with the rope lashed round his waist, in last defiant fight,
He'd thrown himself beneath the ice, that closed and gripped him tight;
And there he'd held us back from death, as fast in death he lay.

.

.

.

Say, boys! I'm not the pious brand, but — I just tried to pray.

And then I looked to Julie Claire, and sore abashed was I,
For from the robes that covered her, I - heard - a - baby - cry….

Thus was Love conqueror of death, and life for life was given;
And though no saint on earth, d'ye think — Bill's squared hisself with Heaven?

Barcelona Read Poem

The night before I left Milan
A mob jammed the Cathedral Square,
And high the tide of passion ran
As politics befouled the air.

A seething hell of human strife,
I shrank back from its evil core,
Seeing in this convulsive life
The living seeds of war.

To Barcelona then I came,
And oh the heavenly release!
From conflict and consuming flame
I knew the preciousness of peace.

Such veneration for the law!
How decorous was every one!
And then (significant) I saw
Each copper packed a tommy gun.

Well, maybe it is best that way.

Peace can mean more than liberty:
These people, state-directed, may
Be happier than those more free.

When politics wield evil grip,
And warring factions rise and fall,
Benevolent dictatorship
May be the answer, after all.

Bastard Read Poem

The very skies were black with shame,
As near my moment drew;
The very hour before you came
I felt I hated you.

But now I see how fair you are,
How divine your eyes,
It seems I step upon a star
To leap to Paradise.

What care I who your father was:
('Twas better not to know);
You're mine and mine alone because
I love and love you so.

What though you only bear my name,
I hold my head on high;
For none shall have a right to claim
A right to you but I.

Because I've borne a human life,
I'm worthier, I know,
Than those who flaunt the name of wife,
And have no seed to show.

I have fulfilled, I think with joy,
My women's destiny;
And glad am I you are a boy,
For you will fight for me.

And maybe there will come a day
You'll bear a famous name,
And men will be ashamed to say:
"He was a child of shame.

"
A day will dawn, divinely free,
With love in every breast,
When every child will welcome be,
And every mother blest.

When every women, wed or no,
Will deem her highest good
On grateful mankind to bestow
The Gift of Motherhood.

Beachcomber Read Poem

When I have come with happy heart to sixty years and ten,
I'll buy a boat and sail away upon a summer sea;
And in a little lonely isle that's far and far from men,
In peace and praise I'll spend the days the Gods allow to me.

For I am weary of a strife so pitiless and vain;
And in a far and fairy isle, bewilderingly bright,
I'll learn to know the leap and glow of rapture once again,
And welcome every living dawn with wonder and delight.

And there I'll build a swan-white house above the singing foam,
With brooding eaves, where joyously rich roses climb and cling;
With crotons in a double row, like wine and honeycomb,
And flame trees dripping golden rain, and palms pavilioning.

And there I'll let the wind and wave do what they will with me;
And I will dwell unto the end with loveliness and joy;
And drink from out the crystal spring, and eat from off the tree,
As simple as a savage is, as careless as a boy.

For I have come to think that Life's a lamentable tale,
And all we break our hearts to win is little worth our while;
For fame and fortune in the end are comfortless and stale,
And it is best to dream and rest upon a radiant isle.

So I'll blot out the bitter years of sufferance and scorn,
And I'll forget the fear and fret, the poverty and pain;
And in a shy and secret isle I'll be a man newborn,
And fashion life to heart's desire, and seek my soul again.

For when I come with happy heart to sixty years and ten,
I fondly hope the best of life will yet remain to me;
And so I'll burn my foolish books and break my futile pen,
And seek a tranced and tranquil isle, that dreams eternally.

I'll turn my back on all the world, I'll bid my friends adieu;
Unto the blink I'll leave behind what gold I have to give;
And in a jewelled solitude I'll mould my life anew,
And nestling close to Nature's heart, I'll learn at last .

.

.

to live.

Beak-Bashing Boy Read Poem

But yesterday I banked on fistic fame,
Figgerin' I'd be a champion of the Ring.

Today I've half a mind to quit the Game,
For all them rosy dreams have taken wing,
Since last night a secondary bout
I let a goddam nigger knock me out.

It must have been that T-bone steak I ate;
They might have doped it, them smart gambling guys,
For round my heart I felt a heavy weight,
A stab of pain that should have put me wise.

But oh the cheering of the fans was sweet,
And never once I reckoned on defeat.

I had the nigger licked - twice he went down,
And there was just another round to go.

I played with him, I made him look a clown,
Yet he was game, and traded blow for blow.

And then that piston pain, the dark of doom .

.

.

Like meat they lugged me to my dressing-room.

So that's the pay-off to my bid for fame.

But yesterday my head was in the sky,
And now I slink and sag in sorry shame,
And hate to look my backers in the eye.

They think I threw the fight; I sorto' feel
The ringworms rate me for a lousy heel.

Oh sure I could go on - but gee! it's rough
To be a pork-and-beaner at the best;
To beg for bouts, yet getting not enough
To keep a decent feed inside my vest;
To go on canvas-kissing till I come
To cadge for drinks just like a Bowery bum.

Hell no! I'll slug my guts out till I die.

I'll be no bouncer in a cheap saloon.

I'll give them swatatorium scribes the lie,
I'll make a come-back, aye and pretty soon.

I'll show them tinhorn sports; I'll train and train,
I'll hear them cheer - oh Christ! the pain, the PAIN .

.

.

Stable-Boss:
"Poor punk! you're sunk - you'll never scrap again.

"

Bed Sitter Read Poem

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, of course)
And furnish evidence so that
Their wives may claim divorce.

But as this chap sobbed out his woes
I thought: How it's a shame!
His wife's a bitch and so he goes
And takes himself the blame.

And me behaving like a heel
To earn a filthy fee .

.

.

Said I: "You've had a dirty deal.

"
"What of yourself?

said he.

And so I told him how I was
A widow of the war,
And doing what I did because
Two sons I struggled for.

As I sat knitting through the night
He eyed me from the bed,
And in the rosy morning light
Impulsively he said:
"Through in this sordid game we play,
To cheat the law we plan,
i do believe you when you say
You hold aloof from man;
Unto the dead you have been true,
And on the day I'm free,
To prove how I have faith in you -
Please, will you marry me?

"
That's how it was.

Now we are wed,
And life's a list of joys.

The old unhappy past is dead;
He's father to my boys.

And I have told him just to-day,
(Though forty, I confess,)
A little sister's on the way
To crown our happiness.

Belated Bard Read Poem

The songs I made from joy of earth
In wanton wandering,
Are rapturous with Maytime mirth
And ectasy of Spring.

But all the songs I sing today
Take tediously the ear:
Novemberishly dark are they
With mortuary fear.

For half a century has gone
Since first I rang a rhyme;
And that is long to linger on
The tolerance of Time.

This blue-veined hand with which I write
Yet answers to my will;
Though four-score years I count to-night
I am unsilent still.

"Senile old fool!" I hear you say;
"Beside the dying fire
You huddle and stiff-fingered play
Your tired and tinny lyre.

"
Well, though your patience I may try,
Bear with me yet awhile,
And though you scorn my singing I
Will thank you with a smile.

For I such soul-delighting joy
Have found in simple rhyme,
Since first a happy-hearted boy
I coaxed a word to chime,
That ere I tryst with Mother Earth
Let from my heart arise
A song of youth and starry mirth .

.

.

Then close my eyes.

Belated Conscience Read Poem

To buy for school a copy-book
I asked my Dad for two-pence;
He gave it with a gentle look,
Although he had but few pence.

'Twas then I proved myself a crook
And came a moral cropper,
I bought a penny copy-book
And blued the other copper.

I spent it on a sausage roll
Gulped down with guilt suggestion,
To the damnation of my soul
And awful indigestion.

Poor Dad! His job was hard to hold;
His mouths to feed were many;
Were he alive a millionfold
I'd pay him for his penny.

Now nigh the grave I think with grief,
Though other sins are many,
I am a liar and a thief
'Cause once I stole a penny:
Yet be he pious as a friar
It is my firm believing,
That every man has been a liar
And most of us done thieving.

Benjamin Franklin Read Poem

Franklin fathered bastards fourteen,
(So I read in the New Yorker);
If it's true, in terms of courtin'
Benny must have been a corker.

To be prudent I've aspired,
And my passions I have mastered;
So that I have never sired
A single bastard.

One of course can never know;
But I think that if I had
It would give me quite a glow
When a kiddie called me 'Dad.

'
Watching toddlers at their play,
Parentage I'd gladly claim,
But their mothers smiling say:
'You're not to blame.

'
Ben founded the Satevepost,
And for that I much respect him;
But fourteen is quite a host
Paternally to elect him.

'Fatherhood is not a crime,'
Deemed fat Ben, 'there could be others .

.

.

Darlings, I had not the time
To wed your mothers.

'

Bessie's Boil Read Poem

Says I to my Missis: "Ba goom, lass! you've something I see, on your mind.

"
Says she: "You are right, Sam, I've something.

It 'appens it's on me be'ind.

A Boil as 'ud make Job jealous.

It 'urts me no end when I sit.

"
Says I: "Go to 'ospittel, Missis.

They might 'ave to coot it a bit.

"
Says she: "I just 'ate to be showin' the part of me person it's at.

"
Says I: "Don't be fussy; them doctors see sights more 'orrid than that.

"
So Misses goes off togged up tasty, and there at the 'ospittel door
They tells 'er to see the 'ouse Doctor, 'oose office is Room Thirty-four.

So she 'unts up and down till she finds it, and knocks and a voice says: "Come in,"
And there is a 'andsome young feller, in white from 'is 'eels to 'is chin.

"I've got a big boil," says my Missis.

"It 'urts me for fair when I sit,
And Sam (that's me 'usband) 'as asked me to ask you to coot it a bit.

"
Then blushin' she plucks up her courage, and bravely she shows 'im the place,
And 'e gives it a proper inspection, wi' a 'eap o' surprise on 'is face.

Then 'e says wi' an accent o' Scotland: "Whit ye hae is a bile, Ah can feel,
But ye'd better consult the heid Dockter; they caw him Professor O'Niel.

He's special for biles and carbuncles.

Ye'll find him in Room Sixty-three.

No charge, Ma'am.

It's been a rare pleasure.

Jist tell him ye're comin' from me.

"
So Misses she thanks 'im politely, and 'unts up and down as before,
Till she comes to a big 'andsome room with "Professor O'Neil" on the door.

Then once more she plucks up her courage, and knocks, and a voice says: "All right.

"
So she enters, and sees a fat feller wi' whiskers, all togged up in white.

"I've got a big boil," says my Missis, "and if ye will kindly permit,
I'd like for to 'ave you inspect it; it 'urts me like all when I sit.

"
So blushin' as red as a beet-root she 'astens to show 'im the spot,
And 'e says wi' a look o' amazement: "Sure, Ma'am, it must hurt ye a lot.

"
Then 'e puts on 'is specs to regard it, and finally says wi' a frown:
"I'll bet it's as sore as the divvle, especially whin ye sit down.

I think it's a case for the Surgeon; ye'd better consult Doctor Hoyle.

I've no hisitation in sayin' yer boil is a hill of a boil.

"
So Misses she thanks 'im for sayin' her boil is a hill of a boil,
And 'unts all around till she comes on a door that is marked: "Doctor Hoyle.

"
But by now she 'as fair got the wind up, and trembles in every limb;
But she thinks: "After all, 'e's a Doctor.

Ah moosn't be bashful wi' 'im.

"
She's made o' good stuff is the Missis, so she knocks and a voice says: "Oos there?

"
"It's me," says ma Bessie, an' enters a room which is spacious and bare.

And a wise-lookin' old feller greets 'er, and 'e too is togged up in white.

"It's the room where they coot ye," thinks Bessie; and shakes like a jelly wi' fright.

"Ah got a big boil," begins Missis, "and if ye are sure you don't mind,
I'd like ye to see it a moment.

It 'urts me, because it's be'ind.

"
So thinkin' she'd best get it over, she 'astens to show 'im the place,
And 'e stares at 'er kindo surprised like, an' gets very red in the face.

But 'e looks at it most conscientious, from every angle of view,
Then 'e says wi' a shrug o' 'is shoulders: "Pore Lydy, I'm sorry for you.

It wants to be cut, but you should 'ave a medical bloke to do that.

Sye, why don't yer go to the 'orsespittel, where all the Doctors is at?

Ye see, Ma'am, this part o' the buildin' is closed on account o' repairs;
Us fellers is only the pynters, a-pyntin' the 'alls and the stairs.

"

Bill The Bomber Read Poem

The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist;
The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist;
And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame;
'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came.

'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink,
For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think.

So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream
Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream;
But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke:
"Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke.

We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead;
But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead,
Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound,
And it's odd — we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground.

And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew,
How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through;
So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin,
And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in.

And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run,
A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one.

"
Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm,
For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am.

I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" because
I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was.

We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer;
Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near;
And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew,
And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two.

"
I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see,
And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me.

And I'd lost me 'at and rifle — but I told you that before,
So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more.

But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet,
And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set,
And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead,
And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead;
When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee,
And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three.

"
So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that,
And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at;
And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said:
"If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead.

"
And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs — that was the 'ardest blow,
To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe.

And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad,
And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad.

And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again,
Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain.

Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot,
And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got,
I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out
Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out;
And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at;
And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat;
And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad,
Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad.

For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere
This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear.

Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain,
So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain;
And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me,
And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free.

.

.

.

And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear;
And now they're all excited like, but — I am drawin' near;
And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim.

.

.

.

Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Oh here, says I, is where I join the game.

And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin',
And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame.

Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole,
And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole.

And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell,
And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell.

And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive;
We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five.

And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay,
For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away".

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

139-144.

Bill's Grave Read Poem

I'm gatherin' flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill;
I've sneaked away from the billet, 'cause Jim wouldn't understand;
'E'd call me a silly fat'ead, and larf till it made 'im ill,
To see me 'ere in the cornfield, wiv a big bookay in me 'and.

For Jim and me we are rough uns, but Bill was one o' the best;
We 'listed and learned together to larf at the wust wot comes;
Then Bill copped a packet proper, and took 'is departure West,
So sudden 'e 'adn't a minit to say good-bye to 'is chums.

And they took me to where 'e was planted, a sort of a measly mound,
And, thinks I, 'ow Bill would be tickled, bein' so soft and queer,
If I gathered a bunch o' them wild-flowers, and sort of arranged them round
Like a kind of a bloody headpiece .

.

.

and that's the reason I'm 'ere.

But not for the love of glory I wouldn't 'ave Jim to know.

'E'd call me a slobberin' Cissy, and larf till 'is sides was sore;
I'd 'ave larfed at meself too, it isn't so long ago;
But some'ow it changes a feller, 'avin' a taste o' war.

It 'elps a man to be 'elpful, to know wot 'is pals is worth
(Them golden poppies is blazin' like lamps some fairy 'as lit);
I'm fond o' them big white dysies.

.

.

.

Now Jim's o' the salt o' the earth;
But 'e 'as got a tongue wot's a terror, and 'e ain't sentimental a bit.

I likes them blue chaps wot's 'idin' so shylike among the corn.

Won't Bill be glad! We was allus thicker 'n thieves, us three.

Why! 'Oo's that singin' so 'earty?

JIM! And as sure as I'm born
'E's there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin' flowers like me.

Quick! Drop me posy be'ind me.

I watches 'im for a while,
Then I says: "Wot 'o, there, Chummy! Wot price the little bookay?

"
And 'e starts like a bloke wot's guilty, and 'e says with a sheepish smile:
"She's a bit of orl right, the widder wot keeps the estaminay.

"
So 'e goes away in a 'urry, and I wishes 'im best o' luck,
And I picks up me bunch o' wild-flowers, and the light's gettin' sorto dim,
When I makes me way to the boneyard, and .

.

.

I stares like a man wot's stuck,
For wot do I see?

Bill's grave-mound strewn with the flowers of Jim.

Of course I won't never tell 'im, bein' a tactical lad;
And Jim parley-voos to the widder: "Trez beans, lamoor; compree?

"
Oh, 'e'd die of shame if 'e knew I knew; but say! won't Bill be glad
When 'e stares through the bleedin' clods and sees the blossoms of Jim and me?

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

78-81.

Bill's Prayer Read Poem

I never thought that Bill could say
A proper prayer;
'Twas more in his hard-bitten way
To cuss and swear;
Yet came the night when Baby Ted
Was bitter ill,
I tip-toed to his tiny bed,
And there was Bill.

Aye, down upon his bended knees
I heard him cry:
"O God, don't take my kiddy, please!
Don't let him die!"
Then softly so he would not see,
I shrank away:
He would have been so shamed for me
To see him pray.

Men-folk are queer: Bill acts up tough,
Yet how it's odd,
When things are looking downright rough
He tunes to God.

"The Parson and the Priest be darned!"
I've heard him say:
Yet when his baby is concerned
He's quick to pray.

Maybe it's gentle parent-hood
That gives us grace,
And in its sacrificial mood
Uplifts the race.

Of sentiment, all self above,
That goodness sums
I think the saving best is Love
For little ones.

Bindle Stiff Read Poem

When I was brash and gallant-gay
Just fifty years ago,
I hit the ties and beat my way
From Maine to Mexico;
For though to Glasgow gutter bred
A hobo heart had I,
And followed where adventure led,
Beneath a brazen sky.

And as I tramped the railway track
I owned a single shirt;
Like canny Scot I bought it black
So's not to show the dirt;
A handkerchief held all my gear,
My razor and my comb;
I was a freckless lad, I fear,
With all the world for home.

Yet oh I thought the life was grand
And loved my liberty!
Romance was my bed-fellow and
The stars my company.

And I would think, each diamond dawn,
"How I have forged my fate!
Where are the Gorbals and the Tron,
And where the Gallowgate?

"
Oh daft was I to wander wild,
And seek the Trouble Trail,
As weakly as a wayward child,
And darkly doomed to fail .

.

.

Aye, bindle-stiff I hit the track
Just fifty years ago .

.

.

Yet now .

.

.

I drive my Cadillac
From Maine to Mexico.

Bingo Read Poem

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.

She has the cutest brown caniche,
The French for "poodle" on a leash,
While I have Bingo;
A dog of doubtful pedigree,
Part pug or pom or chow maybe,
But full of stingo.

The daughter of the village Maire
Would like to speak with me, I'll swear,
In her sweet lingo;
But parlez-vous I find a bore,
For I am British to the core,
And so is Bingo
Yet just to-day as we passed by,
Our two dogs haulted eye to eye,
In friendly poses;
Oh, how I hope to-morrow they
Will wag their tails in merry play,
And rub their noses.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *
The daughter of the village Maire
Today gave me a frigid stare,
My hopes are blighted.

I'll tell you how it came to pass .

.

.

Last evening in the Square, alas!
My sweet I sighted;
And as she sauntered with her pet,
Her dainty, her adored Frolette,
I cried: "By Jingo!"
Well, call it chance or call it fate,
I made a dash .

.

.

Too late, too late!
Oh, naughty Bingo!
The daughter of the village Maire
That you'll forgive me, is my prayer
And also Bingo.

You should have shielded your caniche:
You saw my dog strain on his leash
And like a spring go.

They say that Love will find a way -
It definitely did, that day .

.

.

Oh, canine noodles!
Now it is only left to me
To wonder - will your offspring be
Poms, pugs or poodles?

Bird Sanctuary Read Poem

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 populous with birds who sing
Gay madrigals for my delight.

Some merchants fain would buy my land
To build a stately pleasure dome.

Poor fools! they cannot understand
how pricelessly it is my home!
So luminous with living wings,
So musical with feathered joy .

.

.

Not for all pleasure fortune brings,
Would I such ecstasy destroy.

A thousand birds are in my grove,
Melodious from morn to night;
My fruit trees are their treasure trove,
Their happiness is my delight.

And through the sweet and shining days
They know their lover and their friend;
So I will shield in peace and praise
My innocents unto the end.

Bird Watcher Read Poem

In Wall Street once a potent power,
And now a multi-millionaire
Alone within a shady bower
In clothes his valet would not wear,
He watches bird wings bright the air.

The man who mighty mergers planned,
And oil and coal kinglike controlled,
With field-glasses in failing hand
Spies downy nestlings five days old,
With joy he could not buy for gold.

Aye, even childlike is his glee;
But how he crisps with hate and dread
And shakes a clawlike fist to see
A kestrel hover overhead:
Though he would never shoot it dead.

Although his cook afar doth forage
For food to woo his appetite,
The old man lives on milk and porridge
And now it is his last delight
At eve if one lone linnet lingers
To pick crushed almonds from his fingers.

Birds Of A Feather Read Poem

Of bosom friends I've had but seven,
Despite my years are ripe;
I hope they're now enjoying Heaven,
Although they're not the type;
Nor, candidly, no more am I,
Though overdue to die.

For looking back I see that they
Were weak and wasteful men;
They loved a sultry jest alway,
And women now and then.

They smoked and gambled, soused and swore,
—Yet no one was a bore.

'Tis strange I took to lads like these,
On whom the good should frown;
Yet all with poetry would please
To wash his wassail down;
Their temples touched the starry way,
But O what feet of clay!
Well, all are dust, of fame bereft;
They bore a cruel cross,
And I, the canny one, am left,—
Yet as I grieve their loss,
I deem, because they loved me well,
They'll welcome me in Hell.

Birthday Read Poem

(16th January 1949)
I thank whatever gods may be
For all the happiness that's mine;
That I am festive, fit and free
To savour women, wit and wine;
That I may game of golf enjoy,
And have a formidable drive:
In short, that I'm a gay old boy
Though I be
Seventy-and-five.

My daughter thinks.

because I'm old
(I'm not a crock, when all is said),
I mustn't let my feet get cold,
And should wear woollen socks in bed;
A worsted night-cap too, forsooth!
To humour her I won't contrive:
A man is in his second youth
When he is
Seventy-and-five.

At four-score years old age begins,
And not till then, I warn my wife;
At eighty I'll recant my sins,
And live a staid and sober life.

But meantime let me whoop it up,
And tell the world that I'm alive:
Fill to the brim the bubbly cup -
Here's health to
Seventy-and-five!

Birthdays Read Poem

Let us have birthdays every day,
(I had the thought while I was shaving)
Because a birthday should be gay,
And full of grace and good behaving.

We can't have cakes and candles bright,
And presents are beyond our giving,
But let lt us cherish with delight
The birthday way of lovely living.

For I have passed three-score and ten
And I can count upon my fingers
The years I hope to bide with men,
(Though by God's grace one often lingers.

)
So in the summers left to me,
Because I'm blest beyond my merit,
I hope with gratitude and glee
To sparkle with the birthday spirit.

Let me inform myself each day
Who's proudmost on the natal roster;
If Washington or Henry Clay,
Or Eugene Field or Stephen Foster.

oh lots of famous folks I'll find
Who more than measure to my rating,
And so thanksgivingly inclined
Their birthdays I'll be celebrating.

For Oh I know the cheery glow|
Of Anniversary rejoicing;
Let me reflect its radiance so
My daily gladness I'll be voicing.

And though I'm stooped and silver-haired,
Let me with laughter make the hearth gay,
So by the gods I may be spared
Each year to hear: "Pop, Happy Birthday.

"

Black Moran Read Poem

The mule-skinner was Bill Jerome, the passengers were three;
Two tinhorns from the dives of Nome, and Father Tim McGee.

And as for sunny Southland bound, through weary woods they sped,
The solitude that ringed them round was silent as the dead.

Then when the trail crooked crazily, the frost-rimed horses reared,
And from behind a fallen tree a grim galoot appeared;
He wore a parki white as snow, a mask as black as soot,
And carelesslike weaved to and fro a gun as if to shoot.

"Stick up yer mitts an' freeze 'em there!" his raucous voice outrang,
And shaving them by just a hair a blazing rod went bang.

The sleigh jerked to a sharp stand-still: "Okay," drawled Bill Jerome,
"Could be, this guy who aims to kill is Black Moran from Nome.

"
"You lousy crooks," the bandit cried; "You're slickly heeled I know;
Come, make it snappy, dump outside your booty in the snow.

"
The gambling pair went putty pale; they crimped as if with cold.

And heaved upon the icy trail two hefty pokes of gold.

Then softly stepping from the sleigh came Father Tim McGee,
And speaking in his gentle way: :Accept my Cross," said he.

"For other treasures have I none, their guilty gold to swell .

.

.

Please take this crucifix, my son, and may it serve you well.

"
The bandit whispered in his ear: "Jeez-crize, you got me wrong.

I wouldn't rob you Father dear - to your Church I belong.

"
Then swiftly striding to the sleigh he dumped the gold back in,
And hollered: "On your knees and pray, you lousy sons of sin!"
"Praise God," said Father Tim McGee, "he made you restitution,
And if he ever kneels to me I'll give him absolution.

"
"I'll have you guys to understand," said Driver Bill Jerome,
"The squarest gunman in the land is Black Moran from Nome.

"

Bonehead Bill Read Poem

I wonder 'oo and wot 'e was,
That 'Un I got so slick.

I couldn't see 'is face because
The night was 'ideous thick.

I just made out among the black
A blinkin' wedge o' white;
Then biff! I guess I got 'im crack —
The man I killed last night.

I wonder if account o' me
Some wench will go unwed,
And 'eaps o' lives will never be,
Because 'e's stark and dead?

Or if 'is missis damns the war,
And by some candle light,
Tow-headed kids are prayin' for
The Fritz I copped last night.

I wonder, 'struth, I wonder why
I 'ad that 'orful dream?

I saw up in the giddy sky
The gates o' God agleam;
I saw the gates o' 'eaven shine
Wiv everlastin' light:
And then .

.

.

I knew that I'd got mine,
As 'e got 'is last night.

Aye, bang beyond the broodin' mists
Where spawn the mother stars,
I 'ammered wiv me bloody fists
Upon them golden bars;
I 'ammered till a devil's doubt
Fair froze me wiv affright:
To fink wot God would say about
The bloke I corpsed last night.

I 'ushed; I wilted wiv despair,
When, like a rosy flame,
I sees a angel standin' there
'Oo calls me by me name.

'E 'ad such soft, such shiny eyes;
'E 'eld 'is 'and and smiled;
And through the gates o' Paradise
'E led me like a child.

'E led me by them golden palms
Wot 'ems that jeweled street;
And seraphs was a-singin' psalms,
You've no ideer 'ow sweet;
Wiv cheroobs crowdin' closer round
Than peas is in a pod,
'E led me to a shiny mound
Where beams the throne o' God.

And then I 'ears God's werry voice:
"Bill 'agan, 'ave no fear.

Stand up and glory and rejoice
For 'im 'oo led you 'ere.

"
And in a nip I seemed to see:
Aye, like a flash o' light,
My angel pal I knew to be
The chap I plugged last night.

Now, I don't claim to understand —
They calls me Bonehead Bill;
They shoves a rifle in me 'and,
And show me 'ow to kill.

Me job's to risk me life and limb,
But .

.

.

be it wrong or right,
This cross I'm makin', it's for 'im,
The cove I croaked last night.

Book Borrower Read Poem

I am a mild man, you'll agree,
But red my rage is,
When folks who borrow books from me
Turn down their pages.

Or when a chap a book I lend,
And find he's loaned it
Without permission to a friend -
As if he owned it.

But worst of all I hate those crooks
(May hell-fires burn them!)
Who beg the loan of cherished books
And don't return them.

My books are tendrils of myself
No shears can sever .

.

.

May he who rapes one from its shelf
Be damned forever.

Book Lover Read Poem

I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never head.

"Please make me," says some wistful tome,
"A wee bit of yourself.

"
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.

And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.

They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?

"
"some day," I say, "I will.

"
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distrest that I
Am such a busy man.

Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,
my Gibbon and Defoe;
To savour Swift I'll never learn,
Montaigne I may not know.

On Bacon I will never sup,
For Shakespeare I've no time;
Because I'm busy making up
These jingly bits of rhyme.

Chekov is caviare to me,
While Stendhal makes me snore;
Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,
And Balzac is a bore.

I have their books, I love their names,
And yet alas! they head,
With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,
My Roster of Unread.

I think it would be very well
If I commit a crime,
And get put in a prison cell
And not allowed to rhyme;
Yet given all these worthy books
According to my need,
I now caress with loving looks,
But never, never read.

Bookshelf Read Poem

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, my taste is queer.

Some of my bards you may disdain.

Shakespeare and Milton are not here;
Shelly and Keats you seek in vain.

Wordsworth, Tennyson, Browning too,
Remarkably are not in view.

Who are they?

Omar first you see,
With Vine and Rose and Nightingale,
Voicing my pet philosphy
Of Wine and Song.

.

.

.

Then Reading Gaol,
Where Fate a gruesome pattern makes,
And dawn-light shudders as it wakes.

The Ancient Mariner is next,
With eerie and terrific text;
The Burns, with pawky human touch -
Poor devil! I have loved him much.

And now a gay quartette behold:
Bret Harte and Eugene Field are here;
And Henly, chanting brave and bold,
And Chesteron, in praise of Beer.

Lastly come valiant Singers three;
To whom this strident Day belongs:
Kipling, to whom I bow the knee,
Masefield, with rugged sailor songs.

.

.

.

And to my lyric troupe I add
With greatful heart - The Shropshire Lad.

Behold my minstrels, just eleven.

For half my life I've loved them well.

And though I have no hope of Heaven,
And more than Highland fear of Hell,
May I be damned if on this shelf
ye find a rhyme I made myself.

Boon Soul Read Poem

Behold! I'm old; my hair is white;
My eighty years are in the offing,
And sitting by the fire to-night
I sip a grog to ease my coughing.

It's true I'm raucous as a rook,
But feeling bibulously "bardy,"
These lines I'm scribbling in a book:
The verse complete of Thomas Hardy.

Although to-day he's read by few,
Him have I loved beyond all measure;
So here to-night I riffle through
His pages with the oldtime pleasure;
And with this book upon my knee,
(To-day so woefully neglected)
I muse and think how soon I'll be
Myself among the Great Rejected.

Yet as these lines with zest I write,
Although the hour for me is tardy,
I think: "Of all the world to-night
'Tis I alone am reading Hardy";
And now to me he seems so nigh
I feel I commune with his spirit,
And as none love him more than I,
Thereby I gain a modest merit.

Oh Brother Thomas, glad I'll be,
Though all the world may pass unheeding,
If some greybeard con over me,
As I to-night your rhymes are reading;
Saying: "Old Bastard, you and I
By sin are knit in mind and body.

.

.

.

"
So ere to hit the hay I hie
Your ghost I'll toast in midnight toddy.

Boxer's Wife Read Poem

She phoned them when the Round was Eight:
'How is my Joe?

' they heard her say.

They answered: 'Gee! He's going great,
Your guy's Okay.

'
She phoned them when the Round was Nine:
'How is my hero in the fray?

'
They yelled: 'He leads; he's doing fine,—
Joe's sure Okay.

'
She phoned them when the Round was Ten:
'Is it still Okay with my Joe?

'
Reluctant came the answer then,—
No Ma'am, KAYO.

Brave Coward Read Poem

Elisabeth imagines I've
A yellow streak
She deems I have no dash and drive,
Jest dogoned weak.

'A man should be a man,' says Liz
'Trade blow for blow.

'
Poor kid! What my position is
She jest don't know.

She jest don't know my old man killed,
Yea, slew and slew.

As steamy blood he sweetly spilled,
So could I too.

And though no wrath of heart I show
When I see red,
I fear no S.

O.

B.

but oh
Myself I dread.

Though fellers reckon me a dope
And trigger-shy,
'Tain't nice to dangle on a rope,
And like Pa die.

So as I belly to the bar
Meek is my breath .

.

.

No guts! —Don't needle me too far,
Elizabeth!

Brave New World Read Poem

One spoke: "Come, let us gaily go
With laughter, love and lust,
Since in a century or so
We'll all be boneyard dust.

When unborn shadows hold the screen,
(Our betters, I'll allow)
'Twill be as if we'd never been,
A hundred years from now.

When we have played life's lively game
Right royally we'll rot,
And not a soul will care a damn
The why or how we fought;
To grub for gold or grab for fame
Or raise a holy row,
It will be all the bloody same
A hundred years from now.

"
Said I: "Look! I have built a tower
Upon you lonely hill,
Designed to be a daughter's dower,
Yet when my heart is still,
The stone I set with horny hand
And salty sweat of brow,
A record of my strength will sand
A hundred years from now.

"There's nothing lost and nothing vain
In all this world so wide;
The ocean hoards each drop of rain
To swell its sweeping tide;
The desert seeks each grain of sand
It's empire to endow,
And we a bright brave world have planned
A hundred years from now.

And all we are and all we do
Will bring that world to be;
Our strain and pain let us not rue,
Though other eyes shall see;
For other hearts will bravely beat
And lips will sing of how
We strove to make life sane and sweet
A hundred years from now.

Breakfast Read Poem

Of all the meals that glad my day
My morning one's the best;
Purveyed me on a silver tray,
Immaculately dressed.

I rouse me when the dawn is bright;
I leap into the sea,
Returning with a rare delight
To honey, toast and tea.

My appetite was razor edged
When I was in my prime;
To eggs and bacon I was pledged .

.

.

Alas! the March of Time;
For now a genial old gent
With journal on my knee,
I sip and take with vast content
My honey, toast and tea.

So set me up for my delight
The harvest of the bee;
Brown, crispy toast with butter bright,
Ceylon - two cups or three.

Let others lunch or dinner praise,
But I regale with glee,
As I regard with grateful gaze
Just honey, toast and tea.

Breath Is Enough Read Poem

I draw sweet air
Deeply and long,
As pure as prayer,
As sweet as song.

Where lilies glow
And roses wreath,
Heart-joy I know
Is just to breathe.

Aye, so I think
By shore or sea,
As deep I drink
Of purity.

This brave machine,
Bare to the buff,
I keep ice-clean,
Breath is enough.

From mountain stream
To covert cool
The world, I deem,
Is wonderful;
The great, the small,
The smooth, the rough,
I love it all,—
Breath is enough.

Breton Wife Read Poem

A Wintertide we had been wed
When Jan went off to sea;
And now the laurel rose is red
And I wait on the quay.

His berthing boat I watch with dread,
For where, oh where is he?

"Weep not, brave lass," the Skipper said;
"Return to you he will;
In hospital he lies abed
In Rio in Brazil;
But though I know he is not dead,
I do not know his ill.

"
The Seaman's Hospital I wrote,
And soon there came reply.

The nurse's very words I quote:
"Your husband will not die;
But you must wait a weary boat -
I cannot tell you why.

"
The months of sun went snailing by.

I wrote by every mail,
Yet ever came the same reply:
"Your patience must not fail.

But though your good lad will not die,
We cannot tell his ail.

"
Ten months have gone - he's back again,
But aged by years a score,
And tells me with a look of pain
He'll never voyage more;
And at the tide, with longing vain,
He stares from out the door.

And in his sleep he turns from me
And moans with bitter blame
Of Spanish jades beyond the sea
Who wrought him evil shame,
So ever in him bleak will be
The Ill That Has No Name.

Brother Jim Read Poem

My brother Jim's a millionaire,
while I have scarce a penny;
His face is creased with lines of care,
While my mug hasn't any.

With inwardness his eyes are dim,
While mine laugh out in glee,
And though I ought to envy him,
I think he envies me.

He has a chateau, I a shack,
And humble I should be
To see his stately Cadillac
Beside my jalopy.

With chain of gold his belly's girt,
His beard is barber trim;
Yet bristle-chinned with ragged shirt,
I do not envy Jim.

My brother is a man of weight;
For every civic plum
He grabs within one pie of state,
While I am just a bum.

Last Winter he was near to croak
With gastric ulcers grim.

.

.

.

And no! although I'm stony broke
I will not envy Jim
He gets the work, I get the fun;
He has no tie for play;
Whereas with paddle, rod and gun
My life's a holiday.

As over crabbed script he pores
I can the sky's blue rim.

.

.

.

Oh boy! While I have God's outdoors
I'll never envy Jim.

Canine Conversation Read Poem

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 round you flutter, flirt and fuss;
Folks think you modest, mild and meek .

.

.

But would they - if Fi-Fi could speak?

If dogs could tell, Ah Madame Rose,
What secrets could they not disclose!
If your pet poodle Angeline
Could hint at half of what she's seen,
Your reputation would, I fear,
As absolutely disappear
As would a snowball dropped in hell .

.

.

If Angeline could only tell.

If dogs could speak, how dangerous
It would be for a lot of us!
At what they see and what they hear
They wink an eye and wag an ear.

How fortunate for old and young
The darlings have a silent tongue!
We love them, but it's just as well
For all of us that - dogs can't tell.

Captivity Read Poem

O meadow lark, so wild and free,
It cannot be, it cannot be,
That men to merchandise your spell
Do close you in a wicker hell!
O hedgerow thrush so mad with glee,
it cannot be, it cannot be,
They rape you from your hawthorn foam
To make a cell of steel your home!
O blackbird in the orchard tree,
It cannot be, it cannot be,
That devils in a narrow cage
Would prison your melodic rage!
O you who live for liberty,
Can you believe that it can be,
That we of freedom's faith destroy
In dungeons, innocence and joy?

O decent folk who read this page,
If you should own a bird in cage,
Throw wide the door, - God gave it wings:
Then hear how in your heart it sings!

Cardiac Read Poem

A mattock high he swung;
I watched him at his toil;
With never gulp of lung
He gashed the ruddy soil.

Thought I, I'd give my wealth
To have his health.

With fortune I would part,
And privilege resign,
Could I but have his heart,
And he have mine .

.

.

Then suddenly I knew
My wish was true.

Like him I swung: with awe
He marked my steady breath.

Then suddenly I saw
That he was sick to death.

My heart in him was frail
And seemed to fail.

Said I: 'Take back your heart
And I will bear with mine.

Poor lad! All wealth apart
'Tis murder I design,
Not all a Nabob's wealth
Is worth your health.

'

Careers Read Poem

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 bring to her.

She answered: 'I would like to be
A concert singer.

'
I asked the second, for my mind
Was set on nuptial noosing,
Unto what lot was she inclined
If she could have the choosing?

Said she: 'For woman I can see
No fortune finer,
Than to go in for Art and be
A dress designer.

'
With heavy heart I asked the third
What was her life ambition;
A maiden she in look and word
Of modest disposition.

'Alas, I dearly wish,' said she,
'My aims were deeper:
My highest hope it is to be
A good house-keeper.

'
Which did I choose?

Look at my home,—
The answer's there;
As neat and sweet as honeycomb,
With children fair.

And so it humbly seems to me,
In common life,
A woman's glory is to be
A good house-wife.

Carry On Read Poem

It's easy to fight when everything's right,
And you're mad with the thrill and the glory;
It's easy to cheer when victory's near,
And wallow in fields that are gory.

It's a different song when everything's wrong,
When you're feeling infernally mortal;
When it's ten against one, and hope there is none,
Buck up, little soldier, and chortle:
Carry on! Carry on!
There isn't much punch in your blow.

You're glaring and staring and hitting out blind;
You're muddy and bloody, but never you mind.

Carry on! Carry on!
You haven't the ghost of a show.

It's looking like death, but while you've a breath,
Carry on, my son! Carry on!
And so in the strife of the battle of life
It's easy to fight when you're winning;
It's easy to slave, and starve and be brave,
When the dawn of success is beginning.

But the man who can meet despair and defeat
With a cheer, there's the man of God's choosing;
The man who can fight to Heaven's own height
Is the man who can fight when he's losing.

Carry on! Carry on!
Things never were looming so black.

But show that you haven't a cowardly streak,
And though you're unlucky you never are weak.

Carry on! Carry on!
Brace up for another attack.

It's looking like hell, but — you never can tell:
Carry on, old man! Carry on!
There are some who drift out in the deserts of doubt,
And some who in brutishness wallow;
There are others, I know, who in piety go
Because of a Heaven to follow.

But to labour with zest, and to give of your best,
For the sweetness and joy of the giving;
To help folks along with a hand and a song;
Why, there's the real sunshine of living.

Carry on! Carry on!
Fight the good fight and true;
Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer;
There's big work to do, and that's why you are here.

Carry on! Carry on!
Let the world be the better for you;
And at last when you die, let this be your cry:
Carry on, my soul! Carry on!
From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

97-99.

Causation Read Poem

Said darling daughter unto me:
"oh Dad, how funny it would be
If you had gone to Mexico
A score or so of years ago.

Had not some whimsey changed your plan
I might have been a Mexican.

With lissome form and raven hair,
Instead of being fat and fair.

"Or if you'd sailed the Southern Seas
And mated with a Japanese
I might have been a squatty girl
With never golden locks to curl,
Who flirted with a painted fan,
And tinkled on a samisan,
And maybe slept upon a mat -
I'm very glad I don't do that.

"When I consider the romance
Of all your youth of change and chance
I might, I fancy, just as well
Have bloomed a bold Tahitian belle,
Or have been born .

.

.

but there - ah no!
I draw the line - and Esquimeaux.

It scares me stiff to think of what
I might have been - thank God! I'm not.

"
Said I: "my dear, don't be absurd,
Since everything that has occurred,
Through seeming fickle in your eyes,
Could not a jot be otherwise.

For in this casual cosmic biz
The world can be but what it is;
And nobody can dare deny
Part of this world is you and I.

Or call it fate or destiny
No other issue could there be.

Though half the world I've wandered through
Cause and effect have linked us two.

Aye, all the aeons of the past
Conspired to bring us here at last,
And all I ever chanced to do
Inevitably led to you.

To you, to make you what you are,
A maiden in a Morris car,
IN Harris tweeds, an airedale too,
But Anglo-Saxon through and through.

And all the good and ill I've done
In every land beneath the sun
Magnificently led to this -
A country cottage and - your kiss.

"

Celebates Read Poem

They must not wed the Doctor said,
For they were far from strong,
And children of their marriage bed
Might not live overlong.

And yet each eve I saw them pass
With rapt and eager air,
As fit a seeming lad and lass
As ought to pair.

For twenty years I went away
And scoured the China Sea,
Then homing came and found that they
Were still sweet company.

The Doctor and the Priest had banned
Three times their wedding ties,
Yet they were walking hand in hand,
Love in their eyes.

And then I went away again
For years another score,
And sailored all the Spanish Main
Ere I returned once more;
And now I see them pass my gate,
So slow and stooped and grey,
And when I asked them: "Why not mate?

"
"We do," they say.

"No priest and village bells we need,
No Doctor to approve;
The Lord has wedded us indeed
With everlasting love.

How wonderful to understand
The working of His will!
Lo! We are walking hand in hand,
And sweethearts still.

"

Charity Read Poem

The Princess was of ancient line,
Of royal race was she;
Like cameo her face was fine,
With sad serentiy:
Yet bent she toiled with dimming eye,
Her rice and milk to buy.

With lacework that for pity plead,
So out of date it seemed,
She sought to make her daily bread,
As of her past she dreamed:
And though sometimes I heard her sigh,
I never knew her cry.

Her patient heart was full of hope,
For health she gave God thanks,
Till one day in an envelope
I sealed a thousand francs,
And 'neath her door for her to see
I slipped it secretly.

'Twas long after, I came to know
My gift she never spent,
But gave to one of greater woe,
And wearily she went .

.

.

To be of charity a part,—
That stabbed her to the heart.

For one dark day we found her dead:
Oh she was sweet to see!
Exalted in her garret bed
With face like ivory .

.

.

Aye, though from lack of food she died,
Unflawed she flagged her pride.

Cheer Read Poem

It's a mighty good world, so it is, dear lass,
When even the worst is said.

There's a smile and a tear, a sigh and a cheer,
But better be living than dead;
A joy and a pain, a loss and a gain;
There's honey and may be some gall:
Yet still I declare, foul weather or fair,
It's a mighty good world after all.

For look, lass! at night when I break from the fight,
My Kingdom's awaiting for me;
There's comfort and rest, and the warmth of your breast,
And little ones climbing my knee.

There's fire-light and song — Oh, the world may be wrong!
Its empires may topple and fall:
My home is my care — if gladness be there,
It's a mighty good world after all.

O heart of pure gold! I have made you a fold,
It's sheltered, sun-fondled and warm.

O little ones, rest! I have fashioned a nest;
Sleep on! you are safe from the storm.

For there's no foe like fear, and there's no friend like cheer,
And sunshine will flash at our call;
So crown Love as King, and let us all sing —
"It's a mighty good world after all.

"

Child Lover Read Poem

Drunk or sober Uncle Jim
Played the boy;
Never glum or sour or grim,
Oozin' joy.

Most folks thought he was no good,
Blamin' him;
But where kiddies were, you could
Bank on Jim.

Sure he allus hated work,
Lovin' play.

"Jest a good fer nuthin' jerk,"
Lots would say.

Yet how the children fell for him,
Whooped with glee:
Guys so popular as Jim
Seldom be.

How old songs, sweet as a bell,
He would sing!
What grand stories he would tell,
Gesturin'!
Elders reckoned him a sot,
Sighin' sad;
But with tiny toddlers what
Sport he had!
Might have had a brood, they said,
Of his own;
Lost his wife in childbirth bed,
Left him lone .

.

.

Well, now he is cold an' still,
Here's to him:
Kids an' mothers always will
Bless old Jim.

Cinderella Read Poem

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 papers there.

Cinderella once was sweet,
Fine and lily fair,
Silver slippers on her feet,
Ribands in her hair;
Solid men besought her hand,
Tart was she as quince,
Living in a fairy land,
Waiting for a Prince.

Days went by and years went by,
Wistful wan was she;
Heedless of a mother's sigh,
Of a lover's plea;
On her lips a carol gay,
In her heart a dream -
Soon the Prince would come her way,
Gallant and agleam.

Then at last she learned the truth,
How her hope was vain;
Gone her beauty, gone her youth,
Leaving want and pain.

See! she's waiting all alone;
Hark! you hear her cry
Papers by the cold curb-stone,
Begging you to buy.

Winter winds are waxing chill,
Clouds rack overhead;
Cinderella will be ill,
Bye and bye be dead.

Yet she kept her vision clear,
To Romance was true,
Holding him forever dear
Whom she never knew.

Cinderellas of to-day
Take no chance of loss;
When a good guy comes your way,
Nail him to the cross.

Let some ordinary cuss
Your coy heart convince;
Never miss the nuptial bus
Waiting for a Prince.

Clancy of the Mounted Police Read Poem

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 —
In the little Crimson Manual there's no such word as "fail" —
Shall follow on though heavens fall, or hell's top-turrets freeze,
Half round the world, if need there be, on bleeding hands and knees.

It's duty, duty, first and last, the Crimson Manual saith;
The Scarlet Rider makes reply: "It's duty — to the death.

"
And so they sweep the solitudes, free men from all the earth;
And so they sentinel the woods, the wilds that know their worth;
And so they scour the startled plains and mock at hurt and pain,
And read their Crimson Manual, and find their duty plain.

Knights of the lists of unrenown, born of the frontier's need,
Disdainful of the spoken word, exultant in the deed;
Unconscious heroes of the waste, proud players of the game,
Props of the power behind the throne, upholders of the name:
For thus the Great White Chief hath said, "In all my lands be peace",
And to maintain his word he gave his West the Scarlet Police.

Livid-lipped was the valley, still as the grave of God;
Misty shadows of mountain thinned into mists of cloud;
Corpselike and stark was the land, with a quiet that crushed and awed,
And the stars of the weird sub-arctic glimmered over its shroud.

Deep in the trench of the valley two men stationed the Post,
Seymour and Clancy the reckless, fresh from the long patrol;
Seymour, the sergeant, and Clancy — Clancy who made his boast
He could cinch like a bronco the Northland, and cling to the prongs of the Pole.

Two lone men on detachment, standing for law on the trail;
Undismayed in the vastness, wise with the wisdom of old —
Out of the night hailed a half-breed telling a pitiful tale,
"White man starving and crazy on the banks of the Nordenscold.

"
Up sprang the red-haired Clancy, lean and eager of eye;
Loaded the long toboggan, strapped each dog at its post;
Whirled his lash at the leader; then, with a whoop and a cry,
Into the Great White Silence faded away like a ghost.

The clouds were a misty shadow, the hills were a shadowy mist;
Sunless, voiceless and pulseless, the day was a dream of woe;
Through the ice-rifts the river smoked and bubbled and hissed;
Behind was a trail fresh broken, in front the untrodden snow.

Ahead of the dogs ploughed Clancy, haloed by steaming breath;
Through peril of open water, through ache of insensate cold;
Up rivers wantonly winding in a land affianced to death,
Till he came to a cowering cabin on the banks of the Nordenscold.

Then Clancy loosed his revolver, and he strode through the open door;
And there was the man he sought for, crouching beside the fire;
The hair of his beard was singeing, the frost on his back was hoar,
And ever he crooned and chanted as if he never would tire: —
"I panned and I panned in the shiny sand, and I sniped on the river bar;
But I know, I know, that it's down below that the golden treasures are;
So I'll wait and wait till the floods abate, and I'll sink a shaft once more,
And I'd like to bet that I'll go home yet with a brass band playing before.

"
He was nigh as thin as a sliver, and he whined like a Moose-hide cur;
So Clancy clothed him and nursed him as a mother nurses a child;
Lifted him on the toboggan, wrapped him in robes of fur,
Then with the dogs sore straining started to face the Wild.

Said the Wild, "I will crush this Clancy, so fearless and insolent;
For him will I loose my fury, and blind and buffet and beat;
Pile up my snows to stay him; then when his strength is spent,
Leap on him from my ambush and crush him under my feet.

"Him will I ring with my silence, compass him with my cold;
Closer and closer clutch him unto mine icy breast;
Buffet him with my blizzards, deep in my snows enfold,
Claiming his life as my tribute, giving my wolves the rest.

"
Clancy crawled through the vastness; o'er him the hate of the Wild;
Full on his face fell the blizzard; cheering his huskies he ran;
Fighting, fierce-hearted and tireless, snows that drifted and piled,
With ever and ever behind him singing the crazy man.

"Sing hey, sing ho, for the ice and snow,
And a heart that's ever merry;
Let us trim and square with a lover's care
(For why should a man be sorry?

)
A grave deep, deep, with the moon a-peep,
A grave in the frozen mould.

Sing hey, sing ho, for the winds that blow,
And a grave deep down in the ice and snow,
A grave in the land of gold.

"
Day after day of darkness, the whirl of the seething snows;
Day after day of blindness, the swoop of the stinging blast;
On through a blur of fury the swing of staggering blows;
On through a world of turmoil, empty, inane and vast.

Night with its writhing storm-whirl, night despairingly black;
Night with its hours of terror, numb and endlessly long;
Night with its weary waiting, fighting the shadows back,
And ever the crouching madman singing his crazy song.

Cold with its creeping terror, cold with its sudden clinch;
Cold so utter you wonder if 'twill ever again be warm;
Clancy grinned as he shuddered, "Surely it isn't a cinch
Being wet-nurse to a looney in the teeth of an arctic storm.

"
The blizzard passed and the dawn broke, knife-edged and crystal clear;
The sky was a blue-domed iceberg, sunshine outlawed away;
Ever by snowslide and ice-rip haunted and hovered the Fear;
Ever the Wild malignant poised and panted to slay.

The lead-dog freezes in harness — cut him out of the team!
The lung of the wheel-dog's bleeding — shoot him and let him lie!
On and on with the others — lash them until they scream!
"Pull for your lives, you devils! On! To halt is to die.

"
There in the frozen vastness Clancy fought with his foes;
The ache of the stiffened fingers, the cut of the snowshoe thong;
Cheeks black-raw through the hood-flap, eyes that tingled and closed,
And ever to urge and cheer him quavered the madman's song.

Colder it grew and colder, till the last heat left the earth,
And there in the great stark stillness the bale fires glinted and gleamed,
And the Wild all around exulted and shook with a devilish mirth,
And life was far and forgotten, the ghost of a joy once dreamed.

Death! And one who defied it, a man of the Mounted Police;
Fought it there to a standstill long after hope was gone;
Grinned through his bitter anguish, fought without let or cease,
Suffering, straining, striving, stumbling, struggling on.

Till the dogs lay down in their traces, and rose and staggered and fell;
Till the eyes of him dimmed with shadows, and the trail was so hard to see;
Till the Wild howled out triumphant, and the world was a frozen hell —
Then said Constable Clancy: "I guess that it's up to me.

"
Far down the trail they saw him, and his hands they were blanched like bone;
His face was a blackened horror, from his eyelids the salt rheum ran;
His feet he was lifting strangely, as if they were made of stone,
But safe in his arms and sleeping he carried the crazy man.

So Clancy got into Barracks, and the boys made rather a scene;
And the O.

C.

called him a hero, and was nice as a man could be;
But Clancy gazed down his trousers at the place where his toes had been,
And then he howled like a husky, and sang in a shaky key:
"When I go back to the old love that's true to the finger-tips,
I'll say: 'Here's bushels of gold, love,' and I'll kiss my girl on the lips;
'It's yours to have and to hold, love.

' It's the proud, proud boy I'll be,
When I go back to the old love that's waited so long for me.

"

Class-Mates Read Poem

Bob Briggs went in for Government,
And helps to run the State;
Some day they say he'll represent
His party in debate:
But with punk politics his job,
I do not envy Bob.

Jim Jones went in for writing books,
Best sellers were his aim;
He's ten years younger than he looks,
And licks the heels of Fame:
Though shop-girls make a fuss of him
I do not envy Jim.

Joe Giles went in for grabbing gold,
And grovelled in the dirt;
He, too, looks prematurely old,
His gastric ulcers hurt:
Although he has a heap of dough.

I do not envy Joe.

I've neither fame nor power nor wealth,
I fish and hunt for food;
But I have heaps of rugged health,
And life seems mighty good.

So when my class-mates come to spend
A week-end in my shack,
With lake and wood at journey's end
—They envy Jack.

Clemenceau Read Poem

His frown brought terror to his foes,
But now in twilight of his days
The pure perfection of a rose
Can kindle rapture in his gaze.

Where once he swung the sword of wrath
And peoples trembled at his word,
With hoe he trims a pansied path
And listens to a bird.

His large of life was lived with noise,
With war and strife and crash of kings:
But now he hungers for the joys
Of peace, and hush of homely things.

His old dog nuzzles by his knee,
And seems to say: 'Oh Master dear,
Please do not ever part from me!
We are so happy here.

'
His ancient maid, as sky draws dim,
Calls to him that the soup grows cold.

She tyrannises over him
Who once held armies in his hold.

With slippers, old skull-cap and shawl
He dreams and dozes by the fire,
Sighing: 'Behold the end of all,
Sweet rest my sole desire.

'My task is done, my pen is still;
My Book is there for all to see,—
The final triumph of my will,
Ineffably, my victory.

A Tiger once, but now a lamb,
With frailing hand my gate I close.

How hushed my heart! My life how calm!
—Its crown a Rose.

'

Cocotte Read Poem

When a girl's sixteen, and as poor as she's pretty,
And she hasn't a friend and she hasn't a home,
Heigh-ho! She's as safe in Paris city
As a lamb night-strayed where the wild wolves roam;
And that was I; oh, it's seven years now
(Some water's run down the Seine since then),
And I've almost forgotten the pangs and the tears now,
And I've almost taken the measure of men.

Oh, I found me a lover who loved me only,
Artist and poet, and almost a boy.

And my heart was bruised, and my life was lonely,
And him I adored with a wonderful joy.

If he'd come to me with his pockets empty,
How we'd have laughed in a garret gay!
But he was rich, and in radiant plenty
We lived in a villa at Viroflay.

Then came the War, and of bliss bereft me;
Then came the call, and he went away;
All that he had in the world he left me,
With the rose-wreathed villa at Viroflay.

Then came the news and the tragic story:
My hero, my splendid lover was dead,
Sword in hand on the field of glory,
And he died with my name on his lips, they said.

So here am I in my widow's mourning,
The weeds I've really no right to wear;
And women fix me with eyes of scorning,
Call me "cocotte", but I do not care.

And men look at me with eyes that borrow
The brightness of love, but I turn away;
Alone, say I, I will live with Sorrow,
In my little villa at Viroflay.

And lo! I'm living alone with
Pity,
And they say that pity from love's not far;
Let me tell you all: last week in the city
I took the metro at Saint Lazare;
And the carriage was crowded to overflowing,
And when there entered at Chateaudun
Two wounded
poilus
with medals showing,
I eagerly gave my seat to one.

You should have seen them: they'd slipped death's clutches,
But sadder a sight you will rarely find;
One had a leg off and walked on crutches,
The other, a bit of a boy, was blind.

And they both sat down, and the lad was trying
To grope his way as a blind man tries;
And half of the women around were crying,
And some of the men had tears in their eyes.

How he stirred me, this blind boy, clinging
Just like a child to his crippled chum.

But I did not cry.

Oh no; a singing
Came to my heart for a year so dumb,
Then I knew that at three-and-twenty
There is wonderful work to be done,
Comfort and kindness and joy in plenty,
Peace and light and love to be won.

Oh, thought I, could mine eyes be given
To one who will live in the dark alway!
To love and to serve — 'twould make life Heaven
Here in my villa at Viroflay.

So I left my
poilus:
and now you wonder
Why to-day I am so elate.

.

.

.

Look! In the glory of sunshine yonder
They're bringing my blind boy in at the gate.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

92-94.

Comfort Read Poem

Say! You've struck a heap of trouble —
Bust in business, lost your wife;
No one cares a cent about you,
You don't care a cent for life;
Hard luck has of hope bereft you,
Health is failing, wish you'd die —
Why, you've still the sunshine left you
And the big, blue sky.

Sky so blue it makes you wonder
If it's heaven shining through;
Earth so smiling 'way out yonder,
Sun so bright it dazzles you;
Birds a-singing, flowers a-flinging
All their fragrance on the breeze;
Dancing shadows, green, still meadows —
Don't you mope, you've still got these.

These, and none can take them from you;
These, and none can weigh their worth.

What! you're tired and broke and beaten?

—
Why, you're rich — you've got the earth!
Yes, if you're a tramp in tatters,
While the blue sky bends above
You've got nearly all that matters —
You've got God, and God is love.

Compassion Read Poem

A beggar in the street I saw,
Who held a hand like withered claw,
As cold as clay;
But as I had no silver groat
To give, I buttoned up my coat
And turned away.

And then I watched a working wife
Who bore the bitter load of life
With lagging limb;
A penny from her purse she took,
And with sweet pity in her look
Gave it to him.

Anon I spied a shabby dame
Who fed six sparrows as they came
In famished flight;
She was so poor and frail and old,
Yet crumbs of her last crust she doled
With pure delight.

Then sudden in my heart was born
For my sleek self a savage scorn,—
Urge to atone;
So when a starving cur I saw
I bandaged up its bleeding paw
And bought a bone.

For God knows it is good to give;
We may not have so long to live,
So if we can,
Let's do each day a kindly deed,
And stretch a hand to those in need,
Bird, beast or man.

Compensation Pete Read Poem

He used to say: There ain't a doubt
Misfortune is a bitter pill,
But if you only pry it out
You'll find there's good in every ill.

There's comfort in the worst of woe,
There's consolation in defeat .

.

.

Oh what a solace-seeker! So
We called him Compensation Pete.

He lost his wealth - but was he pipped?

Why no - "That's fine," he used to say.

"I've got the government plumb gypped -
No more damn income tax to pay.

From cares of property set free,
And with no pesky social ties,
Why, even poverty may be
A benediction in disguise.

"
He lost his health: "Okay," he said;
"I'm getting on, may be the best.

I've always loved to lie abed,
And now I have the right to rest.

Such heaps o' things I want to do,
I'll have no time to fret or brood.

I'll read the dam ol' Bible through:
Guess it'll do me plenty good.

"
He has that line of sunny shine
That makes a blessing of a curse,
And he would say: "Don't let's repine,
Though things are bad they might be worse.

"
And so he cherished to the end
Philosophy so sane and sweet
That everybody was his friend .

.

.

With optimism hard to beat -
God bless old Compensation Pete.

Comrades Read Poem

Three Holies sat in sacred place
And quaffed celestial wine,
As they discussed the human race
With dignity divine.

Said they: 'Although in doctrine we
May differ more or less,
In spirit stoutly we agree
Religion's a success.

'
Said One: 'I praise the pride of war,
The Faith that mocks at fear;
Desire of death in battle for
It bringeth Heaven near.

'
The Second said: ''Tis Peace I preach,
And hate of human strife;
The sufferance of pain I teach,
The sanctity of life.

'
Then said the Third: 'Love I proclaim
The goal of human good .

.

.

Yet are we not all three the same
In holy brotherhood?

'
And so they went forth hand in hand,
Wending a starry way,—
Mohamet, gentle Buddha and
He of Gethsemenè.

Confetti In The Wind Read Poem

He wrote a letter in his mind
To answer one a maid had sent;
He sought the fitting word to find,
As on by hill and rill he went.

By bluebell wood and hawthorn lane,
The cadence sweet and silken phrase
He incubated in his brain
For days and days.

He wrote his letter on a page
Of paper with a satin grain;
It did not ring, so in a rage
He tore it up and tried again.

Time after time he drafted it;
He polished it all through the night;
He tuned and pruned till bit by bit
He got it right.

He took his letter to the post,
Yet long he held it in his hand.

Strangely his mood had veered, almost
Reversed,—he could not understand.

The girl was vague, the words were vain;
April romance had come to grief .

.

.

He tore his letter up again,—
Oh blest relief!

Conqueror Read Poem

Though I defy the howling horde
As bloody-browed I smite,
Back to the wall with shattered sword
When darkly dooms the night;
Though hoarse they cheer as I go down
Before their bitter odds,
'Tis I who win the victor's crown,
The guerdon of the gods.

For all who fall in fearless fight
Alight a deathless flame,
That glorifies the godless night
And fills the foe with shame.

'Tis they who triumph heaven-high,
And so in hell's despite,
Be mine the dauntless will to die
In battle for the right.

The rant and cant of futile folk
Break brittle in my ears;
Let me cast off the cursed yoke
And fall upon the spears.

Aye, though they mock my broken blade,
And stamp and spit on me,
Mine is the Shining Accolade,
The Star of Victory.

Contentment Read Poem

Bed and bread are all I need
In my happy day;
Love of Nature is my creed,
Unto her I pray;
Sun and sky my spirit feed
On my happy way.

To no man I bow the head,
None may master me;
I will eat my crust of bread
Lauding liberty;
And upon my truckle bed
Glory to be free.

You who grab for sordid gold,
You who fight for fame,
Shiny dross your fingers hold,
Empty is your aim.

—Soon we fatten graveyard mould,
Rich and poor the same.

So from world of want and woe
I retreat with dread;
Tuned to Nature glad I go
With my bite of bread:
Praising God I lay me low
On my truckle bed.

Contrast Read Poem

"Carry your suitcase, Sir?

" he said.

I turned away to hide a grin,
For he was shorter by a head
Than I and pitiably thin.

I could have made a pair of him,
So with my load I stoutly legged;
But his tenacity was grim:
"Please let me help you, sir," he begged.

I could not shake the fellow off,
So let him shoulder my valise;
He tottered with a racking cough
That did not give him any peace.

He lagged so limply in my wake
I made him put the burden down,
Saying: "A taxi I will take,"
And grimly gave him half-a-crown.

Poor devil! I am sure he had
Not eaten anything that day;
His eyes so hungrily were glad,
Although his lips were ashen grey.

He vanished in the callous crowd,
Then when he was no more around,
I lugged my bag and thought aloud:
"I wish I'd given him a pound.

"
And strangely I felt sore ashamed,
As if somehow I had lost face;
And not only myself I blamed
But all the blasted human race;
And all this life of battle where
The poor are beaten to their knees,
And while the weak the burdens bear,
Fat fools like me can stroll at ease.

Convicts Love Canaries Read Poem

Dick's dead!   It was the Polack guard
Put powdered glass into his cage
When I was tramping round the yard,—
I could have killed him in my rage.

I slugged him with that wrench I stole:
That's why I'm rotting in the Hole.

Dick's dead!   Sure I wish I was too.

His honey breast, his lacy claws
I kissed and cried, for well I knew
They murdered him.

I cursed because
He was my only chum on earth .

.

.

Oh how he cheered me with his mirth!
Dick's dead!   I know he cared for me.

Being I'm Irish I love song,
And there was heaven in his glee;
I'd bless his heart the dour day long.

I'd let him flutter round the cell;
He'd light upon my hand .

.

.

Oh hell!
Dick's dead!   They've thrown me in the Hole.

To break our spirits how they try!
My bed a plank, blind as a mole,
Sure I'll be nuts before I die .

.

.

Here in the night, dark as the Pit
I'm seeing sunny wings aflit.

Here in the silence, hark his song!
—Poor Dick! Oh Christ, how long, how long!

Courage Read Poem

Today I opened wide my eyes,
And stared with wonder and surprise,
To see beneath November skies
An apple blossom peer;
Upon a branch as bleak as night
It gleamed exultant on my sight,
A fairy beacon burning bright
Of hope and cheer.

"Alas!" said I, "poor foolish thing,
Have you mistaken this for Spring?

Behold, the thrush has taken wing,
And Winter's near.

"
Serene it seemed to lift its head:
"The Winter's wrath I do not dread,
Because I am," it proudly said,
"A Pioneer.

"Some apple blossom must be first,
With beauty's urgency to burst
Into a world for joy athirst,
And so I dare;
And I shall see what none shall see -
December skies gloom over me,
And mock them with my April glee,
And fearless fare.

"And I shall hear what none shall hear -
The hardy robin piping clear,
The Storm King gallop dark and drear
Across the sky;
And I shall know what none shall know -
The silent kisses of the snow,
The Christmas candles' silver glow,
Before I die.

"Then from your frost-gemmed window pane
One morning you will look in vain,
My smile of delicate disdain
No more to see;
But though I pass before my time,
And perish in the grale and grime,
Maybe you'll have a little rhyme
To spare for me.

"

Courage 2 Read Poem

Ten little brown chicks scattered and scuffled,
Under the blue-berries hiding in fear;
Mother-grouse cackling, feathers all ruffled,
Dashed to defend them as we drew near.

Heart of a heroine, how I admired her!
Of such devotion great poets have sung;
Homes have been blest by the love that inspired her,
Risking her life for the sake of her young.

Ten little chicks on her valour reliant,
Peered with bright eyes from the bilberry spray;
Fiercely she faced us, dismayed but defiant,
Rushed at us bravely to scare us away.

Then my companion, a crazy young devil
(After, he told me he'd done it for fun)
Pretended to tremble, and raised his arm level,
And ere I could check him he blazed with his gun.

Headless she lay, from her neck the blood spouted,
And dappled her plumage, the poor, pretty thing!
Ten little chicks - oh, I know for I counted,
Came out and they tried to creep under her wing.

Sickened I said: 'Here's an end to my killing;
I swear, nevermore bird or beast will I slay;
Starving I may be, but no more blood-spilling .

.

.

'
That oath I have kept, and I keep it to-day.

Courage 3 Read Poem

In the shadow of the grave
I will be brave;
I'll smile,- I know I will
E'er I be still;
Because I will not smile
So long a while.

But I'll be sad, I fear,
And shed a tear,
For those I love and leave
My loss to grieve:
'Tis just their grief I'll grieve,
Believe, believe.

Not for myself I care
As forth I fare;
But for those left behind
Wae is my mind
Knowing how they will miss
My careless kiss.

Oh I'll be brave when I
Shall come to die;
With courage I will quaff
The Cup and laugh,
Aye, even mock at Death
With failing breath.

It is not those who go
Who suffer woe;
But stricken ones who bide
By cold bedside:
God comfort you who keep
Watch by my sleep!

Cowardice Read Poem

Although you deem it far from nice,
And it perchance may hurt you,
Let me suggest that cowardice
Can masquerade as virtue;
And many a maid remains a maid
Because she is afraid.

And many a man is chaste because
He fears the house of sin;
And though before the door he pause,
He dare not enter in:
So worse than being dissolute
At home he plays the flute.

And many an old cove such as I
Is troubled with the jitters,
And being as he's scared to die
Gives up his gin and bitters;
While dreading stomach ulcers he
Chucks dinner for high tea.

Well, we are wise.

When life begins
To look so dour and dark
'Tis good to jettison our sins
And keep afloat the bark:
But don't let us claim lack of vice
For what's plumb cowardice!

Cows Read Poem

I love to watch my seven cows
In meads of buttercups abrowse,
With guilded knees;
But even more I love to see
Them chew the cud so tranquilly
In twilight ease.

Each is the image of content
From fragrant hours in clover spent,
'Mid leaf and bud;
As up and down without a pause
Mechanically move their jaws
To chew the cud.

Friend, there's a hope for me and you:
Let us resolve to chew and chew
With molars strong;
The man who learns to masticate
With patience may control his fate,
His life prolong.

In salivation is salvation:
So if some silly little nation
Should bathe in blood,
Let's take a lesson from the cow,
And learn in life's long gloaming how
To chew the cud.

Dance-Hall Girls Read Poem

Where are the dames I used to know
In Dawson in the days of yore?

Alas, it's fifty years ago,
And most, I guess, have "gone before.

"
The swinging scythe is swift to mow
Alike the gallant and the fair;
And even I, with gouty toe,
Am glad to fill a rocking chair.

Ah me, I fear each gaysome girl
Who in champagne I used to toast,
or cozen in the waltz's whirl,
Is now alas, a wistful ghost.

Oh where is Touch The Button Nell?

Or Minnie Dale or Rosa Lee,
Or Lorna Doone or Daisy Bell?

And where is Montreal Maree?

Fair ladies of my lusty youth,
I fear that you are dead and gone:
Where's Gertie of the Diamond Tooth,
And where the Mare of Oregon?

What's come of Violet de Vere,
Claw-fingered Kate and Gumboot Sue?

They've crossed the Great Divide, I fear;
Remembered now by just a few.

A few who like myself can see
Through half a century of haze
A heap of goodness in their glee
And kindness in their wanton ways.

Alas, my sourdough days are dead,
Yet let me toss a tankard down .

.

.

Here's hoping that you wed and bred,
And lives of circumspection led,
Gay dance-hall girls o Dawson Town!

Dark Glasses Read Poem

Sweet maiden, why disguise
The beauty of your eyes
With glasses black?

Although I'm well aware
That you are more than fair,
Allure you lack.

For as I stare at you
I ask if brown or blue
Your optics are?

But though I cannot see,
I'm sure that each must be
Bright as a star.

That may be green or grey,
'Tis very hard to say,
Or violet;
The lovelight in their glow
Alas, I'll never know,
To my regret.

In some rhyme-book I've read,
A lady bard has said,
And deemed it true,
Men will not bite the necks
Of sweeties who wear specs,—
Young man, would you?

But though they balk romance,
Columbus took a chance,
And so would I;
Even with orbs unseen
I'd fain make you my queen
And you en-sky.

Alas I see you go,
And I will never know
Your pupils tint;
So o'er a lonely drink
I force myself to think:
Damsel, you squint!

Dark Trinity Read Poem

Said I to Pain: "You would not dare
Do ill to me.

"
Said Pain: "Poor fool! Why should I care
Whom you may be?

To clown and king alike I bring
My meed of bane;
Why should you shirk my chastening?

"
Said Pain.

Said I to Grief: "No tears have I,
Go on your way.

"
Said Grief: "Why should I pass you by,
While others pay?

All men must know the way of woe,
From saint to thief,
And tears were meant to overflow,"
Said Grief.

Said I to Death: "From ail and fret
Grant me relief.

"
Said Death: "I know you are beset
By Pain and Grief.

But my good will you must await
Since human breath
To suffering is consecrate,"
Said Death.

Said I to God: "Pale Sister Grief,
Bleak Brother Pain,
Bedevil me beyond belief,
And Death's unfain .

.

.

"
Said God: "Curse not that blessed Three,
Poor human clod!
Have faith! Believe the One with Me,"
Said God.

Dark Truth Read Poem

Birds have no consciousness of doom:
Yon thrush that serenades me daily
From scented snow of hawthorn bloom
Would not trill out his glee so gaily,
Could he foretell his songful breath
Would sadly soon be stilled in death.

Yon lambs that frolic on the lea
And incarnate the joy of life,
Would scarce disport them could they see
The shadow of the butcher's knife:
Oh Nature, with your loving ruth,
You spare them knowledge of Dark Truth.

To sad humanity alone,
(Creation's triumph ultimate)
The grimness of the grave is known,
The dusty destiny await .

.

.

.

Oh bird and beast, with joy, elance
Effulgently your ingorance!
Oh man, previsioning the hearse,
With fortitude accept your curse!

Days Read Poem

I am a Day .

.

.

My sky is grey,
My wind is wild,
My sea high-piled:
In year of days the first
In misery .

.

.

Oh pity me!
I am a Day
Accurst.

"Sweet Day, not curst but blest:
Behold upon my breast
My baby born
Your early morn.

Safe in my arms alway .

.

.

Oh precious Day,
let tempest be,
You are to me
In heart of mine
Divine.

"
*    *    *    *    *    *    *
I am a Day .

.

.

From dawn's pure ray
Like to a peerless gem
In summer's diadem,
My sky so softly dreams,
my breeze is bland:
My sea is blue and creams
Upon the sand,
Behold! Of days the Queen
I reign serene.

"Oh Day, not blest but curst!
Let savage storm-rack burst,
i will not care .

.

.

For Lo! I bear
My baby's coffin to the height.

Ah! Would it were the foulest night
To match my mood''s
Ingratitude.

I cannot not pray .

.

.

Go your fell way,
Accursed Day!"

Death And Life Read Poem

'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 unchidden .

.

.

Ah! sweeter than the nuptial bed
Are ecstasies forbidden.

And as I held my sweetheart close,
And she was softly sighing,
I 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,
I wish two sweethearts roving by
Will plight their troth above 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.

Death In The Arctic Read Poem

I
I took the clock down from the shelf;
"At eight," said I, "I shoot myself.

"
It lacked a minute of the hour,
And as I waited all a-cower,
A skinful of black, boding pain,
Bits of my life came back again.

.

.

.

"Mother, there's nothing more to eat —
Why don't you go out on the street?

Always you sit and cry and cry;
Here at my play I wonder why.

Mother, when you dress up at night,
Red are your cheeks, your eyes are bright;
Twining a ribband in your hair,
Kissing good-bye you go down-stair.

Then I'm as lonely as can be.

Oh, how I wish you were with me!
Yet when you go out on the street,
Mother, there's always lots to eat.

.

.

.

"
II
For days the igloo has been dark;
But now the rag wick sends a spark
That glitters in the icy air,
And wakes frost sapphires everywhere;
Bright, bitter flames, that adder-like
Dart here and there, yet fear to strike
The gruesome gloom wherein they lie,
My comrades, oh, so keen to die!
And I, the last — well, here I wait
The clock to strike the hour of eight.

.

.

.

"Boy, it is bitter to be hurled
Nameless and naked on the world;
Frozen by night and starved by day,
Curses and kicks and clouts your pay.

But you must fight! Boy, look on me!
Anarch of all earth-misery;
Beggar and tramp and shameless sot;
Emblem of ill, in rags that rot.

Would you be foul and base as I?

Oh, it is better far to die!
Swear to me now you'll fight and fight,
Boy, or I'll kill you here to-night.

.

.

.

"
III
Curse this silence soft and black!
Sting, little light, the shadows back!
Dance, little flame, with freakish glee!
Twinkle with brilliant mockery!
Glitter on ice-robed roof and floor!
Jewel the bear-skin of the door!
Gleam in my beard, illume my breath,
Blanch the clock face that times my death!
But do not pierce that murk so deep,
Where in their sleeping-bags they sleep!
But do not linger where they lie,
They who had all the luck to die! .

.

.

"There is nothing more to say;
Let us part and go our way.

Since it seems we can't agree,
I will go across the sea.

Proud of heart and strong am I;
Not for woman will I sigh;
Hold my head up gay and glad:
You can find another lad.

.

.

.

"
IV
Above the igloo piteous flies
Our frayed flag to the frozen skies.

Oh, would you know how earth can be
A hell — go north of Eighty-three!
Go, scan the snows day after day,
And hope for help, and pray and pray;
Have seal-hide and sea-lice to eat;
Melt water with your body's heat;
Sleep all the fell, black winter through
Beside the dear, dead men you knew.

(The walrus blubber flares and gleams —
O God! how long a minute seems!) .

.

.

"Mary, many a day has passed,
Since that morn of hot-head youth.

Come I back at last, at last,
Crushed with knowing of the truth;
How through bitter, barren years
You loved me, and me alone;
Waited, wearied, wept your tears —
Oh, could I atone, atone,
I would pay a million-fold!
Pay you for the love you gave.

Mary, look down as of old —
I am kneeling by your grave.

" .

.

.

V
Olaf, the Blonde, was first to go;
Bitten his eyes were by the snow;
Sightless and sealed his eyes of blue,
So that he died before I knew.

Here in those poor weak arms he died:
"Wolves will not get you, lad," I lied;
"For I will watch till Spring come round;
Slumber you shall beneath the ground.

"
Oh, how I lied! I scarce can wait:
Strike, little clock, the hour of eight! .

.

.

"Comrade, can you blame me quite?

The horror of the long, long night
Is on me, and I've borne with pain
So long, and hoped for help in vain.

So frail am I, and blind and dazed;
With scurvy sick, with silence crazed.

Beneath the Arctic's heel of hate,
Avid for Death I wait, I wait.

Oh if I falter, fail to fight,
Can you, dear comrade, blame me quite?

" .

.

.

VI
Big Eric gave up months ago.

But seldom do men suffer so.

His feet sloughed off, his fingers died,
His hands shrunk up and mummified.

I had to feed him like a child;
Yet he was valiant, joked and smiled,
Talked of his wife and little one
(Thanks be to God that I have none),
Passed in the night without a moan,
Passed, and I'm here, alone, alone.

.

.

.

"I've got to kill you, Dick.

Your life for mine, you know.

Better to do it quick,
A swift and sudden blow.

See! here's my hand to lick;
A hug before you go —
God! but it makes me sick:
Old dog, I love you so.

Forgive, forgive me, Dick —
A swift and sudden blow.

.

.

.

"
VII
Often I start up in the dark,
Thinking the sound of bells to hear.

Often I wake from sleep: "Oh, hark!
Help .

.

.

it is coming .

.

.

near and near.

"
Blindly I reel toward the door;
There the snow billows bleak and bare;
Blindly I seek my den once more,
Silence and darkness and despair.

Oh, it is all a dreadful dream!
Scurvy and cold and death and dearth;
I will awake to warmth and gleam,
Silvery seas and greening earth.

Life is a dream, its wakening,
Death, gentle shadow of God's wing.

.

.

.

"Tick, little clock, my life away!
Even a second seems a day.

Even a minute seems a year,
Peopled with ghosts, that press and peer
Into my face so charnel white,
Lit by the devilish, dancing light.

Tick, little clock! mete out my fate:
Tortured and tense I wait, I wait.

.

.

.

"
VIII
Oh, I have sworn! the hour is nigh:
When it strikes eight, I die, I die.

Raise up the gun — it stings my brow —
When it strikes eight .

.

.

all ready .

.

.

now —
* * * * *
Down from my hand the weapon dropped;
Wildly I stared.

.

.

.

THE CLOCK HAD STOPPED.

IX
Phantoms and fears and ghosts have gone.

Peace seems to nestle in my brain.

Lo! the clock stopped, I'm living on;
Heart-sick I was, and less than sane.

Yet do I scorn the thing I planned,
Hearing a voice: "O coward, fight!"
Then the clock stopped .

.

.

whose was the hand?

Maybe 'twas God's — ah well, all's right.

Heap on me darkness, fold on fold!
Pain! wrench and rack me! What care I?

Leap on me, hunger, thirst and cold!
I will await my time to die;
Looking to Heaven that shines above;
Looking to God, and love .

.

.

and love.

X
Hark! what is that?

Bells, dogs again!
Is it a dream?

I sob and cry.

See! the door opens, fur-clad men
Rush to my rescue; frail am I;
Feeble and dying, dazed and glad.

There is the pistol where it dropped.

"Boys, it was hard — but I'm not mad.

.

.

.

Look at the clock — it stopped, it stopped.

Carry me out.

The heavens smile.

See! there's an arch of gold above.

Now, let me rest a little while —
Looking to God and Love .

.

.

and Love .

.

.

"

Death Of A Cockroach Read Poem

I opened wide the bath-room door,
And all at once switched on the light,
When moving swift across the floor
I saw a streak of ebon bright:
Then quick, with slipper in my hand,
Before it could escape,—I slammed.

I missed it once, I missed it twice,
But got it ere it gained its lair.

I fear my words were far from nice,
Though d——s with me are rather rare:
Then lo! I thought that dying roach
Regarded me with some reproach.

Said I: "Don't think I grudge you breath;
I hate to spill your greenish gore,
But why did you invite your death
By straying on my bath-room floor?

"
"It is because," said he (or she),
"Adventure is my destiny.

"By evolution I was planned,
And marvellously made as you;
And I am led to understand
The selfsame God conceived us two:
Sire, though the coup de grâce you give,
Even a roach has right to live.

"
Said I: "Of course you have a right,—
But not to blot my bath-room floor.

Yet though with slipper I may smite,
Your doom I morally deplore .

.

.

From cellar gloom to stellar space
Let bards and beetles have their place.

Death's Way Read Poem

Old Man Death's a lousy heel who will not play the game:
Let Graveyard yawn and doom down crash, he'll sneer and turn away.

But when the sky with rapture rings and joy is like a flame,
Then Old Man Death grins evilly, and swings around to slay.

Jack Duval was my chosen pal in the ranks of the Reckless Men.

Thick as thieves they used to say, and it may be that we were:
Where the price of life is a naked knife and dammed are nine in ten,
It doesn't do to be curious in the Legion Etrangère.

So when it came to a hidden shame our mugs were zippered tight;
He never asked me what I'd done, and he would never tell;
But though like men we revelled, when it came to bloody fight
I knew that I could bank on him clear to the hubs of hell.

They still tell how we held the Fort back on the blasted bled,
And blazed from out the shambles till the fagged relief arrived.

"The garrison are slaughtered all," the Captain grimly said:
Piped Jack: "Give us a slug of hooch and say that TWO survived.

"
Then was that time we were lost, canteen and carcase dry,
As on we staggered with the thought: "Here's where our story ends.

"
Ten desert days delirious, when black against the sky,
We saw a line of camels, and the Arabs were our friends.

And last of all, the lurid night we crashed the gates of hell
And stemmed the Teuton torrent as it roared on every side;
And we were left in blood and mud to rot on the Moselle -
Two lacerated Legionaires, whom all supposed had died.

Three times death thought to take us and three times he stayed his hand;
But when we left the Legion what a happy pair we were,
Then reckless roving up and down the sunny land,
I found Jack eating bouillabaisse back on the Cannebière.

"Next week I wed," he gaily said, "the sweetest girl on earth.

I wonder why did Death pass by just then and turn to gloat?

"Oh I'm so happy! You must come and join us in our mirth.

"…
Death struck… Jack gasped and choked and - died:
A fishbone in his throat.

Decadence Read Poem

Before the florid portico
I watched the gamblers come and go,
While by me on a bench there sat
A female in a faded hat;
A shabby, shrinking, crumpled creature,
Of waxy casino-ward with eyes
Of  lost soul seeking paradise.

Then from the Café de la Paix
There shambled forth a waiter fellow,
Clad dingily, down-stooped and grey,
With hollow face, careworn and yellow.

With furtive feet before our seat
He came to a respectful stand,
And bowed, my sorry crone to greet,
Saying: "Princess, I kiss your hand.

"
She gave him such a gracious smile,
And bade him linger by her side;
So there they talked a little while
Of kingly pomp and country pride;
Of Marquis This and Prince von That,
Of Old Vienna, glamour gay.

.

.

.

Then sad he rose and raised his hat:
Saying: "My tables I must lay.

"
"Yea, you must go, dear Count," she said,
"For luncheon tables must be laid.

"
He sighed: from his alpaca jacket
He pressed into her hand a packet,
"Sorry, to-day it's all I'm rich in -
A chicken sandwich from the kitchen.

"
Then bowed and left her after she
Had thanked him with sweet dignity.

She pushed the package out of sight,
Within her bag and closed it tight;
But by and bye I saw her go
To where thick laurel bushes grow,
And there behind that leafy screen,
Thinking herself by all unseen,
That sandwich! How I saw her grab it,
And gulp it like a starving rabbit!
Thinks I: Is all that talk a bluff -
Their dukes and kings and courtly stuff:
The way she ate, why one would say
She hadn't broken fast all day.

Decorations Read Poem

My only medals are the scars
I've won in weary, peacetime wars,
A-fighting for my little brood,
To win them shelter, shoon and food;
But most of all to give them faith
In God's good mercy unto death.

My sons have medals gleaming bright,
Proud trophies won in foreign fight;
But though their crosses bravely shine,
My boys can show no wounds like mine -
Grim gashes dolorously healed,
And inner ailings unrevealed.

Life-lasting has my battle been,
My enemy a fierce machine;
And I am marked by many a blow
In conflict with a tireless foe,
Till warped and bent beneath the beat
Of life's unruth I own defeat.

Yet strip me bare and you will see
A worthy warrior I be;
Although no uniform I've worn,
By wounds of labour I am torn;
Leave their ribbands and their stars .

.

.

Behold! I proudly prize my scars.

Dedication Read Poem

In youth I longed to paint
The loveliness I saw;
And yet by dire constraint
I had to study Law.

But now all that is past,
And I have no regret,
For I am free at last
Law to forget.

To beauty newly born
With brush and tube I play;
And though my daubs you scorn,
I'll learn to paint some day.

When I am eighty old,
Maybe I'll better them,
And you may yet behold
A gem.

Old Renoir used to paint,
Brush strapped to palsied hand;
His fervour of a saint
How I can understand.

My joy is my reward,
And though you gently smile,
Grant me to fumble, Lord,
A little while!

Dedication To Providence Read Poem

I loved to toy with tuneful rhyme,
My fancies into verse to weave;
For as I walked my words would chime
So bell-like I could scarce believe;
My rhymes rippled like a brook,
My stanzas bloomed like blossoms gay:
And that is why I dream this book
A verseman's holiday.

The palm-blades brindle in the blaze
Of sunsets splendouring the sea;
The Gloaming is a lilac haze
That impish stars stab eagerly.

.

.

.

O Land of Song! Oh golden clime!
O happy me, whose work is play!
Please take this tribute of my rhymes:
A verseman's holiday.

Design Read Poem

Said Seeker of the skies to me:
"Behold yon starry host ashine!
When Heaven's harmony you see
How can you doubt control divine,
Law, order and design?

"
"Nay, Sire," said I, "I do not doubt
The spheres in cosmic pattern spin;
But what I try to puzzle out
Is that—if Law and Order win
Where does mere man come in?

"If to the millionth of a hair
Cause and Effect are welded true,
Then there's no leeway anywhere,
And all we do we have to do,
And sun and atom too.

"
O Stars, sing in your harmony!
O Constellations raptly shine!
Flout me because I am not free,
Mock me because no choice is mine!
O Beauty, it so hurts to see!
—O damnable Design!

Detachment Read Poem

As I go forth from fair to mart
With racket ringing,
Who would divine that in my heart
Mad larks are singing.

As I sweet sympathy express,
Lest I should pain them,
The money-mongers cannot guess
How I disdain them.

As I sit at some silly tea
And flirt and flatter
How I abhor society
And female chatter.

As I with wonderment survey
Their peacock dresses,
My mind is wafted far away
To wildernesses.

As I sit in some raucous pub,
Taboo to women,
And treat myself to greasy grub
I feel quite human.

Yet there I dream, despite the din,
Of God's green spaces,
And sweetly dwell the peace within
Of sylvan graces.

And so I wear my daily mask
Of pleasant seeming,
And nobody takes me to task
For distant dreaming;
A happy hypocrite am I
Of ambiance inner,
Who smiling make the same reply
To saint and sinner.

Distracted Druggist Read Poem

'A shilling's worth of quinine, please,'
The customer demanded.

The druggist went down on his knees
And from a cupboard handed
The waiting man a tiny flask:
'Here, Sir, is what you ask.

'
The buyer paid and went away,
The druggist rubbed his glasses,
Then sudden shouted in dismay:
'Of all the silly asses!'
And out into the street he ran
To catch the speeding man.

Cried he: 'That quinine that you bought,
(Since all may errors make),
I find was definitely not,—
I sold you strychnine by mistake.

Two shillings is its price, and so
Another bob you owe.

'

Divine Detachment Read Poem

One day the Great Designer sought
His Clerk of Birth and Death.

Said he: "Two souls are in my thought,
to whom I gave life-breath.

I deemed my work was fitly done,
But yester-eve I saw
That in the finished brain of one
There was a tiny flaw.

"It worried me, and I would know,
Since I am all to blame,
What happened to them down below,
Of honour or of shame;
For if the later did befall,
My sorrow will be grave .

.

.

"
Then numbers astronomical
unto the Clerk he gave.

The Keeper of the Rolls replied:
"Of them I've little trace;
But once he was a Prince of pride
And one of lowly race.

One was a Holy Saint proclaimed;
For one no hell sufficed .

.

.

.

Let's see - the last was Nero named,
The other .

.

.

Jesus Christ.

"

Divine Device Read Poem

Would it be loss or gain
To hapless human-kind
If we could feel no pain
Of body or of mind?

Would it be for our good
If we were calloused so,
And God in mercy should
End all our woe?

I wonder and I doubt:
It is my bright belief
We should be poor without
The gift of grief.

For suffering may be
A blessing, not a bane,
And though we sorrow we
Should praise for Pain.

Aye, it's my brave belief
That grateful we should be,
Since in the heart of grief
Is love and sympathy,
We do not weep in vain,
So let us kiss the rod,
And see in purging Pain
The Grace of God.

Dolls Read Poem

She said: "I am too old to play
With dolls," and put them all away,
Into a box, one rainy day.

I think she must have felt some pain,
She looked so long into the rain,
Then sighed: "I'll bring you out again;
"For I'll have little children too,
With sunny hair and eyes of blue
And they will play and play with you.

"And now good-bye, my pretty dears;
There in the dark for years and years,
Dream of your little mother's tears.

"
Eglantine, Pierrot and Marie Claire,
Topsy and Tiny and Teddy Bear,
Side by side in the coffer there.

Time went by; one day she kneeled
By a wooden Cross in Flanders Field,
And wept for the One the earth concealed;
And made a vow she would never wed,
But always be true to the deathless dead,
Until the span of her life be sped.

More years went on and they made her wise
By sickness and pain and sacrifice,
With greying tresses and tired eyes.

And then one evening of weary rain,
She opened the old oak box again,
And her heart was clutched with an ancient pain
For there in the quiet dark they lay,
Just as they were when she put them away…
O but it seemed like yesterday!
Topsy and Tiny and Teddy Bear,
Eglantine, Pierrot and Marie Claire,
Ever so hopefully waiting there.

But she looked at them through her blinding tears,
And she said: "You've been patient, my pretty dears;
You've waited and waited all these years.

"I've broken a promise I made so true;
But my heart, my darlings, is broken too:
No little Mothers have I for you.

"My hands are withered, my hair is grey;
Yet just for a moment I'll try to play
With you as I did that long dead day…
"Ah no, I cannot.

I try in vain .

.

.

I stare and I stare into the rain .

.

.

I'll put you back in your box again.

"Bless you, darlings, perhaps one day,
Some little Mother will find you and play,
And once again you'll be glad and gay.

"But when in the friendly dark I lie,
No one will ever love you as I .

.

.

.

My little children .

.

.

good-bye .

.

.

good-bye.

"

Domestic Scene Read Poem

The meal was o'er, the lamp was lit,
The family sat in its glow;
The Mother never ceased to knit,
The Daughter never slacked to sew;
The Father read his evening news,
The Son was playing solitaire:
If peace a happy home could choose
I'm sure you'd swear that it was there.

BUT
The Mother:
"Ah me! this hard lump in my breast .

.

.

Old Doctor Brown I went to see;
Because it don't give me no rest,
He fears it may malignant be.

To operate it might be well,
And keep the evil of awhile;
But oh the folks I dare not tell,
And so I sit and knit and smile.

"
The Father:
"The mortgage on the house is due,
My bank account is overdrawn;
I'm at my wits end what to do -
I've plunged, but now my hope is gone.

For coverage my brokers call,
But I'm so deeply in the red .

.

.

If ever I should lose my all,
I'll put a bullet in my head.

"
The Daughter:
"To smile I do the best I can,
But it's so hard to act up gay.

My lover is a married man,
And now his child is on the way.

My plight I cannot long conceal,
And though I bear their bitter blame,
Unto my dears I must reveal
My sin, my sorrow and my shame.

"
The Son:
"Being a teller in a Bank
I'd no right in a blackjack game.

But for my ruin I must thank
My folly for a floozie dame.

To face the Manager I quail;
If he should check my cash I'm sunk .

.

.

Before they throw me into jail
I guess I'd better do a bunk.

"
So sat they in the Winter eve
In sweet serenity becalmed,
So peaceful you could scarce believe
They shared the torments of the damned .

.

.

Yet there the Mother smiles and knits;
The Daughter sews white underwear;
The Father reads and smokes and spits,
While Sonny Boy plays solitaire.

Don't Cheer Read Poem

Don't cheer, damn you! Don't cheer!
Silence! Your bitterest tear
Is fulsomely sweet to-day.

.

.

.

Down on your knees and pray.

See, they sing as they go,
Marching row upon row.

Who will be spared to return,
Sombre and starkly stern?

Chaps whom we knew - s0 strange,
Distant and dark with change;
Silent as those they slew,
Something in them dead too.

Who will return this way,
To sing as they sing to-day.

Send to the glut of the guns
Bravest and best of you sons.

Hurl a million to slaughter,
Blood flowing like Thames water;
Pile up pyramid high
Your dead to the anguished sky;
A monument down all time
Of hate and horror and crime.

Weep, rage, pity, curse, fear -
Anything, but .

.

.

don't cheer.

Sow to the ploughing guns
Seed of your splendid sons.

Let your heroic slain
Richly manure the plain.

What will the harvest be?

Unborn of Unborn will see.

.

.

.

Dark is the sky and drear.

.

.

.

For the pity of God don't cheer.

Dark and dread is their way.

Who sing as they march to-day.

.

.

.

Humble your hearts and pray.

Dram-Shop Ditty Read Poem

I drink my fill of foamy ale
I sing a song, I tell a tale,
I play the fiddle;
My throat is chronically dry,
Yet savant of a sort am I,
And Life's my riddle.

For look! I raise my arm to drink-
A voluntary act, you think
(Nay, Sir, you're grinning)>
You're wrong: this stein of beer I've drained
to emptiness was pre-ordained
Since Time's beginning.

But stay! 'Tis I who err, because
Time has no birth; it always was,
It will be ever;
And trivial though my act appears,
Its repercussion down the years
Will perish never.

It will condition ages hence,
but its most urgent consequence,
You'll not deny, Sir,
Is that it should be filled again
To goad my philosophic brain,
If you will buy, Sir.

There is no great, there is no small;
Fate makes a tapestry of all,
each stitch is needed .

.

.

The gods be praised! that barman chap
Manipulates his frothing tap -
My plea is heeded.

Two foaming tankards over-spill,
And soon, ah! not too soon, they will
Our thirst be slaking.

Stout lad! he does not dream that he
A page of history maybe
Is blandly making.

For Sir, it was ordained that you
Buy me a drink (or maybe two)
Since ages hoary;
And doubtless it is predestined
our meeting shall affect in kind
Earth's Cosmic Story.

The fathomless, eternal Past,
The Future infinitely vast,
We two are linking;
So let us fitly celebrate
This moment of immortal Fate
In drinking, drinking.

But though I toss a hearty pot,
Kind stranger, do not think I'm not
For Truth a groper .

.

.

Another?

Thanks, I won't refuse,
I am a tippler, if you choose,
But not a toper.

A nice distinction! .

.

.

Well, life's good;
Just give me beer, rich greasy food,
And let me fiddle;
Enough of dull philosophy;
To-night we'll merry, merry be .

.

.

Hi-diddle-diddle.

Dreams Read Poem

I had a dream, a dream of dread:
I thought that horror held the house;
A burglar bent above my bed,
He moved as quiet as a mouse.

With hairy hand and naked knife
He poised to plunge a bloody stroke,
Until despairful of my life
I shrieked with terror - and awoke.

I had a dream of weary woes:
In weather that was fit to freeze,
I thought that I had lost my clothes,
And only wore a short chemise.

The wind was wild; so catch a train
I ran, but no advance did make;
My legs were pistoning in vain -
How I was happy to awake!
I had a dream: Upon the stair
I met a maid who kissed my lips;
A nightie was her only wear,
We almost came to loving grips.

And then she opened wide a door,
And pointed to a bonny bed .

.

.

Oh blast! I wakened up before
I could discover - were we wed?

Alas! Those dreams of broken bliss,
Of wakenings too sadly soon!
With memories of sticky kiss,
And limbs so languidly a-swoon!
Alas those nightmares devil driven!
Those pantless prowlings in Pall Mall!
Oh why should some dreams be like heaven
And others so resemble hell?

Dreams Are Best Read Poem

I just think that dreams are best,
Just to sit and fancy things;
Give your gold no acid test,
Try not how your silver rings;
Fancy women pure and good,
Fancy men upright and true:
Fortressed in your solitude,
Let Life be a dream to you.

For I think that Thought is all;
Truth's a minion of the mind;
Love's ideal comes at call;
As ye seek so shall ye find.

But ye must not seek too far;
Things are never what they seem:
Let a star be just a star,
And a woman — just a dream.

O you Dreamers, proud and pure,
You have gleaned the sweet of life!
Golden truths that shall endure
Over pain and doubt and strife.

I would rather be a fool
Living in my Paradise,
Than the leader of a school,
Sadly sane and weary wise.

O you Cynics with your sneers,
Fallen brains and hearts of brass,
Tweak me by my foolish ears,
Write me down a simple ass!
I'll believe the real "you"
Is the "you" without a taint;
I'll believe each woman too,
But a slightly damaged saint.

Yes, I'll smoke my cigarette,
Vestured in my garb of dreams,
And I'll borrow no regret;
All is gold that golden gleams.

So I'll charm my solitude
With the faith that Life is blest,
Brave and noble, bright and good, .

.

.

Oh, I think that dreams are best!

Drifter Read Poem

God gave you guts: don't let Him down;
Brace up, be worthy of His giving.

The road's a rut, the sky's a frown;
I know you're plumb fed up with living.

Fate birches you, and wry the rod .

.

.

Snap out, you fool! Don't let down God.

Oh, yes, you're on misfortune's shift,
And weary is the row your hoeing;
You have no home, you drift and drift,
Seems folks don't care the way you're going .

.

.

Well, make them care - you're not afraid:
Step on the gas - you'll make the grade.

Believe that God has faith in you,
In you His loving light is shining;
All of you that is fine and true
Is part of Him, so quit your whining .

.

.

buck up, son, for your Maker's sake:
Don't let Him down - give God a break.

Duello Read Poem

A Frenchman and an Englishman
Resolved to fight a duel,
And hit upon a savage plan,
Because their hate was cruel.

They each would fire a single shot
In room of darkness pitchy,
And who was killed and who was not
Would hang on fingers twitchy.

The room was bare and dark as death,
And each ferocious fighter
Could hear his fierce opponent's breath
And clutched his pistol tighter.

The Gaston fired - the bullet hissed
On its destructive mission .

.

.

"Thank God!" said John Bull.

"He has missed.

"
The Frenchman cried: "Perdition!"
Then silence followed like a spell,
And as the Briton sought to
Reply he wondered where the hell
His Gallic foe had got to.

And then he thought: "I'll mercy show,
Since Hades is a dire place
To send a fellow to - and so
I'll blase up through the fireplace.

"
So up the chimney he let fly,
Of grace a gallant henchman;
When lo! a sudden cry,
And down there crashed the Frenchman .

.

.

But if this yard in France you tell,
Although its vein be skittish,
I think it might be just as well
To make your Frenchman - British.

Dumb Swede Read Poem

With barbwire hooch they filled him full,
Till he was drunker than all hell,
And then they peddled him the bull
About a claim they had to sell.

A thousand bucks they made him pay,
Knowing that he had nothing more,
And when he begged it back next day,
And wept! - they kicked him from the door.

They reckoned they were mighty slick,
Them two tinhorns from Idaho;
That poor dumb Swede could swing a pick,
but that was all he'd ever know.

So sitting in a poker game,
They lost the price for which they sold
To that bonehead a poor dud claim
That didn't have a speck of gold.

My story's true as gospel creed
Of these bright boys from Idaho;
They made a sucker of that Swede
And laughed to see the poor boob go,
And work like nigger on his ground,
Bucked by the courage of despair .

.

.

Till lo! A rich pay-streak he found,
That made him twice a millionaire.

So two smart Alecs, mighty sick,
Begged jobs at fifteen bucks a day.

Then said the Swede: "Give each a pick
And let them sweat to make their pay.

"
And though he don't know what it means,
Folks call that Swede "magnanimous"
- But picking nuggets big as beans,
you oughta' hear them fellers cuss!

Dunce Read Poem

At school I never gained a prize,
Proving myself the model ass;
Yet how I watched the wistful eyes,
And cheered my mates who topped the class.

No envy in my heart I found,
Yet bone was worthier to own
Those precious books in vellum bound,
Than I, a dreamer and a drone.

No prize at school I ever gained
(Shirking my studies, I suppose):
Yes, I remember being caned
For lack of love of Latin prose.

For algebra I won no praise,
In grammar I was far from bright:
Yet, oh, how Poetry would raise
In me a rapture of delight!
I never gained a prize at school;
The dullard's cap adorned my head;
My masters wrote me down a fool,
And yet - I'm sorry they are dead.

I'd like to go to them and say:
"Yours is indeed a tricky trade.

My honoured classmates, where are they?

Yet I, the dunce, brave books have made.

"
Oh, I am old and worn and grey,
And maybe have not long to live;
Yet 'tis my hope at some Prize Day
At my old school the Head will give
A tome or two of mine to crown
Some pupil's well-deserved success -
Proving a scapegrace and a clown
May win at last to worthiness.

Dylan Read Poem

And is it not a gesture grand
To drink oneself to death?

Oh sure 'tis I can understand,
Being of sober breath.

And so I do not sing success,
But dirge the damned who fall,
And who contempt for life express
Through alcohol.

Of Stephen Foster and of Poe,
Of Burns and Wilde I think;
And weary men who dared to go
The wanton way of drink.

Strange mortals blind to bitter blame,
And deaf to loud delight,
Who from the shades of sin and shame
Enstar our night.

Among those dupes of destiny
Add D.

T.

to my list,
Although his verse you may agree
Leaves one in mental mist .

.

.

Oh ye mad poets, loth of life,
Who peace in death divine,
Pass not by pistol, poison, knife,—
Drown, drown in wine!

Dyspeptic Clerk Read Poem

I think I'll buy a little field,
Though scant am I of pelf,
And hold the hope that it may yield
A living for myself;
For I have toiled ten thousand days
With ledger and with pen,
And I am sick of city ways
And soured with city men.

So I will plant my little plot
With lettuce, beans and peas;
Potatoes too - oh quite a lot,
An pear and apple trees.

My carrots will be coral pink,
My turnips ivory;
And I'll forget my pen and ink,
And office slavery.

My hut shall have a single room
Monastically bare;
A faggot fire for the winter gloom,
A table and a chair.

A Frugalist I call myself,
My needs are oh so small;
My luxury a classic shelf
Of poets on the wall.

Here as I dream, how grey and cold
The City seems to me;
Another world of green and gold
Incessantly I see.

So I will fling my pen away,
And learn how to wield;
A cashbook and a stool today .

.

.

Soon, soon a Little Field.

Each Day A Life Read Poem

I count each day a little life,
With birth and death complete;
I cloister it from care and strife
And keep it sane and sweet.

With eager eyes I greet the morn,
Exultant as a boy,
Knowing that I am newly born
To wonder and to joy.

And when the sunset splendours wane
And ripe for rest am I,
Knowing that I will live again,
Exultantly I die.

O that all Life were but a Day
Sunny and sweet and sane!
And that at Even I might say:
"I sleep to wake again.

"

Eighty Not Out Read Poem

In the gay, gleamy morn I adore to go walking,
And oh what sweet people I meet on my way!
I hail them with joy for I love to be talking,
Although I have nothing important to say.

I cheer the old grannies whose needles are plying;
I watch the wee kiddies awhoop at their play:
When sunny the sky is, you'll not be denying
The morning's the bonniest bit of the day.

With hair that is silver the look should be smiling,
And lips that are ageful should surely be wise;
And so I go gaily with gentle beguiling,
Abidding for cheer in the bright of your eyes.

I look at the vines and the blossoms with loving;
I listen with glee to the thrush on the spray:
And so with a song in my heart I am proving
That life is more beautiful every day.

For I think that old age is the rapture of living,
And though I've had many a birthday of cheer,
Of all the delectable days of God's giving,
The best of the bunch is my eightieth year.

So I will go gay in the beam of the morning
Another decade,—Oh I haven't a doubt!
Adoring the world of the Lord's glad adorning,
And sing to the glory of Ninety-not-Out.

Einstein Read Poem

A little mousey man he was
With board, and chalk in hand;
And millions were awestruck because
They couldn't understand.

Said he: 'E equals Mc2:
I'll prove it true.

'
No doubt you can, your marvel man,
But will it serve our good?

Will it prolong our living span
And multiply our food?

Will it bring peace between the nations
To make equations?

Our thanks are due no doubt to you
For truth beyond our ken;
But after all what did you do
To ease the lot of men?

How can a thousand 'yous' be priced
Beside a Christ?

El Toro Read Poem

Green mountains reared against the sky.

And tranquil as a herd of cows,
With horsemen nonchalantly nigh
I saw a hundred bulls a-browse.

In supple strength and pride they grazed,
And life was simple, sweet and full;
With placid peace their  eyes were glazed―
How good to be a bull!
But one outstood beyond the rest,
With inky dewlaps, orange eyes;
High-horned and rampant for the test
Of red revolt and sacrifice.

So from the herd they cut him out,
And following a pilot ox
They harried him with goad and shout
Into a dung-deep box.

Then in that dark and narrow pen
He stood a week of dreary days,
While taunted by down-peering men
He yearned for brother bulls a-graze:
Hoof-loose in God’s green spaciousness,
The purity of hill and-plain,'
The dewy dawn, the breeze caress .

.

.

Ah, liberty again!
A door swung wide―with horn up-fling
He hurtles to the happy light.

Rapture! Then in a sandy ring
He halts, bewildered at the sight:
Tier upon tier, from sand to sky,
Of gleaming faces, glad and grim;
Full fifty thousand poised on high,
Their vision fixed on him.

Red rags before his eyes they flaunt,
Till mad with rage, but unafraid, '
He hurls his passion to the taunt
And scars the crimson barricade.

With lance and dart his heart they break;
Blood-boltered there he stands alone;
Yet I for hopeless valour’ sake
Would set him on a throne.

Would place him far above them all .

.

.

His blood now mingles with his breath:
Upon his knees I see him fall,
As dauntlessly he waits for death.

.

.

.

Oh! Spain, to heaven high you stink!
And as I take the car to town,
A dame, American, I think,
Pukes on her satin gown.

Taken from "Rhymes of a Rebel" Pub Ernest Benn London 1952 Page58-59
Blood-boltered is as Service wrote it.

JS

Elementalist Read Poem

Could Fate ordain a lot for me
Beyond all human ills,
I think that I would choose to be
A shephard of the hills;
With shaggy cloak and cape where skies
Eternally are blue
How I would stare with quiet eyes
At passing you!
And you would stare at static me,
Beside my patient flock;
And I would watch you silently,
A one with time and rock.

Then foreign farings you would chart,
And fly with fearsome wings,
While I would bide to be a part
Of elemental things.

Yet strangely I would have it so,
Since I am kin to these,—
To heather heath and bloom ablow,
And peaks and piney trees.

As diamond star at evenfall,
And pearly morning mist
Sing in my veins, myself I call
An Elementalist.

So as in city dirt and din
I push a grubby pen,
And toil, my bed and board to win,
I hate the haunts of men.

Beyond brick wall I seem to see
Fern dells and rocky rills .

.

.

O crazy dream! O God, to be
A shephard of the hills!

Enemy Conscript Read Poem

What are we fighting for,
We fellows who go to war?

fighting for Freedom's sake!
(You give me the belly-ache.

)
Freedom to starve or slave!
Freedom! aye, in the grave.

Fighting for "hearth and home,"
Who haven't an inch of loam?

Hearth?

Why even a byre
Can only be ours for hire.

Dying for future peace?

Killing that killing cease?

To hell with such tripe, I say.

"Sufficient unto the day.

"
It isn't much fun being dead.

Better to le in bed,
Cuddle up to the wife,
Making, not taking life.

To the corpse that stinks in the clay,
Does it matter who wins the day?

What odds if tyrants reign?

They can't put irons on the brain.

One always can eat one's grub,
Smoke and drink in a pub.

There's happiness in a glass,
A pipe and the kiss of a lass.

It's the best we get anyhow,
In the life we are living now.

Who's wanting a hero's fate?

To the dead cheers come too late.

Flesh is softer than steel;
Wounds are weary to heal.

In the maniac hell of the fray
Who is there dares to say?

"Hate will be vanquished by Love;
God's in His Heaven above.

"
When those who govern us lead
The lads they command to bleed;
When rulers march at the head,
And statesmen fall with the dead;
When Kings leap into the fray,
Fight in the old-time way,
Perish beside their men,
Maybe, O maybe then
War will be part of the past,
Peace will triumph at last.

Meantime such lads as I,
Who wouldn't have harmed a fly,
Have got to get out and kill
Lads whom we bear no ill;
As simple as we, no doubt,
Who seek what it's all about;
Who die in defence of - what?

Homes that they haven't got;
Who perish when all they ask
is to finish the daily task;
Make bread for the little ones,
Not feed the greed of the guns,
When fields of battle are red,
And diplomats die in bed.

Epitaph Read Poem

No matter how he toil and strive
The fate of every man alive
With luck will be to lie alone,
His empty name cut in a stone.

Grim time the fairest fame will flout,
But though his name be blotted out,
And he forgotten with his peers,
His stone may wear a year of years.

No matter how we sow and reap
The end of all is endless sleep;
From strife a merciful release,
From life the crowning prize of Peace.

Equality Read Poem

The Elders of the Tribe were grouped
And squatted in the Council Cave;
They seemed to be extremely pooped,
And some were grim, but all were grave:
The subject of their big To-do
Was axe-man Chow, the son of Choo.

Then up spoke Tribal Wiseman Waw:
"Brothers, today I talk to grieve:
As an upholder of the Law
You know how deeply we believe
In Liberty, Fraternity,
And likewise Equality.

"A chipper of the flint am I;
I make the weapons that you use,
And though to hunt I never try,
To bow to hunters I refuse:
But stalwart Chow, the son of Choo
Is equal to us any two.

"He is the warrior supreme,
The Super-caveman, one might say;
The pride of youth, the maiden's dream,
And in the chase the first to slay.

Where we are stunted he is tall:
In short, a menace to us all.

"He struts with throwing stone and spear;
And is he not the first to wear
Around his waist with bully leer
The pelt of wolf and baby bear!
Admitting that he made the kill
Why should he so exploit his skill?

"Comrades, grave counsel we must take,
And as he struts with jest and jibe,
Let us act swiftly lest he make
Himself Dictator of our Tribe:
The Gods have built him on their plan:
Let us reduce him to a man.

"
And so they seized him in the night,
And on the sacrificial stone
The axe-men of the Tribe did smite,
Until one limb he ceased to own.

There! They had equalized the odds,
Foiling unfairness of the Gods.

So Chow has lost his throwing arm,
And goes around like every one;
No longer does he threaten harm,
And tribal justice has been done.

For men are equal, let us seek
To grade the Strong down to the weak.

Erico Read Poem

Oh darling Eric, why did you
For my fond affection sue,
And then with surgeons artful aid
Transform yourself into a maid?

So now in petticoats you go
And people call you Erico.

Sometimes I wonder if they can
Change me in turn into a man;
Then after all we might get wed
And frolic on a feather bed:
Although I do not see how we
Could ever have a family.

Oh dear! Oh dear! It's so complex.

Why must they meddle with our sex.

My Eric was a handsome 'he,'
But now he—oh excuse me—she
Informs me that I must forget
I was his blond Elizabet.

Alas! These scientists of Sweden
I curse, who've robbed me of my Eden;
Who with their weird hormones inhuman
Can make a man into a woman.

Alas, poor Eric! .

.

.

Erico
I wish you were in Jerico.

Ernie Pyle Read Poem

I wish I had a simple style
In writing verse,
As in his prose had Ernie Pyle,
So true and terse;
Springing so forthright from the heart
With guileless art.

I wish I could put back a dram
As Ernie could;
I wish that I could cuss and damn
As soldier should;
And fain with every verse would I
Ernie outvie.

Alas! I cannot claim his high
Humanity;
Nor emulate his pungent, dry
Profanity;
Nor share his love of common folk
Who bear life's yolk.

Oh Ernie, who on earth I knew
In war and wine,
Though frail of fame, in soul how you
Were pure and fine!
I'm proud that once when we were plastered
You called me 'bastard.

'

Escape Read Poem

Tell me, Tramp, where I may go
To be free from human woe;
Say where I may hope to find
Ease of heart and peace of mind;
Is thee not some isle you know
Where I may leave Care behind?

So spoke one is sore distress,
And I answered softly: "Yes,
There's an isle so sweet and kind
So to clemency inclined,
So serene in loveliness
That the blind may lead the blind.

"Where there is no shade of fear,
For the sun shines all the year,
And there hangs on every tree
Fruit and food for you an me:
With each dawn so crystal clear
How like heaven earth can be!
"Where in mild and friendly clime
You will lose all count of time,
See the seasons blend in one,
Under sovereignty of sun;
Day with day resolve in rhyme,
Reveries and nothing done.

"You will mock the ocean roar,
Knowing you will evermore
Bide beside a lorn lagoon,
Listen to the ripples croon
On the muteness of the shore,
Silver-shattered in the moon.

"Come, let's quit this sorry strife,
Seek a sweeter, saner life,
Go so far, so very far
It just seems another star.

Go where joy and love are rife,
Go where peace and plenty are.

"
But he answered: "Brother, no,
To your isle I'll never go,
For the pity in my heart
Will not let me live apart
From God's world of want and woe:
I will stay and play my part,
Strive and suffer .

.

.

Be it so.

"

Euthansia Read Poem

A sea-gull with a broken wing,
I found upon the kelp-strewn shore.

It sprawled and gasped; I sighed: "Poor thing!
I fear your flying days are o'er;
Sad victim of a savage gun,
So ends your soaring in the sun.

"
I only wanted to be kind;
Its icy legs I gently caught,
Thinking its fracture I might bind,
But fiercely in its fear it fought;
Till guessing that I meant no ill,
It glared and gaped, but lay quite still.

I took it home and gave it food,
And nursed its wing day after day.

Alas for my solicitude,
It would not eat, but pined away.

And so at last with tender hands
I took it to its native sands.

"I'll leave it where its kindred are,"
I thought, "And maybe they will cheer
And comfort it": I watched afar,
I saw them wheeling swiftly near.

.

.

.

Awhile they hovered overhead,
Then darted down and - stabbed it dead.

When agonized is human breath,
And there's of living not a chance,
Could it not be that gentle death
Might mean divine deliverance?

Might it not seep into our skulls
To be as merciful as gulls?

Evenfall Read Poem

When day is done I steal away
To fold my hands in rest,
And of my hours this moment grey
I love the best;
So quietly I sit alone
And wait for evenfall,
When in the dusk doves sweetly moan
And crickets call.

With heart of humble gratitude
How it is good to bide,
And know the joy of solitude
In eventide!
When one is slow and slips a bit,
And life begins to pall,
How sweet it is in peace to sit
At evenfall!
I play upon a simple lute,
My notes are faint and few,
But ere my melodies be mute,
Pray one be true.

Lord, let the theme be thankfulness!
And as I wait my call,
More than noon rapture let me bless
Life's evenfall!

Expectation Read Poem

My flask of wine was ruby red
And swift I ran my sweet to see;
With eyes that snapped delight I said:
"How mad with love a lad can be!"
The moon was laughing overhead;
I danced as nimbly as a flea.

Thought I: In two weeks time we'll wed;
No more a lonesome widow she;
For I have bought a double bed
And I will father children three.

So singing like a lark I sped
To her who ne'er expected me.

And then I went with wary tread,
Her sweet surprise to greet with glee;
To where her lamplit lattice shed
A rosy radiance on the lea:
.

.

.

And then my heart sank low like lead,
Two shadows on the blind to see.

A man was sitting on the bed,
And she was nudely on his knee.

.

.

.

I saw her face drain white with dread,
I saw her lover madly flee.

.

.

.

Oh how her blood is ruby red,
And I await the gallows tree

Externalism Read Poem

The Greatest Writer of to-day
(With Maupassant I almost set him)
Said to me in a weary way,
The last occasion that I met him:
"Old chap, this world is more and more
Becoming bourgeois, blasé, blousy:
Thank God I've lived so long before
It got so definitely lousy.

"
Said I: "Old chap, I don't agree.

Why should one so dispraise the present?

For gainful guys like you and me,
It still can be extremely pleasant.

Have we not Women, Wine and Song -
A gleeful trio to my thinking;
So blithely we can get along
With laughing, loving, eating, drinking.

"
Said he: "Dear Boy, it may be so,
But I'm fed up with war and worry;
I would escape this world of woe,
Of wrath and wrong, of hate and hurry.

I fain would gain the peace of mind
Of Lamas on Thibetan highlands,
Or maybe sanctuary find
With beach-combers on coral islands.

"
Said I: "Dear Boy, don't go so far:
Just live a life of simple being;
Forgetting all the ills that are,
Be satisfied with hearing, seeing.

The sense of smell and taste and touch
Can bring you bliss in ample measure:
If only you don't think too much,
Your programme can be packed with pleasure.

"But do not try to probe below
This fairy film of Nature's screening;
Look on it as a surface show,
Without a purpose of a meaning.

Take no account of social strife,
And dread no coming cataclysm:
Let your philosophy of life
Be what I call: EXTERNALISM.

The moon shines down with borrowed light,
So savants say - I do not doubt it.

Suffice its silver trance my sight,
That's all I want to know about it.

A fig for science - 'how' and 'why'
Distract me in my happy dreaming:
Through line and form and colour I
Am all content with outward seeming.

.

.

.

"
The Greatest Writer of to-day
(I would have loved to call him Willie),
looked wry at me and went his way -
I think he thought me rather silly.

Maybe I am, but I insist
My point of view will take some beating:
Don't mock this old Externalist -
The pudding's proof is in the eating.

Eyrie Read Poem

Between the mountain and the sea
I've made a happy landing;
And here a peace has come to me
That passeth understanding;
A shining faith and purity
Beyond demanding.

With palm below and pine above,
Where wings of gulls are gleaming;
By orange tree and olive grove,
From walls of airy seeming,
My roses beg me not to rove,
But linger dreaming.

So I'm in love with life again,
And would with joy dissever
My days from ways of worldly men,
And mingle with them never:
Let silken roses to my ken
Whisper forever.

Facility Read Poem

So easy 'tis to make a rhyme,
That did the world but know it,
Your coachman might Parnassus climb,
Your butler be a poet.

Then, oh, how charming it would be
If, when in haste hysteric
You called the page, you learned that he
Was grappling with a lyric.

Or else what rapture it would yield,
When cook sent up the salad,
To find within its depths concealed
A touching little ballad.

Or if for tea and toast you yearned,
What joy to find upon it
The chambermaid had coyly laid
A palpitating sonnet.

Your baker could the fashion set;
Your butcher might respond well;
With every tart a triolet,
With every chop a rondel.

Your tailor's bill .

.

.

well, I'll be blowed!
Dear chap! I never knowed him .

.

.

He's gone and written me an ode,
Instead of what I owed him.

So easy 'tis to rhyme .

.

.

yet stay!
Oh, terrible misgiving!
Please do not give the game away .

.

.

I've got to make my living.

Failure Read Poem

He wrote a play; by day and night
He strove with passion and delight;
Yet knew, long ere the curtain drop,
His drama was a sorry flop.

In Parliament he sought a seat;
Election Day brought dire defeat;
Yet he had wooed with word and pen
Prodigiously his fellow men.

And then he wrote a lighter play
That made him famous in a day.

He won a seat in Parliament,
And starry was the way he went.

Yet as he neared the door of death
They heard him say with broken breath:
'For all I've spoken, planned and penned,
I'm just a wash-out in the end.

'
So are we all; our triumphs won
Are mean by what we might have done.

Our victories that men applaud
Are sordid in the sight of God.

Faith Read Poem

Since all that is was ever bound to be;
Since grim, eternal laws our Being bind;
And both the riddle and the answer find,
And both the carnage and the calm decree;
Since plain within the Book of Destiny
Is written all the journey of mankind
Inexorably to the end; since blind
And mortal puppets playing parts are we:
Then let's have faith; good cometh out of ill;
The power that shaped the strife shall end the strife;
Then let's bow down before the Unknown Will;
Fight on, believing all is well with life;
Seeing within the worst of War's red rage
The gleam, the glory of the Golden Age.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, p.

159.

Fallen Leaves Read Poem

Why should I be the first to fall
Of all the leaves on this old tree?

Though sadly soon I know that all
Will lose their hold and follow me.

While my birth-brothers bravely blow,
Why should I be first to go?

Why should I be the last to cling
Of all the leaves on this bleak bough?

I've fluttered since the fire of Spring
And I am worn and withered now.

I would escape the Winter gale
And sleep soft-silvered by a snail.

When swoop the legions of the snow
To pitch their tents in roaring weather
We fallen leaves will lie below
And rot rejoicingly together;
And from our rich and dark decay
Will laugh our brothers of the May.

Familiarity Read Poem

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,
And call you Jack.

To those who crash your private pew
Be sour as krout;
Don't let them see the real 'you,'
And bawl you out.

Don't call your Cousin William—Bill,
But formal be.

Have care! Beware and shun famil—
Iarity.

I'm quite polite.

My hat I doff
But little say.

I give the crowd the big brush-off,
And go my way.

To common folk I do not freeze,
I am no snob:
But though my name is Robert, please
Don't call me BOB.

Farewell To Verse Read Poem

In youth when oft my muse was dumb,
My fancy nighly dead,
To make my inspiration come
I stood upon my head;
And thus I let the blood down flow
Into my cerebellum,
And published every Spring or so
Slim tomes in vellum.

Alas! I am rheumatic now,
Grey is my crown;
I can no more with brooding brow
Stand upside-down.

I fear I might in such a pose
Burst brain blood-vessel;
And that would be a woeful close
To my rhyme wrestle.

If to write verse I must reverse
I fear I'm stymied;
In ink of prose I must immerse
A pen de-rhymèd.

No more to spank the lyric lyre
Like Keats or Browning,
May I inspire the Sacred Fire
My Upside-downing.

Fear Read Poem

I know how father's strap would feel,
If ever I were caught,
So mother's jam I did not steal,
Though theft was in my thought.

Then turned fourteen and full of pitch,
Of love I was afraid,
And did not dare to dally with
Our pretty parlour maid.

And so it is and always was,
The path of rectitude
I've followed all my life because
The Parson said I should.

The dread of hell-fire held me straight
When I was wont to stray,
And though my guts I often hate,
I walk the narrow way.

I might have been a bandit or
A Casanovish blade,
But always I have prospered for
I've always been afraid;
Ay, fear's behind the best of us
And schools us for success,
And that is why I'm virtuous,
And happy - more or less.

So let me hail that mighty power
That goads me to be good,
And makes me cannily to cower
Amid foolhardihood;
Though I be criminal in gain,
My virtue a veneer,
I thank the God who keeps me sane,
And shields me from distress and pain,
And thrifts me on to golden gain,
Almighty Fear.

Fi-Fi In Bed Read Poem

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 head begins to nod;
He's so great, He cannot play:
I am glad I am not God.

Poor kind God upon His throne,
Up there in the sky so blue,
Always, always all alone .

.

.

"Please, dear God, I pity You.

"

Fidelity Read Poem

Being a shorty, as you see,
A bare five footer,
The why my wife is true to me
Is my six-shooter.

For every time a guy goes by
Who looks like a lover,
I polish it to catch his eye,
And spin it over.

He notes its notches as I say:
'Believe me, Brother,
If Junie ever goes astray,
They'll be another.

'
A husband has to have a gun
And guts to pull it:
Few fellows think a bit of fun
Is worth a bullet.

For June would sit on any knee
If it wore pants,
Yet she is faithful unto me,
As gossip grants.

And though I know some six-foot guy
Would better suit her,
Her virtue triumphs, thanks to my
Six shooter.

Fighting Mac - A Life Tragedy Read Poem

A pistol shot rings round and round the world;
In pitiful defeat a warrior lies.

A last defiance to dark Death is hurled,
A last wild challenge shocks the sunlit skies.

Alone he falls, with wide, wan, woeful eyes:
Eyes that could smile at death — could not face shame.

Alone, alone he paced his narrow room,
In the bright sunshine of that Paris day;
Saw in his thought the awful hand of doom;
Saw in his dream his glory pass away;
Tried in his heart, his weary heart, to pray:
"O God! who made me, give me strength to face
The spectre of this bitter, black disgrace.

"
The burn brawls darkly down the shaggy glen;
The bee-kissed heather blooms around the door;
He sees himself a barefoot boy again,
Bending o'er page of legendary lore.

He hears the pibroch, grips the red claymore,
Runs with the Fiery Cross, a clansman true,
Sworn kinsman of Rob Roy and Roderick Dhu.

Eating his heart out with a wild desire,
One day, behind his counter trim and neat,
He hears a sound that sets his brain afire —
The Highlanders are marching down the street.

Oh, how the pipes shrill out, the mad drums beat!
"On to the gates of Hell, my Gordons gay!"
He flings his hated yardstick away.

He sees the sullen pass, high-crowned with snow,
Where Afghans cower with eyes of gleaming hate.

He hurls himself against the hidden foe.

They try to rally — ah, too late, too late!
Again, defenseless, with fierce eyes that wait
For death, he stands, like baited bull at bay,
And flouts the Boers, that mad Majuba day.

He sees again the murderous Soudan,
Blood-slaked and rapine-swept.

He seems to stand
Upon the gory plain of Omdurman.

Then Magersfontein, and supreme command
Over his Highlanders.

To shake his hand
A King is proud, and princes call him friend.

And glory crowns his life — and now the end,
The awful end.

His eyes are dark with doom;
He hears the shrapnel shrieking overhead;
He sees the ravaged ranks, the flame-stabbed gloom.

Oh, to have fallen! — the battle-field his bed,
With Wauchope and his glorious brother-dead.

Why was he saved for this, for this?

And now
He raises the revolver to his brow.

In many a Highland home, framed with rude art,
You'll find his portrait, rough-hewn, stern and square;
It's graven in the Fuyam fellah's heart;
The Ghurka reads it at his evening prayer;
The raw lands know it, where the fierce suns glare;
The Dervish fears it.

Honor to his name
Who holds aloft the shield of England's fame.

Mourn for our hero, men of Northern race!
We do not know his sin; we only know
His sword was keen.

He laughed death in the face,
And struck, for Empire's sake, a giant blow.

His arm was strong.

Ah! well they learnt, the foe
The echo of his deeds is ringing yet —
Will ring for aye.

All else .

.

.

let us forget.

Finale Read Poem

Here is this vale of sweet abiding,
My ultimate and dulcet home,
That gently dreams above the chiding
of restless and impatient foam;
Beyond the hazards of hell weather,
The harceling of wind and sea,
With timbers morticed tight together
My old hulk havens happily.

The dawn exultantly discloses
My lawn lit with mimosa gold;
The joy of January roses
Is with me when rich lands are cold;
Serene with bells of beauty chiming,
This dream domain to be belongs,
By sweet conspiracy of rhyming,
And virtue of some idle songs.

I thank the gracious Lord of Living
Who gave me power and will to write:
May I be worthy of His giving
And win to merit in His sight.

.

.

.

O merciful and mighty Master,
Though I have faltered in the past,
Your scribe I be.

.

.

.

Despite disaster
Let me be faithful to the last.

Finality Read Poem

When I am dead I will not care
How future generations fare,
For I will be so unaware.

Though fields their slain has carpeted,
And seas be salt with tears they shed,
Not one I'll waste, for I'll be dead.

Though atom bombs in ashes lay
Their skyey cities of to-day,
With carrion lips I cannot pray.

Though ruin reigns and madness raves,
And cowering men creep back in caves,
I cannot help to dig their graves.

Though fools for knowledge delve too deep,
And wake dark demons from their sleep,
I will not have the eyes to weep.

I will not care, I cannot care,
For I will be no longer there
To share their sorrow and despair.

And nevermore my heart will bleed
When on my brain the blind-worms feed,
For I'll be dead, dead, DEAD indeed.

And when I rot and cease to be,
It matters not a jot to me
What may be man's dark destiny.

Ah! there you have the hell of it,
As in the face of Fate I spit
I know she doesn't mind a bit.

A thousand millions clot this earth,
And billions more await their birth -
For what?

.

.

.

Ye gods, enjoy your mirth!

Finistere Read Poem

Hurrah! I'm off to Finistere, to Finistere, to Finistere;
My satchel's swinging on my back, my staff is in my hand;
I've twenty louis in my purse, I know the sun and sea are there,
And so I'm starting out to-day to tramp the golden land.

I'll go alone and glorying, with on my lips a song of joy;
I'll leave behind the city with its canker and its care;
I'll swing along so sturdily — oh, won't I be the happy boy!
A-singing on the rocky roads, the roads of Finistere.

Oh, have you been to Finistere, and do you know a whin-gray town
That echoes to the clatter of a thousand wooden shoes?

And have you seen the fisher-girls go gallivantin' up and down,
And watched the tawny boats go out, and heard the roaring crews?

Oh, would you sit with pipe and bowl, and dream upon some sunny quay,
Or would you walk the windy heath and drink the cooler air;
Oh, would you seek a cradled cove and tussle with the topaz sea! —
Pack up your kit to-morrow, lad, and haste to Finistere.

Oh, I will go to Finistere, there's nothing that can hold me back.

I'll laugh with Yves and Le/on, and I'll chaff with Rose and Jeanne;
I'll seek the little, quaint buvette that's kept by Mother Merdrinac,
Who wears a cap of many frills, and swears just like a man.

I'll yarn with hearty, hairy chaps who dance and leap and crack their heels;
Who swallow cupfuls of cognac and never turn a hair;
I'll watch the nut-brown boats come in with mullet, plaice and conger eels,
The jeweled harvest of the sea they reap in Finistere.

Yes, I'll come back from Finistere with memories of shining days,
Of scaly nets and salty men in overalls of brown;
Of ancient women knitting as they watch the tethered cattle graze
By little nestling beaches where the gorse goes blazing down;
Of headlands silvering the sea, of Calvarys against the sky,
Of scorn of angry sunsets, and of Carnac grim and bare;
Oh, won't I have the leaping veins, and tawny cheek and sparkling eye,
When I come back to Montparnasse and dream of Finistere.

Finnigan's Finish Read Poem

They thought I'd be a champion;
They boasted loud of me.

A dozen victories I'd won,
The Press was proud of me.

I saw myself with glory crowned,
And would, beyond a doubt,
Till last night in the second round
A Dago knocked me out.

It must have been an accident;
I cannot understand.

For I was so damn confident
I'd lick him with one hand.

I bounded in the ring to cheers;
I panted for the fray:
Ten minutes more with hoots and jeers
They bore me limp away.

I will not have the nerve to face
The sporting mob today;
The doll I fell for—my disgrace
Will feel and fade away.

Last night upon the brink of fame
No favour did I lack:
Tomorrow from the sink of shame
I'll beg my old job back.

Fisherfolk Read Poem

I like to look at fishermen
And oftentimes I wish
One would be lucky now and then
And catch a little fish.

I watch them statuesquely stand,
And at the water look;
But if they pull their float to land
It's just to bait a hook.

I ponder the psychology
That roots them in their place;
And wonder at the calm I see
In ever angler's face.

There is such patience in their eyes,
Beside the river's brink;
And waiting for a bite or rise
I do not think they think.

Or else they are just gentle men,
Who love—they know not why,
Greeen grace of trees or water when
It wimples to the sky .

.

.

Sweet simple souls! As vain I watch
My heart to you is kind:
Most precious prize of all you catch,
—Just Peace of Mind.

Five-Per-Cent Read Poem

Because I have ten thousand pounds I sit upon my stern,
And leave my living tranquilly for other folks to earn.

For in some procreative way that isn't very clear,
Ten thousand pounds will breed, they say, five hundred every year.

So as I have a healthy hate of economic strife,
I mean to stand aloof from it the balance of my life.

And yet with sympathy I see the grimy son of toil,
And heartly congratulate the tiller of the soil.

I like the miner in the mine, the sailor on the sea,
Because up to five hundred pounds they sail and mine for me.

For me their toil is taxed unto that annual extent,
According to the holy shibboleth of Five-per-Cent.

So get ten thousand pounds, my friend, in any way you can.

And leave your future welfare to the noble Working Man.

He'll buy you suits of Harris tweed, an Airedale and a car;
Your golf clubs and your morning Times, your whisky and cigar.

He'll cosily install you in a cottage by a stream,
With every modern comfort, and a garden that's a dream>
Or if your tastes be urban, he'll provide you with a flat,
Secluded from the clamour of the proletariat.

With pictures, music, easy chairs, a table of good cheer,
A chap can manage nicely on five hundred pounds a year.

And though around you painful signs of industry you view,
Why should you work when you can make your money work for you?

So I'll get down upon my knees and bless the Working Man,
Who offers me a life of ease through all my mortal span;
Whose loins are lean to make me fat, who slaves to keep me free,
Who dies before his prime to let me round the century;
Whose wife and children toil in urn until their strength is spent,
That I may live in idleness upon my five-per-cent.

And if at times they curse me, why should I feel any blame?

For in my place I know that they would do the very same.

Aye, though hey hoist a flag that's red on Sunday afternoon,
Just offer them ten thousand pounds and see them change their tune.

So I'll enjoy my dividends and live my life with zest,
And bless the mighty men who first - invented Interest.

Fleurette Read Poem

The Wounded Canadian Speaks:
My leg?

It's off at the knee.

Do I miss it?

Well, some.

You see
I've had it since I was born;
And lately a devilish corn.

(I rather chuckle with glee
To think how I've fooled that corn.

)
But I'll hobble around all right.

It isn't that, it's my face.

Oh, I know I'm a hideous sight,
Hardly a thing in place.

Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.

Nurse won't give me a glass,
But I see the folks as they pass
Shudder and turn away;
Turn away in distress .

.

.

Mirror enough, I guess.

I'm gay! You bet I am gay,
But I wasn't a while ago.

If you'd seen me even to-day,
The darnedest picture of woe,
With this Caliban mug of mine,
So ravaged and raw and red,
Turned to the wall — in fine
Wishing that I was dead.

.

.

.

What has happened since then,
Since I lay with my face to the wall,
The most despairing of men!
Listen! I'll tell you all.

That poilu across the way,
With the shrapnel wound on his head,
Has a sister: she came to-day
To sit awhile by his bed.

All morning I heard him fret:
"Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?

"
Then sudden, a joyous cry;
The tripping of little feet;
The softest, tenderest sigh;
A voice so fresh and sweet;
Clear as a silver bell,
Fresh as the morning dews:
"C'est toi, cest toi, Marcel!
Mon frère, comme je suis heureuse!"
So over the blanket's rim
I raised my terrible face,
And I saw — how I envied him!
A girl of such delicate grace;
Sixteen, all laughter and love;
As gay as a linnet, and yet
As tenderly sweet as a dove;
Half woman, half child — Fleurette.

Then I turned to the wall again.

(I was awfully blue, you see,)
And I thought with a bitter pain:
"Such visions are not for me.

"
So there like a log I lay,
All hidden, I thought, from view,
When sudden I heard her say,
"Ah! Who is that malheureux?

"
Then briefly I heard him tell
(However he came to know)
How I'd smothered a bomb that fell
Into the trench, and so
None of my men were hit,
Though it busted me up a bit.

Well, I didn't quiver an eye,
And he chattered and there she sat;
And I fancied I heard her sigh —
But I wouldn't just swear that.

And maybe she wasn't so bright,
Though she talked in a merry strain,
And I closed my eyes ever so tight,
Yet I saw her ever so plain:
Her dear little tilted nose,
Her delicate, dimpled chin,
Her mouth like a budding rose,
And the glistening pearls within;
Her eyes like the violet:
Such a rare little queen — Fleurette.

And last last when she rose to go,
The light was a little dim,
And I ventured to peep, and so
I saw her, graceful and slim,
And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh
How I envied and envied him.

So when she was gone I said
In rather a dreary voice
To him of the opposite bed:
"Ah, friend, how you must rejoice!
But me, I'm a thing of dread.

For me nevermore the bliss
The thrill of a woman's kiss.

"
Then I stopped, for lo! she was there,
And a great light whone in her eyes.

And me! I could only stare,
I was taken so by surprise,
When gently she bent her head:
"May I kiss you, sergeant?

" she said.

Then she kissed my burning lips,
With her mouth like a scented flower,
And I thrilled to the finger-tips,
And I hadn't even the power
To say: "God bless you, dear!"
And I felt such a precious tear
Fall on my withered cheek,
And darn it, I couldn't speak.

And so she went sadly away,
And I know that my eyes were wet.

Ah, not to my dyng day
Will I forget, forget!
Can you wonder now I am gay?

God bless her, that little Fleurette!

Flies Read Poem

I never kill a fly because
I think that what we have of laws
To regulate and civilize
Our daily life - we owe to flies.

Apropos, I'll tell you of Choo, the spouse
Of the head of the hunters, Wung;
Such a beautiful cave they had for a house,
And a brood of a dozen young.

And Wung would start by the dawn's red light
On the trailing of bird or beast,
And crawl back tired on the brink of night
With food for another feast.

Then the young would dance in their naked glee,
And Choo would fuel the fire;
Fur and feather, how good to see,
And to gorge to heart's desire!
Flesh of rabbit and goose and deer,
With fang-like teeth they tore,
And laughed with faces a bloody smear,
And flung their bones on the floor.

But with morning bright the flies would come,
Clouding into the cave;
You could hardly hear for their noisy hum,
They were big and black and brave.

Darkling the day with gust of greed
They'd swarm in the warm sunrise
On the litter of offal and bones to feed -
A million or so of flies.

Now flies were the wife of Wung's despair;
They would sting and buzz and bite,
And as her only attire was hair
She would itch from morn to night:
But as one day she scratched her hide,
A thought there came to Choo;
"If I were to throw the bones outside,
The flies would go there too.

"
That spark in a well-nigh monkey mind,
Nay, do not laugh or scorn;
For there in the thoughts of Choo you'll find
Was the sense of Order born;
As she flung the offal far and wide,
And the fly-cloud followed fast,
Battening on the bones outside
The cave was clear at last.

And Wung was pleased when he came at night,
For the air was clean and sweet,
And the cave-kids danced in the gay firelight,
And fed on the new-killed meat;
But the children Choo would chide and boss,
For her cleanly floor was her pride,
And even the baby was taught to toss
His bite of a bone outside.

Then the cave crones came and some admired,
But others were envious;
And they said: "She swanks, she makes us tired
With her complex modern fuss.

"
However, most of the tribe complied,
Though tradition dourly dies,
And a few Conservatives crossly cried:
"We'll keep our bones and our flies.

"
So Reformer Choo was much revered
And to all she said: "You see
How my hearth is clean and my floor is cleaned,
And there ain't no flies on me"…
And that was how it all began,
Through horror of muck and mess,
Even in prehistoric Man,
LAW, ORDER and CLEANLINESS'.

And that is why I never kill
A fly, no matter how obscene;
For I believe in God's good will:
He gave us vermin to make us clean.

Flight Read Poem

On silver sand where ripples curled
I counted sea-gulls seven;
Shy, secret screened from all the world,
And innocent as heaven.

They did not of my nearness know,
For dawn was barely bright,
And they were still, like spots of snow
In that pale, pearly light.

Then one went forth unto the sea
That rippled up in gold,
And there were rubies flashing free
From out its wing-unfold;
It ducked and dived in pretty play,
The while the other six
So gravely sat it seemed that they
Were marvelled by its tricks.

Then with a sudden flurry each
Down-rushed to join its mate,
And in a flash that sickle beach
With rapture was elate.

With joy they pranked till everyone
Was diamonded with spray,
Then flicked with flame to greet the sun
They rose and winged away.

But with their going, oh, the surge
Of loss they left in me!
For in my heart was born the urge,
The passion to be free.

And where each dawn with terror brings
Some tale of bale and blight,
Who would not envy silver wings,
The sea-gull in its flight!
Let me not know the soils of woe
That chain this stricken earth;
Let me forget the fear and fret
That bind men from their birth;
Let me be the one with wind and sun,
With earth and sky and sea.

.

.

.

Oh, let me teach in living speech
God's glory - Liberty.

Florentine Pilgrim Read Poem

"I'll do the old dump in a day,"
He told me in his brittle way.

"Two more, I guess, I'll give to Rome
Before I hit the trail for home;
But while I'm there I kindo' hope
To have an audience with the Pope.

"
We stood upon the terraced height
With sunny Florence in our sight.

I gazed and gazed, too moved to speak
Until he queried: "What's that creek?

"
"The Arno, sir," I said surprised;
He stared at it with empty eyes.

"It is," said I, "the storied stream
Where Dante used to pace and dream,
And wait for Beatrice to pass.

"
(Oh how I felt a silly ass
Explaining this.

) With eyes remote
He asked: "Was Beatrice a boat?

"
Then tranced by far Fiesole
Softly I sought to steal away;
But his adhesiveness was grim,
I could not pry apart from him:
And so in our hotel-ward walk
Meekly I listened to his talk.

"Bologna! Say, the lunch was swell;
Them wops know how to feed you well.

Verona! There I met a blonde"
Oh how that baby could respond!
Siena! That's the old burg where
We soused on Asti in the square.

"Antiquity! Why, that's the bunk -
Statues and all that mouldy junk
Will never get you anywhere .

.

.

My line is ladies' underware,
And better than a dozen Dantes
Is something cute in female scanties.

.

.

.

"One day in Florence is too small
You think, maybe, to see it all.

Well, it don't matter what you've seen -
The thing is: you can say you've been.

"

Florrie Read Poem

Because I was a wonton wild
And welcomed many a lover,
Who is the father of my child
I wish I could discover.

For though I know it is not right
In tender arms to tarry,
A barmaid has to be polite
To Tom and Dick and Harry.

My truest love was Poacher Jim:
I wish my babe was his'n.

Yet I can't father it on him
Because he was in prison.

As uniforms I like, I had
A soldier and a sailor;
Then there was Pete the painter lad,
And Timothy the tailor.

Though virtue hurt you vice ain't nice;
They say to err is human;
Alas! one pays a bitter price,
It's hell to be a woman.

Oh dear! Why was I born a lass
Who hated to say: No, sir.

I'd better in my sorry pass
Blame Mister Simms, the grocer.

Flower Gardener Read Poem

Gas got me in the first World War,
And all my mates at rest are laid.

I felt I might survive them for
I am a gardener by trade.

My life is in the open air,
And kindly is the work I do,
Since flowers are my joy and care,
And comfort too.

My flowers are a fairy sight,
Yes I'm an ugly, warped old man,
For I have lived in Fate's despite
A year beyond one's mortal span;
And owe my health no gentle toil
From dawn to dark, contented hours,
Of loving kinship with the soil,
A friend of flowers.

My dahlias are my pride today,
And many my creations be.

They're worth a fortune, people say,
But what does money mean to me?

Their glory is my rich reward,
And as their radiant heads they raise,
I dedicate them to the Lord,
With love and praise.

I grieve to think that sullen Powers
On bombs and guns their might depend;
If man had heart for growing flowers
Then would we all be friend and friend.

The glory of the world is his
Who seeks salvation in the sod,
And finds that golden sunshine is
The laugh of God.

Fool Faith Read Poem

Said I: "See yon vast heaven shine,—
What earthly sight diviner?

Before such radiant Design
Why doubt Designer?

"
Said he: "Design is just a thought
In human cerebration,
And meaningless if Man is not
Part of creation.

"But grant Design,—we may imply
The job took toil aplenty;
Then why one sole designer, why
Not ten or twenty.

"But should there be one Source supreme
Of matter and of motion,
Why mould it like our man-machine
For daft devotion?

"
Said I: "You may be right or wrong,
I'll seek not to discover .

.

.

I listen to yon starry song,—
Still, still God's lover.

"

Fore-Warning Read Poem

I'd rather be the Jester than the Minstrel of the King;
I'd rather jangle cap and bells than twang the stately harp;
I'd rather make his royal ribs with belly-laughter ring,
Than see him sitting in the suds and sulky as a carp.

I'd rather be the Court buffoon than its most high-browed sage:
So you who read, take head, take heed, -
Ere yet you turn my page.

Forgotten Master Read Poem

As you gaze beyond the bay
With such wanness in your eyes,
You who have out-stayed your day,
Seeing other stars arise,
Slender though your lifehold be,
Still you dream beside the sea.

We, alas! may live too long,
Know the best part of us die;
Echo of your even-song
Hushes down the darkling sky .

.

.

But your greatness would be less
If you cherished bitterness.

I am sure you do not care
Though the rabble turn thumbs down;
Their neglect you well can bear,
knowing you have won your crown,
proudly given of your best .

.

.

Masterlinck, leave God the rest.

Fortitude Read Poem

Time, the Jester, jeers at you;
Your life's a fleeting breath;
Your birthday's flimsy I.

O.

U.

To that old devil, Death.

And though to glory you attain,
Or be to beauty born,
Your pomp and vanity are vain:
Time ticks you off with scorn.

Time, the Cynic, sneers at you,
And stays you in your stride;
He flouts the daring deeds you do,
And pillories your pride.

The triumph of your yesterday
He pages with the Past;
He taunts you with the grave's decay
And calls the score at last.

All this I now, yet what care I!
Despite his dusty word,
I hold my tattered banner high,
And swing my broken sword.

In blackest night I glimpse a gleam,
And nurse a faith sublime,
To do, to dare, to hope, to dream,
to fight you, Foeman Time;
Yea, in the dark, a deathless beam
To smite you, Tyrant Time.

Forward Read Poem

I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes
In weary, woeful, waiting times;
In doleful hours of battle-din,
Ere yet they brought the wounded in;
Through vigils of the fateful night,
In lousy barns by candle-light;
In dug-outs, sagging and aflood,
On stretchers stiff and bleared with blood;
By ragged grove, by ruined road,
By hearths accurst where Love abode;
By broken altars, blackened shrines
I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes.

I've solaced me with scraps of song
The desolated ways along:
Through sickly fields all shrapnel-sown,
And meadows reaped by death alone;
By blazing cross and splintered spire,
By headless Virgin in the mire;
By gardens gashed amid their bloom,
By gutted grave, by shattered tomb;
Beside the dying and the dead,
Where rocket green and rocket red,
In trembling pools of poising light,
With flowers of flame festoon the night.

Ah me! by what dark ways of wrong
I've cheered my heart with scraps of song.

So here's my sheaf of war-won verse,
And some is bad, and some is worse.

And if at times I curse a bit,
You needn't read that part of it;
For through it all like horror runs
The red resentment of the guns.

And you yourself would mutter when
You took the things that once were men,
And sped them through that zone of hate
To where the dripping surgeons wait;
And wonder too if in God's sight
War ever, ever can be right.

Yet may it not be, crime and war
But effort misdirected are?

And if there's good in war and crime,
There may be in my bits of rhyme,
My songs from out the slaughter mill:
So take or leave them as you will.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

7-8.

Four-Foot Shelf Read Poem

'Come, see,' said he, 'my four-foot shelf,
A forty volume row;
And every one I wrote myself,
But that, of course, you know.

'
I stared, I searched a memory dim,
For though an author too,
Somehow I'd never heard of him,—
None of his books I knew.

Said I: 'I'd like to borrow one,
Fond memories to recall.

'
Said he: 'I'll gladly give you some,
And autograph them all.

'
And so a dozen books he brought,
And signed tome after tome:
Of course I thanked him quite a lot,
And took them home.

So now I have to read his work,
Though dry as dust it be;
No portion of it may I shirk,
Lest he should question me.

This tale is true,—although it looks
To me a bloody shame,
A guy could father forty books,
yet no one know his name.

Freedom's Fool Read Poem

To hell with Government I say;
I'm sick of all the piddling pack.

I'd like to scram, get clean away,
And never, nevermore come back.

With heart of hope I long to go
To some lost island of the sea,
And there get drunk with joy to know
No one on earth is over me.

There will be none to say me nay,
So from my lexicon I can
Obliterate the word "obey",
And mock the meddling laws of man.

The laws of Nature and of God
Are good enough for guys like me,
Who scorn to kiss the scarlet rod
Of office and authority.

No Stars and Stripes nor Union Jack,
Nor tri-colour nor crimson rag
Shall claim my love, I'll turn my back
On every land, on every flag.

My banner shall be stainless white,
An emblem of the Golden Rule,
Yet for its freedom I will fight
And die - like any other fool.

Oh Government's a bitter pill!
No force or fear shall forge my fate;
I'll bow to no communal will,
For I myself shall be the State.

Uncurst by man-curb and control,
my Isle shall be emparadised,
And I will re-possess my soul .

.

.

Mad Anarchist! - Well, wasn't Christ?

Freethinker Read Poem

Although the Preacher be a bore,
The Atheist is even more.

I ain't religious worth a damn;
My views are reckoned to be broad;
And yet I shut up like a clam
When folks get figgerin' on God;
I'd hate my kids to think like me,
And though they leave me in the lurch,
I'm always mighty glad to see
My fam'ly trot to Church.

Although of books I have a shelf
Of skeptic stuff, I must confess
I keep their knowledge to myself:
Doubt doesn't help to happiness.

I never scoff at Holy Writ,
But envy those who hold it true,
And though I've never been in it
I'm proud to own a pew.

I always was a doubting Tom;
I guess some lads are born that way.

I couldn't stick religion from
The time I broke the Sabbath Day.

Yet unbelief's a bitter brew,
And this in arid ways I've learned;
If you believe a thing, it's true
As far as your concerned.

I'm sentimental, I agree,
For how it always makes me glad
To turn from Ingersoll and see
My little girls Communion-clad.

And as to church my people plod
I cry to them with simple glee:
"Say, folks, if you should talk to God,
Put in a word for me.

"

Frustration Read Poem

Gazing to gold seraph wing,
With wistful wonder in my eyes,
A blue-behinded ape, I swing
Upon the palms of Paradise.

A parakeet of gaudy hue
Upon a flame tree smugly rocks;
Oh, we're a precious pair, we two,
I gibber while the parrot squawks.

"If I had but your wings," I sigh,
"How ardently would I aspire
To soar celestially high
And mingle with yon angel choir.

"
His beady eye is bitter hard;
Right mockingly he squints at me;
As critic might review a bard
His scorn is withering to see.

And as I beat my brest and howl,
"Poor fool," he shrills, my bliss to wreck.

So .

.

.

so I steal behind that fowl
And grab his claw and screw his neck.

And swift his scarlet wings I tear;
Seeking to soar, with hope divine,
I frantically beat the air,
And crash to earth and - snap my spine.

Yet as I lie with shaken breaths
Of pain I watch my seraph throng.

.

.

.

Oh, I would die a dozen deaths
Could I but sing one deathless song!

Fulfilment Read Poem

I sing of starry dreams come true,
Of hopes fulfilled;
Of rich reward beyond my due,
Of harvest milled.

The full fruition of the years
Is mine to hold,
And in despite of toil and tears
The sun is gold.

I have no hate for any one
On this good earth;
My days of hardihood are done,
And hushed my hearth.

No echo of a world afar
Can trouble me;
Above a grove the evening star
Serene I see.

No jealousy nor passion base
Can irk me now;
Recieved am I unto God's grace
With tranquil brow.

Adieu to love I have and hold,
Farewell to friend;
In peace and faith my hands I fold
And wait the end.

Funk Read Poem

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 you're green as 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,
And your God will see you through 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.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

55-56.

Futility Read Poem

Dusting my books I spent a busy day:
Not ancient toes, time-hallowed and unread,
but modern volumes, classics in their way,
whose makers now are numbered with the dead;
Men of a generation more than mine,
With whom I tattled, battled and drank wine.

I worshipped them, rejoiced in their success,
Grudging them not the gold that goes with fame.

I thought them near-immortal, I confess,
And naught could dim the glory of each name.

How I perused their pages with delight! .

.

.

To-day I peer with sadness in my sight.

For, death has pricked each to a flat balloon.

A score of years have gone, they're clean forgot.

Who would have visioned such a dreary doom?

By God! I'd like to burn the blasted lot.

Only, old books are mighty hard to burn:
They char, they flicker and their pages turn.

And as you stand to poke them in the flame,
You see a living line that stabs the heart.

Brave writing that! It seems a cursed shame
That to a bonfire it should play it's part.

Poor book! You're crying, and you're not alone:
Some day someone will surely burn my own.

No, I will dust my books and put them by,
Yet never look into their leaves again;
For scarce a soul remembers them save I,
Re-reading them would only give me pain.

So I will sigh, and say with curling lip:
Futility! Thy name is authorship.

Gangrene Read Poem

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 easy 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?

Gentle Gaoler Read Poem

Being a gaoler I'm supposed
To be a hard-boiled guy;
Yet never prison walls enclosed
A kinder soul than I:
Passing my charges precious pills
To end their ills.

And if in gentle sleep they die,
And pass to pleasant peace,
No one suspects that it is I
Who gave them their release:
No matter what the Doctor thinks,
The Warden winks.

A lifer's is a fearful fate;
It wrings the heart of me.

And what a saving to the State
A sudden death must be!
Doomed men should have the legal right
To end their plight.

And so my veronel they take,
And bid goodbye to pain;
And sleep, and never, never wake
To living hell again:
Oh call me curst or call me blest,—
I give them rest.

Ghosts Read Poem

I to a crumpled cabin came
upon a hillside high,
And with me was a withered dame
As weariful as I.

"It used to be our home," she said;
"How well I remember well!
Oh that our happy hearth should be
Today an empty shell!"
The door was flailing in the storm
That deafed us with its din;
The roof that kept us once so warm
Now let the snow-drift in.

The floor sagged to the sod below,
The walls caved crazily;
We only heard the wind of woe
Where once was glow and glee.

So there we stood disconsolate
Beneath the Midnight Dome,
And ancient miner and his mate,
Before our wedded home,
Where we had known such love and cheer .

.

.

I sighed, then soft she said:
"Do not regret - remember, dear,
We, too, are dead.

"

Gignol Read Poem

Addict of Punch and Judy shows
I was when I was small;
My kiddy laughter, I suppose,
Rang louder than them all.

The Judge with banter I would bait,
The Copper was a wretch;
But oh how I would hiss my hate
For grim Jack Ketch.

Although a grandsire grey I still
Love Punch and Judy shows,
And with my toddlers help to fill
Enthusiastic rows.

How jolly is their mirth to see,
And what a sigh they fetch,
When Punch begs to be shown and he
Jerks up Jack Ketch.

Heigh ho! No more I watch the play;
It is the audience
That gives me my delight today,—
Such charm of innocence!
Immortal mimes! It seems to me,
Could I re-live my span,
With gusto I would like to be
A Punch and Judy Man.

Gipsy Read Poem

The poppies that in Spring I sow,
In rings of radiance gleam and glow,
Like lords and ladies gay.

A joy are they to dream beside,
As in the air of eventide
They flutter, dip and sway.

For some are scarlet, some are gold,
While some in fairy flame unfold,
And some are rose and white.

There's pride of breeding in their glance,
And pride of beauty as they dance
Cotillions of delight.

Yet as I lift my eyes I see
Their swarthy kindred wild and free.

Who flaunt it in the field.

"Begone, you Romanies!" I say,
"Lest you defile this bright array
Whose loveliness I shield.

"
My poppies are a sheen of light;
They take with ecstasy the sight,
And hold the heart elate .

.

.

.

Yet why do I so often turn
To where their outcast brothers burn
With passion at my gate?

My poppies are my joy and pride;
Yet wistfully I gaze outside
To where their sisters yearn;
Their blowzy crimson cups afire,
Their lips aflutter with desire
To give without return.

My poppies dance a minuet;
Like courtiers in silk they set
My garden all aglow .

.

.

.

Yet O the vagrants at my gate!
The gipsy trulls who peer and wait! .

.

.

Calling the heart they know.

God's Battleground Read Poem

God dwells in you; in pride and shame,
In all you do to blight or bless;
In all you are of praise and blame,
In beauty or in ugliness.

"Divine Creation" - What a fraud!
God did not make you .

.

.

You make God.

God lives in me, in all I feel
Of love and hate, of joy and pain,
Of grace and greed, or woe and weal,
Of fear and cheer, of loss and gain:
For good or evil I am He,
Yea, saint or devil, One are we.

God fends and fights in each of us;
His altars we, or bright or dim;
So with no sacerdotal fuss
But worthy act let's worship Him:
Goodness is Godness - let us be
Deserving of Divinity.

And of His presence be aware,
And by our best His love express;
A gentle word is like a prayer,
A kindly act is holiness:
Don't let God down; let Him prevail
And write his AMEN to our tale.

God's Grief Read Poem

"Lord God of Hosts," the people pray,
"Make strong our arms that we may slay
Our cursed foe and win the day.

"
"Lord God of Battles," cries the foe,
"Guide us to strike a bloody blow,
And lay the adversary low.

"
But brooding o'er the battle smother
Bewails the Lord: "Brother to brother,
Why must ye slaughter one another?

When will ye come to understand
My peace, and hand reach out to hand,
In every race, in every land?

"
And yet, his weary words despite,
Went murderously on the fight,
Till God from mankind hid His sight,
Saying: "Poor children, must you gain
To brotherhood through millions slain?

—Was anguish on the Cross in vain?

"

God's Skallywags Read Poem

The God of Scribes looked down and saw
The bitter band of seven,
Who had outraged his holy law
And lost their hope of Heaven:
Came Villon, petty thief and pimp,
And obscene Baudelaire,
And Byron with his letcher limp,
And Poe with starry stare.

And Wilde who lived his hell on earth,
And Burns, the baudy bard,
And Francis Thompson, from his birth
Malevolently starred.

.

.

.

As like a line of livid ghosts
They started to paradise,
The galaxy of Heaven's hosts
Looked down in soft surmise.

Said God: "You bastards of my love,
You are my chosen sons;
Come, I will set you high above
These merely holy ones.

Your sins you've paid in gall and grief,
So to these radiant skies,
Seducer, drunkard, dopester, thief,
Immortally arise.

I am your Father, fond and just,
And all your folly see;
Your beastiality and lust
I also know in me.

You did the task I gave to you .

.

.

Arise and sit beside
My Son, the best beloved, who
Was also crucified.

God's Vagabond Read Poem

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 eyes;
And my concept of hell
Is to be forced to sell
Myself to one who buys.

With heart of rebel I
Man's government defy;
With hate of bondage born
Monarch and mob I scorn:
My King the Lord on high.

God's majesty I know;
And worship in the glow
Of beauty that I see,
Of love embracing me;
My heaven to be free:
May it be ever so.

Gods In The Gutter Read Poem

I dreamed I saw three demi-gods who in a cafe sat,
And one was small and crapulous, and one was large and fat;
And one was eaten up with vice and verminous at that.

The first he spoke of secret sins, and gems and perfumes rare;
And velvet cats and courtesans voluptuously fair:
"Who is the Sybarite?

" I asked.

They answered: "Baudelaire.

"
The second talked in tapestries, by fantasy beguiled;
As frail as bubbles, hard as gems, his pageantries he piled;
"This Lord of Language, who is he?

" They whispered "Oscar Wilde.

"
The third was staring at his glass from out abysmal pain;
With tears his eyes were bitten in beneath his bulbous brain.

"Who is the sodden wretch?

" I said.

They told me: "Paul Verlaine.

"
Oh, Wilde, Verlaine and Baudelaire, their lips were wet with wine;
Oh poseur, pimp and libertine! Oh cynic, sot and swine!
Oh votaries of velvet vice! .

.

.

Oh gods of light divine!
Oh Baudelaire, Verlaine and Wilde, they knew the sinks of shame;
Their sun-aspiring wings they scorched at passion's altar flame;
Yet lo! enthroned, enskied they stand, Immortal Sons of Fame.

I dreamed I saw three demi-gods who walked with feet of clay,
With cruel crosses on their backs, along a miry way;
Who climbed and climbed the bitter steep to which men turn and pray.

Going Home Read Poem

I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty — ain't I glad to 'ave the chance!
I'm loaded up wiv fightin', and I've 'ad my fill o' France;
I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and dance,
For I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.

I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I'm gay?

I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a year o' pay;
A harm that's mashed to jelly in the nicest sort o' way,
For it takes me 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.

'Ow everlastin' keen I was on gettin' to the front!
I'd ginger for a dozen, and I 'elped to bear the brunt;
But Cheese and Crust! I'm crazy, now I've done me little stunt,
To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin'.

I've looked upon the wine that's white, and on the wine that's red;
I've looked on cider flowin', till it fairly turned me 'ead;
But oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is done and said,
A pint o' Bass in Blighty in the mawnin'.

I'm goin' back to Blighty, which I left to strafe the 'Un;
I've fought in bloody battles, and I've 'ad a 'eap of fun;
But now me flipper's busted, and I think me dooty's done,
And I'll kiss me gel in Blighty in the mawnin'.

Oh, there be furrin' lands to see, and some of 'em be fine;
And there be furrin' gels to kiss, and scented furrin' wine;
But there's no land like England, and no other gel like mine:
Thank Gawd for dear old Blighty in the mawnin'.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

90-91.

Golden Days Read Poem

Another day of toil and strife,
Another page so white,
Within that fateful Log of Life
That I and all must write;
Another page without a stain
To make of as I may,
That done, I shall not see again
Until the Judgment Day.

Ah, could I, could I backward turn
The pages of that Book,
How often would I blench and burn!
How often loathe to look!
What pages would be meanly scrolled;
What smeared as if with mud;
A few, maybe, might gleam like gold,
Some scarlet seem as blood.

O Record grave, God guide my hand
And make me worthy be,
Since what I write to-day shall stand
To all eternity;
Aye, teach me, Lord of Life, I pray,
As I salute the sun,
To bear myself that every day
May be a Golden One.

Good-Bye, Little Cabin Read Poem

O dear little cabin, I've 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've 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 dimmed 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 the 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!

Grand-Pa's Whim Read Poem

While for me gapes the greedy grave
It don't make sense
That I should have a crazy crave
To paint our fence.

Yet that is what I aim to do,
Though dim my sight:
Jest paint them aged pickets blue,
Or green or white.

Jest squat serenely in the sun
Wi' brush an' paint,
An' gay them pickets one by one,
—A chore! It ain't.

The job is joy.

Although I'm slow
I save expense:
So folks, let me before I go,
Smart that ol' fence.

Them pickets with my hands I made,
When young and spry;
I coloured them a gleeful shade
To glad the eye.

So now as chirpy as a boy,
'Ere I go hence,
Once more let me jest bright to joy
Our picket fence.

Grand-Père Read Poem

And so when he reached my bed
The General made a stand:
"My brave young fellow," he said,
"I would shake your hand.

"
So I lifted my arm, the right,
With never a hand at all;
Only a stump, a sight
Fit to appal.

"Well, well.

Now that's too bad!
That's sorrowful luck," he said;
"But there! You give me, my lad,
The left instead.

"
So from under the blanket's rim
I raised and showed him the other,
A snag as ugly and grim
As its ugly brother.

He looked at each jagged wrist;
He looked, but he did not speak;
And then he bent down and kissed
Me on either cheek.

You wonder now I don't mind
I hadn't a hand to offer.

.

.

.

They tell me (you know I'm blind)
'Twas Grand-Père Joffre.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

128-129.

Grandad Read Poem

Heaven's mighty sweet, I guess;
Ain't no rush to git there:
Been a sinner, more or less;
Maybe wouldn't fit there.

Wicked still, bound to confess;
Might jest pine a bit there.

Heaven's swell, the preachers say:
Got so used to earth here;
Had such good times all the way,
Frolic, fun and mirth here;
Eighty Springs ago to-day,
Since I had my birth here.

Quite a spell of happy years.

Wish I could begin it;
Cloud and sunshine, laughter, tears,
Livin' every minute.

Women, too, the pretty dears;
Plenty of 'em in it.

Heaven! that's another tale.

Mightn't let me chew there.

Gotta have me pot of ale;
Would I like the brew there?

Maybe I'd get slack and stale -
No more chores to do there.

Here I weed the garden plot,
Scare the crows from pillage;
Simmer in the sun a lot,
Talk about the tillage.

Yarn of battles I have fought,
Greybeard of the village.

Heaven's mighty fine, I know .

.

.

.

Still, it ain't so bad here.

See them maples all aglow;
Starlings seem so glad here:
I'll be mighty peeved to go,
Scrumptious times I've had here.

Lord, I know You'll understand.

With Your Light You'll lead me.

Though I'm not the pious brand,
I'm here when You need me.

Gosh! I know that HEAVEN'S GRAND,
But dang it! God, don't speed me.

Grey Gull Read Poem

'Twas on an iron, icy day
I saw a pirate gull down-plane,
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 ate and ate, it preened a bit,
By way 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 old 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.

Grin Read Poem

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 that 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.

Growing Old Read Poem

Somehow the skies don't seem so blue
As they used to be;
Blossoms have a fainter hue,
Grass less green I see.

There's no twinkle in a star,
Dawns don't seem so gold .

.

.

Yet, of course, I know they are:
Guess I'm growing old.

Somehow sunshine seems less bright,
Birds less gladly sing;
Moons don't thrill me with delight,
There's no kick in Spring.

Hills are steeper now and I'm
Sensitive to cold;
Lines are not so keen to rhyme .

.

.

Gosh! I'm growing old.

Yet in spite of failing things
I've no cause to grieve;
Age with all its ailing brings
Blessings, I believe:
Kindo' gentles up the mind
As the hope we hold
That with loving we will find
Friendliness in human kind,
Grace in growing old.

Grumpy Grandpa Read Poem

Grand-daughter of the Painted Nails,
As if they had been dipped in gore,
I'd like to set you lugging pails
And make you scrub the kitchen floor.

I'm old and crotchety of course,
And on this point my patience fails;
I'd sue my old girl for divorce
If she showed up with painted nails.

Grand-daughter of the Painted Nails,
Like to a Jezebel are you;
Do you expect to snare the males
With talons of such bloody hue?

I could forgive your smudging lips,
Your scarlet cheek that powder veils,
But not your sanguine finger-tips .

.

.

Don't paw me with your painted nails.

Grand-daughter of the Painted Nails,
Were I the sire of maidens ten,
I'd curse them over hills and dales,
And hold them to the scorn of men
If they had claws of crimson dye;
Aye, though they sang like nightingales,
Unto the welkin I would cry:
"Avaunt, ye hags with Painted Nails!"

Gypsy Jill Read Poem

They're hanging Bill at eight o' clock,
And millions will applaud.

He killed, and so they have to kill,
Such is the will of God.

His brother Tom is on my bed
To keep me comforted.

I see his bleary, blotchy face,
I hear his sodden snore.

He plans that he can take Bill's place;
I felt worse than a whore
As in his arms I cried all night,
Thinking of poor Bill's plight.

I keep my eyes upon the clock;
It nears the stroke of eight.

I think how bravely Bill will walk
To meet his gallows fate .

.

.

His loaded gun is in the tent,—
I know now what he meant.

Though Tom is boastful he will wed
With me, no more to part,
I'll put a bullet through his head,
Another through my heart:
At eight, stone-dead we three will be,
—Bill, Tom and me.

Hate Read Poem

I had a bitter enemy,
His heart to hate he gave,
And when I died he swore that he
Would dance upon my grave;
That he would leap and laugh because
A livid corpse was I,
And that's the reason why I was
In no great haste to die.

And then - such is the quirk of fate,
One day with joy I read,
Despite his vitalizing hate
My enemy was dead.

Maybe the poison in his heart
Had helped to haste his doom:
He was not spared till I depart
To spit upon my tomb.

The other day I chanced to go
To where he lies alone.

'Tis easy to forgive a foe
When he is dead and gone.

.

.

.

Poor devil! Now his day is done,
(Though bright it was and brave,)
Yet I am happy there is none
To dance upon my grave.

Heart o' the North Read Poem

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.

Henry Read Poem

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 march of time,
Life's wear and tear!
Now I am in my lusty prime
With pep to spare,
While she looks ten more years than I'm,
With greying hair.

'Twas on our trip dear friends among,
To New Orleans,
A stranger's silly trip of tongue
Kiboshed my dreams:
I heard her say: 'How very young
His mother seems.

'
Child-bearing gets a woman down,
And six had she;
Yet now somehow I feel a clown
When she's with me;
When cuties smile one cannot frown,
You must agree.

How often I have heard it said:
'For happy fate,
In age a girl ten years ahead
Should choose her mate.

'
Now twenty years to Mary wed
I know too late.

Her Letter Read Poem

"I'm taking pen in hand this night, and hard it is for me;
My poor old fingers tremble so, my hand is stiff and slow,
And even with my glasses on I'm troubled sore to see.

.

.

.

You'd little know your mother, boy; you'd little, little know.

You mind how brisk and bright I was, how straight and trim and smart;
'Tis weariful I am the now, and bent and frail and grey.

I'm waiting at the road's end, lad; and all that's in my heart,
Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away.

"
"Oh well I mind the sorry day you crossed the gurly sea;
'Twas like the heart was torn from me, a waeful wife was I.

You said that you'd be home again in two years, maybe three;
But nigh a score of years have gone, and still the years go by.

I know it's cruel hard for you, you've bairnies of your own;
I know the siller's hard to win, and folks have used you ill:
But oh, think of your mother, lad, that's waiting by her lone!
And even if you canna come — just write and say you will.

"
"Aye, even though there's little hope, just promise that you'll try.

It's weary, weary waiting, lad; just say you'll come next year.

I'm thinking there will be no 'next'; I'm thinking soon I'll lie
With all the ones I've laid away .

.

.

but oh, the hope will cheer!
You know you're all that's left to me, and we are seas apart;
But if you'll only say you'll come, then will I hope and pray.

I'm waiting by the grave-side, lad; and all that's in my heart
Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away.

"

Her Toys Read Poem

I sat her in her baby chair,
And set upon its tray
Her kewpie doll and teddy bear,
But no, she would not play.

Although they looked so wistfully
Her favour to implore,
She laughed at me with elfin glee
And dashed them to the floor.

I brought her lamb and circus clown,
But it was just the same:
With shrill of joy she threw them down
As if it were a game.

Maybe it was, for she would look
To see where they were lain
And act pathetic till I took
Her toys to her again.

To-day there's just an empty chair,
And 'mid a mist of pain
I'd give my life if she were there
To toss her toys again.

A tiny ghost is all I see,
Who laughs the while I cry,
And lifts her little hands with glee
—Unto the sky.

Hero Worship Read Poem

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 book was in your hand,)
Upon his melancholy mood .

.

.

I do not understand.

"You did not tell him: 'I have come
From o'er the sea to speak to you.

'
You did not dare, your lips were dumb .

.

.

You thought a little zephyr blew
From Rushy Pond a touch of him
You'll cherish to your dying day,
Perhaps with tears your eyes were dim .

.

.

And then - you went away.

"And down the years you will proclaim:
'O call me dullard, dub me dunce!
But let this be my meed of fame:
I looked on Thomas Hardy once.

Aye, by a stile I stood a span
And with these eyes did plainly see
A little, shrinking, shabby man .

.

.

But Oh a god to me!'"
Said I: "'Tis true, I scarce dared look,
yet he would have been kind, I'm sure;
But though I clutched his precious book
I feared to beg his signature.

Ah yes, my friend, I merit mirth.

You're bold, you have the right to laugh,
And if Christ came again to earth
You'd cadge his autograph.

"

Highland Hospitality Read Poem

Unto his housemaid spoke the Laird:
"Tonight the Bishop is our guest;
The spare room must be warmed and aired:
To please him we will do our best.

A worthy haggis you must make,
And serve a bowl of barley bree;
We must be hearty for the sake
Of Highland Hospitality.

The feast was set, the candles lit,
The Bishop came with modest mien,
And (one surmised) was glad to sit
And sup in this ancestral scene.

A noble haggis graced the board;
The Laird proposed a toast or two,
And ever and anon he poured
His guest a glass of Mountain Dew.

Then to his maid the Laird gave tongue:
"My sonsie Jean, my friend is old.

Comparatively you are young,
And not so sensitive to cold.

Poor chiel! His blood austerely beats,
Though it be sped by barley bree .

.

.

Slip half an hour between the sheets,
Brave lass, and warm his bed a wee.

Said she: "I'll do the best I can
So that his couch may cosy be,
And as a human warming pan
Prove Highland Hospitality.

"
So hearing sounds of mild carouse,
As in the down she pillowed deep:
"In half an hour I will arouse,"
She vowed, then soundly went to sleep.

So when the morn was amber-orbed
The Bishop from a dream awoke,
And as his parritch he absorbed,
Unto his host he slyly spoke:
"Your haggis, Laird, was nobly bred,
And braw your brew of barley bree -
But oh your thought to warm the bed!
That's Highland Hospitality.

His Boys Read Poem

"I'm going, Billy, old fellow.

Hist, lad! Don't make any noise.

There's Boches to beat all creation, the pitch of a bomb away.

I've fixed the note to your collar, you've got to get back to my Boys,
You've got to get back to warn 'em before it's the break of day.

"
The order came to go forward to a trench-line traced on the map;
I knew the brass-hats had blundered, I knew and I told 'em so;
I knew if I did as they ordered I would tumble into a trap,
And I tried to explain, but the answer came like a pistol: "Go.

"
Then I thought of the Boys I commanded — I always called them "my Boys" —
The men of my own recruiting, the lads of my countryside;
Tested in many a battle, I knew their sorrows and joys,
And I loved them all like a father, with more than a father's pride.

To march my Boys to a shambles as soon as the dawn of day;
To see them helplessly slaughtered, if all that I guessed was true;
My Boys that trusted me blindly, I thought and I tried to pray,
And then I arose and I muttered: "It's either them or it's you.

"
I rose and I donned my rain-coat; I buckled my helmet tight.

I remember you watched me, Billy, as I took my cane in my hand;
I vaulted over the sandbags into the pitchy night,
Into the pitted valley that served us as No Man's Land.

I strode out over the hollow of hate and havoc and death,
From the heights the guns were angry, with a vengeful snarling of steel;
And once in a moment of stillness I heard hard panting breath,
And I turned .

.

.

it was you, old rascal, following hard on my heel.

I fancy I cursed you, Billy; but not so much as I ought!
And so we went forward together, till we came to the valley rim,
And then a star-shell sputtered .

.

.

it was even worse than I thought,
For the trench they told me to move in was packed with Boche to the brim.

They saw me too, and they got me; they peppered me till I fell;
And there I scribbled my message with my life-blood ebbing away;
"Now, Billy, you fat old duffer, you've got to get back like hell;
And get them to cancel that order before it's the dawn of day.

"Billy, old boy, I love you, I kiss your shiny black nose;
Now, home there.

.

.

.

Hurry, you devil, or I'll cut you to ribands.

.

.

.

See .

.

.

"
Poor brute! he's off! and I'm dying.

.

.

.

I go as a soldier goes.

I'm happy.

My Boys, God bless 'em! .

.

.

It had to be them or me.

Hobo Read Poem

A father's pride I used to know,
A mother's love was mine;
For swinish husks I let them go,
And bedded with the swine.

Since then I've come on evil days
And most of life is hell;
But even swine have winsome ways
When once you know them well.

One time I guessed I'd cease to roam,
And greet the folks again;
And so I rode the rods to home
And through the window pane
I saw them weary, worn and grey .

.

.

I gazed from the garden gloom,
And like sweet, shiny saints were they
Int taht sweet, shiny room.

D'ye think I hollored out: "Hullo!"
The prodigal to play,
And eat the fatted calf?

Ah no,
I cursed and ran away.

My eyes were blears of whisky tears
As to a pub I ran:
But once at least I beat the beast
And proved myself a man.

Oh, some day I am going back,
But I'll have gold galore;
I'll wear a suit of sobber black
And knock upon the door.

I'l tell them how I've made a stake,
We'll have the grandest time.

.

.

.

"Say, Mister, give a guy a break:
For Chrissake, spare a dime.

"

Home and Love Read Poem

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.

Horatio Read Poem

His portrait hung upon the wall.

Oh how at us he used to stare.

Each Sunday when I made my call! —
And when one day it wasn't there,
Quite quick I seemed to understand
The light was green to hold her hand.

Her eyes were amorously lit;
I knew she wouldn't mind at all.

Yet what I did was sit and sit
Seeing that blankness on the wall .

.

.

Horatio had a gentle face,—
How would my mug look in his place?

That oblong of wall-paper wan!
And while she prattled prettily
I sensed the red light going on,
So I refused a cup of tea,
And took my gold-topped cane and hat—
My going seemed to leave her flat.

Horatio was a decent guy,
And when she ravished from her heart
A damsite better man than I,
She seemed to me,—well, just a tart:
Her lack of tact I can't explain.

His picture,—is it hung again?

Hot Digitty Dog Read Poem

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 in Normandy, three in the Ruhr.

Four I got with a hand grenade,
Two I shot in a midnight raid:
Oh, I ain't sorry, except perhaps
To think that my jerries wasn't japs.

Hot digitty dog! Now ain't it tough;
I oughta be handed hero stuff -
Bands and banquets, and flags and flowers,
Speeches, peaches, confetti showers;
"Welcome back to the old home town,
Colour Sargent Josephus Brown.

Fought like a tiger, one of our best,
Medals and ribands on his chest.

cheers for a warrior, fresh from the fight .

.

.

"
Sure I'd 'a got 'em - - had I been white.

Hot digitty dog! It's jist too bad,
Gittin' home an' nobody gald;
Sneakin' into the Owl Drug Store
Nobody knowin' me any more;
Admirin' my uniform fine and fit -
Say, I've certainly changed a bit
From the lanky lad who used to croon
To a battered banjo in Shay's Saloon;
From the no-good nigger who runned away
After stickin' his knife into ol' man Shay.

They's a lynched me, for he was white,
But he raped my sister one Sunday night;
So I did what a proper man should do,
And I sunk his body deep in the slough.

Oh, he taunted me to my dark disgrace,
Called me a nigger, spat in my face;
So I buried my jack-knife in his heart,
Laughin' to see the hot blood start;
Laughin' still, though it's long ago,
And nobody's ever a-gonna know.

Nobody's ever a-gonna tell
How Ol' Man Shay went straight to hell;
nobody's gonna make me confess -
And what is a killin' more or less.

My skin may be black, but by Christ! I fight;
I've slain a dozen, and each was white,
And none of 'em ever did me no harm,
And my conscience is clear - I've no alarm;
So I'll go where I sank Ol' Man Shay in the bog,
And spit in the water .

.

.

Hot digitty dog!

Humility Read Poem

My virtues in Carara stone
Cut carefully you all my scan;
Beneath I lie, a fetid bone,
The marble worth more than the man.

If on my pure tomb they should grave
My vices,—how the folks would grin!
And say with sympathetic wave:
"Like us he was a man of sin.

"
And somehow he consoled thereby,
Knowing they may, though Hades bent,
When finally they come to die,
Enjoy a snow-white monument.

And maybe it is just as well
When we from life and lust are riven,
That though our souls should sink to hell
Our tombs point: Destination Heaven!

I Have Some Friends Read Poem

I have some friends, some worthy friends,
And worthy friends are rare:
These carpet slippers on my feet,
That padded leather chair;
This old and shabby dressing-gown,
So well the worse of wear.

I have some friends, some honest friends,
And honest friends are few;
My pipe of briar, my open fire,
A book that's not too new;
My bed so warm, the nights of storm
I love to listen to.

I have some friends, some good, good friends,
Who faithful are to me:
My wrestling partner when I rise,
The big and burly sea;
My little boat that's riding there
So saucy and so free.

I have some friends, some golden friends,
Whose worth will not decline:
A tawny Irish terrier, a purple shading pine,
A little red-roofed cottage that
So proudly I call mine.

All other friends may come and go,
All other friendships fail;
But these, the friends I've worked to win,
Oh, they will never stale;
And comfort me till Time shall write
The finish to my tale.

I Shall Not Burn Read Poem

I have done with love and lust,
I reck not for gold or fame;
I await familiar dust
These frail fingers to reclaim:
Not for me the tiger flame.

Not for me the furnace glow,
Rage of fire and ashen doom;
To sweet earth my bones bestow
Where above a lowly tomb
January roses bloom.

Fools and fools and fools are you
Who your dears to fires confide;
Give to Mother Earth her due:
Flesh may waste but bone will bide,—
Let loved ones lie side by side.

Let God's Acre ever dream;
Shed your tears and blossoms bring;
On age-burnished bone will gleam
Crucifix and wedding ring:
Graves are for sweet comforting.

Curst be those who my remains
Hurl to horror of the flames!

I Will Not Fight Read Poem

I will not fight: though proud of pith
I hold no one worth striving with;
And should resentment burn my breast
I deem that silence serves me best:
So having not a word to say,
Contemptuous I turn away.

I will not fret: my rest of life
Free I will keep from hate and strife;
Let lust and sin and anger sleep,
I will not delve the subsoil deep,
But be content with inch of earth,
Where daisies have their birth.

I will not grieve: Till day be done
I will be tranquil in the sun,
With garden glow and quiet nook,
And song of bird and spell of book .

.

.

God bless you all! I will not fight,
But love and dream until—Goodnight!

I'm Scared of It All Read Poem

I'm scared of it all, God's truth! so I am;
It's too big and brutal for me.

My nerve's on the raw and I don't give a damn
For all the "hoorah" that I see.

I'm pinned between subway and overhead train,
Where automobillies swoop down:
Oh, I want to go back to the timber again —
I'm scared of the terrible town.

I want to go back to my lean, ashen plains;
My rivers that flash into foam;
My ultimate valleys where solitude reigns;
My trail from Fort Churchill to Nome.

My forests packed full of mysterious gloom,
My ice-fields agrind and aglare:
The city is deadfalled with danger and doom —
I know that I'm safer up there.

I watch the wan faces that flash in the street;
All kinds and all classes I see.

Yet never a one in the million I meet,
Has the smile of a comrade for me.

Just jaded and panting like dogs in a pack;
Just tensed and intent on the goal:
O God! but I'm lonesome — I wish I was back,
Up there in the land of the Pole.

I wish I was back on the Hunger Plateaus,
And seeking the lost caribou;
I wish I was up where the Coppermine flows
To the kick of my little canoe.

I'd like to be far on some weariful shore,
In the Land of the Blizzard and Bear;
Oh, I wish I was snug in the Arctic once more,
For I know I am safer up there!
I prowl in the canyons of dismal unrest;
I cringe — I'm so weak and so small.

I can't get my bearings, I'm crushed and oppressed
With the haste and the waste of it all.

The slaves and the madman, the lust and the sweat,
The fear in the faces I see;
The getting, the spending, the fever, the fret —
It's too bleeding cruel for me.

I feel it's all wrong, but I can't tell you why —
The palace, the hovel next door;
The insolent towers that sprawl to the sky,
The crush and the rush and the roar.

I'm trapped like a fox and I fear for my pelt;
I cower in the crash and the glare;
Oh, I want to be back in the avalanche belt,
For I know that it's safer up there!
I'm scared of it all: Oh, afar I can hear
The voice of my solitudes call!
We're nothing but brute with a little veneer,
And nature is best after all.

There's tumult and terror abroad in the street;
There's menace and doom in the air;
I've got to get back to my thousand-mile beat;
The trail where the cougar and silver-tip meet;
The snows and the camp-fire, with wolves at my feet;
Good-bye, for it's safer up there.

To be forming good habits up there;
To be starving on rabbits up there;
In your hunger and woe,
Though it's sixty below,
Oh, I know that it's safer up there!

If You Had A Friend Read Poem

If you had a friend strong, simple, true,
Who knew your faults and who understood;
Who believed in the very best of you,
And who cared for you as a father would;
Who would stick by you to the very end,
Who would smile however the world might frown:
I'm sure you would try to please your friend,
You never would think to throw him down.

And supposing your friend was high and great,
And he lived in a palace rich and tall,
And sat like a King in shining state,
And his praise was loud on the lips of all;
Well then, when he turned to you alone,
And he singled you out from all the crowd,
And he called you up to his golden throne,
Oh, wouldn't you just be jolly proud?

If you had a friend like this, I say,
So sweet and tender, so strong and true,
You'd try to please him in every way,
You'd live at your bravest — now, wouldn't you?

His worth would shine in the words you penned;
You'd shout his praises .

.

.

yet now it's odd!
You tell me you haven't got such a friend;
You haven't?

I wonder .

.

.

What of God?

If you had the choice Read Poem

If you had the choice of two women to wed,
(Though of course the idea is quite absurd)
And the first from her heels to her dainty head
Was charming in every sense of the word:
And yet in the past (I grieve to state),
She never had been exactly "straight".

And the second — she was beyond all cavil,
A model of virtue, I must confess;
And yet, alas! she was dull as the devil,
And rather a dowd in the way of dress;
Though what she was lacking in wit and beauty,
She more than made up for in "sense of duty".

Now, suppose you must wed, and make no blunder,
And either would love you, and let you win her —
Which of the two would you choose, I wonder,
The stolid saint or the sparkling sinner?

From Rhymes of a Rolling Stone

Ignorance Read Poem

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 rose is just a rose,
A star—a star.

It is not good, I deem, to brood
On things beyond our ken;
A rustic I would live and die,
Aloof from learned men;
And laugh and sing with zest of Spring
In life's exultant scene,—
For vain my be philosophy,
And what does meaning mean?

I'm talking rot,—I'm really not
As dumb as I pretend;
But happiness, I dimly guess,
Is what counts in the end.

To educate is to dilate
The nerves of pain:
So let us give up books and live
Like hinds again.

The best of wisdom surely is
To be not overwise;
For may not thought be evil fraught,
And truth less kind than lies?

So let me praise the golden days
I played a gay guitar,
And deemed a rose was just a rose,
A star—a star.

Imagination Read Poem

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 courts of musky quietude
And turrets tall.

Maybe where low the vultures wing
'Mid mosque and minaret,
The proud pavilion of a King
Was luminously set.

'Mid fairy fountains, alcoves dim,
Upon a garnet throne
He ruled,—and now all trace of him
Is just this stone.

Ah well, I've done with wandering,
But from a blousy bar
I see with drunk imagining
A Palace like a star.

I build it up from one grey stone
With gardens hanging high,
And dream .

.

.

Long, long ere Babylon
It's King was I.

Immortality Read Poem

Full well I trow that when I die
Down drops the curtain;
Another show is all my eye
And Betty Martin.

I know the score, and with a smile
Of rueful rating,
I reckon I am not worth while
Perpetuating.

I hope that God,—if God there be
Of love and glory,
Will let me off Eternity,
And end my story.

Will count me just a worn-out bit
Of human matter,
Who's done his job or bungled it,
—More like the latter.

I did not beg for mortal breath,
Plus hell or Heaven;
So let the last pay-off be death,
And call it even.

To Nature I will pay my debt
With stoic laughter:
But spare me, God, your awful threat
Of Life Here-after!

In Praise of Alcohol Read Poem

In Praise of Alcohol
Of vintage wine I am a lover;
To drink deep would be my delight;
If 'twere not for the bleak hangover
I'd get me loaded every night;
I'd whoop it up with song and laughter -
If 'twere not for the morning after.

For though to soberness I'm given
It is a thought I've often thunk:
The nearest that is Earth to Heaven
Is to get sublimely drunk;
Is to achieve divine elation
By means of generous libation.

Alas, the wine-cups claim their payment
And as the price if often pain,
if we could sense what morning grey meant
We never would get soused again;
Rather than buy a hob-nailed liver
I'm sure that we'd abstain for ever.

Yet how I love the glow of liquor,
As joyfully I drink it up!
hoping that unto life's last flicker
With praise I'll raise the ruby cup;
And let me like a jolly monk
Proceed to get sublimely drunk.

From
Later Collected Verse
by Robert W.

Service (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1965), page 421.

Charley Noble

Include Me Out Read Poem

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!

Indifference Read Poem

When I am dead I will not care
Forever more,
If sky be radiantly fair
Or tempest roar.

If my life-hoard in sin be spent,
My wife re-wed,—
I'll be so damned indifferent
When I am dead.

When I meet up with dusty doom
What if I rest
In common ditch or marble tomb,
If curst or blest?

Shall my seed be to wealth or fame,
Or gallows led,—
To me it will be all the same
When I am dead.

So say for me no pious prayer,
Be no tear shed;
In nothingness I cannot care,
I'll be so dead.

I shall not reck of war or peace
When I go hence:
Lord, let me win sublime release,—
INDIFFERENCE!

Infidelity Read Poem

Three Triangles
TRIANGLE ONE
My husband put some poison in my beer,
And fondly hoped that I would drink it up.

He would get rid of me - no bloody fear,
For when his back was turned I changed the cup.

He took it all, and if he did not die,
Its just because he's heartier than I.

And now I watch and watch him night and day
dreading that he will try it on again.

I'm getting like a skeleton they say,
And every time I feel the slightest pain
I think: he's got me this time.

.

.

.

Oh the beast!
He might have let me starve to death, at least.

But all he thinks of is that shell-pink nurse.

I know as well as well that they're in loe.

I'm sure they kiss, and maybe do things worse,
Although she looks as gentle as a dove.

I see their eyes with passion all aglow:
I know they only wait for me to go.

Ah well, I'll go (I have to, anyway),
But they will pay the price of lust and sin.

I've sent a letter to the police to say:
"If I should die its them have dome me in.

"
And now a lot of vernal I'll take,
And go to sleep, and never, never wake.

But won't I laugh! Aye, even when I'm dead,
To think of them both hanging by the head.

TRIANGLE TWO
My wife's a fancy bit of stuff it's true;
But that's no reason she should do me dirt.

Of course I know a girl is tempted to,
With mountain men a-fussin' round her skirt.

A 'andome  women's bound to 'ave a 'eart,
But that's no reason she should be a tart.

I didn't oughter give me 'ome address
To sergeant when 'e last went on 'is leave;
And now the 'ole shebang's a bloody mess;
I didn't think the missis would deceive.

And 'ere was I, a-riskin' of me life,
And thee was 'e, a-sleepin' wiv me wife.

Go blimy, but this thing 'as got to stop.

Well, next time when we makes a big attack,
As soon as we gets well across the top,
I'll plug 'em (accidental) in the back.

'E'll cop a blinkin' packet in 'is spine,
And that'll be the end of 'im, the swine.

It's easy in the muck-up of a fight;
And all me mates'll think it was the foe.

And 'oo can say it doesn't serve 'im right?

And I'll go 'ome and none will ever know,
My missis didn't oughter do that sort o' thing,
Seein' as 'ow she wears my weddin' ring.

Well, we'll be just as 'appy as before,
When otherwise she might a' bin a 'ore.

TRIANGLE THREE
It's fun to see Joe fuss around that kid.

I know 'e loves 'er more than all the rest,
Because she's by a lot the prettiest.

'E wouldn't lose 'er for a 'undred quid.

I love 'er too, because she isn't his'n;
But Jim, his brother's, wot they've put in prision.

It's 'ard to 'ave a 'usband wot you 'ate;
So soft that if 'e knowed you'd 'ad a tup,
'E wouldn't 'ave the guts to beat you up.

Now Jim - 'e's wot I call a proper mate.

I daren't try no monkey tricks wiv 'im.

'E'd flay be 'ide off (quite right, too) would Jim.

I won't let on to Jim when 'e comes out;
But Joe - each time I see 'im kissin' Nell,
I 'ave to leave the room and laughlike 'ell.

"E'll 'ave the benefit (damn little) of the doubt.

So let 'im kiss our Nellie fit to smother;
There ain't no proof 'er father is 'is brother.

Well, anyway I've no remorse.

You see,
I've kept my frailty in the family.

Infirmities Read Poem

Because my teeth are feebly few
I cannot bolt my grub like you,
But have to chew and chew and chew
As you can see;
Yet every mouthful seems so good
I would not haste it if I could,
And so I salivate my food
With ecstasy.

Because my purse is poor in pence
I spend my dough with common-sense,
And live without the least pretence
In simple state;
The things I can't afford to buy
Might speed the day I have to die,
So pleased with poverty am I
And bless my fate.

Because my heart is growing tired,
No more by foolish passion fired,
Nor by ambitious hope inspired,
As in my youth,
I am content to sit and rest,
And prove the last of life's the best,
And ponder with a cheerful zest
Some saintly truth.

Because I cannot do the things
I used to, comfort round me clings,
And from the moil of market brings
Me rich release;
So welcome age with tranquil mind;
Even infirmities are kind,
And in our frailing we may find
Life's crown of peace.

Innocence Read Poem

The height of wisdom seems to me
That of a child;
So let my ageing vision be
Serene and mild.

The depth of folly, I aver,
Is to fish deep
In that dark pool of science where
Truth-demons sleep.

Let me not be a bearded sage
Seeing too clear;
In issues of the atom age
Man-doom I fear.

So long as living's outward show
To me is fair,
What lies behind I do not know,
And do not care.

Of woeful fears of future ill
That earth-folk haunt,
Let me, as radiant meadow rill,
Be ignorant.

Aye, though a sorry dunce I be
In learning's school,
Lord, marvellously make of me
Your Happy Fool!

Insomnia Read Poem

Heigh ho! to sleep I vainly try;
Since twelve I haven't closed an eye,
And now it's three, and as I lie,
From Notre Dame to St.

Denis
The bells of Paris chime to me;
"You're young," they say, "and strong and free.

"
I do not turn with sighs and groans
To ease my limbs, to rest my bones,
As if my bed were stuffed with stones,
No peevish murmur tips my tongue —
Ah no! for every sound upflung
Says: "Lad, you're free and strong and young.

"
And so beneath the sheet's caress
My body purrs with happiness;
Joy bubbles in my veins.

.

.

.

Ah yes,
My very blood that leaps along
Is chiming in a joyous song,
Because I'm young and free and strong.

Maybe it is the springtide.

I am so happy I am afraid.

The sense of living fills me with exultation.

I want to sing,
to dance; I am dithyrambic with delight.

I think the moon must be to blame:
It fills the room with fairy flame;
It paints the wall, it seems to pour
A dappled flood upon the floor.

I rise and through the window stare .

.

.

Ye gods! how marvelously fair!
From Montrouge to the Martyr's Hill,
A silver city rapt and still;
Dim, drowsy deeps of opal haze,
And spire and dome in diamond blaze;
The little lisping leaves of spring
Like sequins softly glimmering;
Each roof a plaque of argent sheen,
A gauzy gulf the space between;
Each chimney-top a thing of grace,
Where merry moonbeams prank and chase;
And all that sordid was and mean,
Just Beauty, deathless and serene.

O magic city of a dream!
From glory unto glory gleam;
And I will gaze and pity those
Who on their pillows drowse and doze .

.

.

And as I've nothing else to do,
Of tea I'll make a rousing brew,
And coax my pipes until they croon,
And chant a ditty to the moon.

There! my tea is black and strong.

Inspiration comes with
every sip.

Now for the moon.

The moon peeped out behind the hill
As yellow as an apricot;
Then up and up it climbed until
Into the sky it fairly got;
The sky was vast and violet;
The poor moon seemed to faint in fright,
And pale it grew and paler yet,
Like fine old silver, rinsed and bright.

And yet it climbed so bravely on
Until it mounted heaven-high;
Then earthward it serenely shone,
A silver sovereign of the sky,
A bland sultana of the night,
Surveying realms of lily light.

Inspiration Read Poem

How often have I started out
With no thought in my noodle,
And wandered here and there about,
Where fancy bade me toddle;
Till feeling faunlike in my glee
I've voiced some gay distiches,
Returning joyfully to tea,
A poem in my britches.

A-squatting on a thymy slope
With vast of sky about me,
I've scribbled on an envelope
The rhymes the hills would shout me;
The couplets that the trees would call,
The lays the breezes proffered .

.

.

Oh no, I didn't think at all -
I took what Nature offered.

For that's the way you ought to write -
Without a trace of trouble;
Be super-charged with high delight
And let the words out-bubble;
Be voice of vale and wood and stream
Without design or proem:
Then rouse from out a golden dream
To find you've made a poem.

So I'll go forth with mind a blank,
And sea and sky will spell me;
And lolling on a thymy bank
I'll take down what they tell me;
As Mother Nature speaks to me
Her words I'll gaily docket,
So I'll come singing home to tea
A poem in my pocket.

Line 2
It may be written noodle but would have been pronounced noddle, both in different dialects being a term for head.

Line 22
Proem means preface; introduction; preliminary observations; prelude etc

Intolerance Read Poem

I have no brief for gambling, nay
The notion I express
That money earned 's the only way
To pay for happiness.

With cards and dice I do not hold;
By betting I've been bit:
Conclusion: to get honest gold
You've got to sweat for it.

Though there be evil in strong drink
It's brought me heaps of fun;
And now, with some reserve, I think
My toping days are done.

Though at teetotal cranks I laugh,
Yet being sound and hale,
I find the best of drinks to quaff
Is good old Adam's ale.

I do not like your moralist,
Who with a righteous grin
Informs you o'er a pounding fist:
"Unchastity is sin.

"
I don't believe it, but I grant,
By every human test,
From parson, pimp and maiden aunt,
Morality is best.

Yet what a bore our lives would be
If we lived as we should;
It's such a blessing to be free,
And not be over-good.

I value virtues great and small,
As I in life advance:
But O the greatest sin of all
I count—INTOLERANCE.

It Is Later Than You Think Read Poem

Lone amid the café’s cheer,
Sad of heart am I to-night;
Dolefully I drink my beer,
But no single line I write.

There’s the wretched rent to pay,
Yet I glower at pen and ink:
Oh, inspire me, Muse, I pray,
It is later than you think!


Hello! there’s a pregnant phrase.

Bravo! let me write it down;
Hold it with a hopeful gaze,
Gauge it with a fretful frown;
Tune it to my lyric lyre .

.

.

Ah! upon starvation’s brink,
How the words are dark and dire:
It is later than you think.

Weigh them well .

.

.

.

Behold yon band,
Students drinking by the door,
Madly merry,bockin hand,
Saucers stacked to mark their score.

Get you gone, you jolly scamps;
Let your parting glasses clink;
Seek your long neglected lamps:
It is later than you think.

Look again: yon dainty blonde,
All allure and golden grace,
Oh so willing to respond
Should you turn a smiling face.

Play your part, poor pretty doll;
Feast and frolic, pose and prink;
There’s the Morgue to end it all,
And it’s later than you think.

Yon’s a playwright — mark his face,
Puffed and purple, tense and tired;
Pasha-like he holds his place,
Hated, envied and admired.

How you gobble life, my friend;
Wine, and woman soft and pink!
Well, each tether has its end:
Sir, it’s later than you think.

See yon living scarecrow pass
With a wild and wolfish stare
At each empty absinthe glass,
As if he saw Heaven there.

Poor damned wretch, to end your pain
There is still the Greater Drink.

Yonder waits the sanguine Seine .

.

.

It is later than you think.

Lastly, you who read; aye, you
Who this very line may scan:
Think of all you planned to do .

.

.

Have you done the best you can?

See! the tavern lights are low;
Black’s the night, and how you shrink!
God! and is it time to go?

Ah! the clock is always slow;
It is later than you think;
Sadly later than you think;
Far, far later than you think.

Jaloppy Joy Read Poem

Past ash cans and alley cats,
Fetid.

overflowing gutters,
Leprous lines of rancid flats
Where the frowsy linen flutters;
With a rattle and a jar,
hark! I sing a happy ditty,
As I speed my Master far
From the poison of the City.

Speed him to the sportive sea,
Watch him walloping the briny,
Light his pipe and brew his tea
In a little wood that's piny;
Haven him to peace of mind.

Drowsy dreams in pleasant places,
Where the woman's eyes are kind,
And the men have ruddy faces.

Just a jaloppy am I,
But he's always been my lover,
So each Sunday morn I try
Youthful joy to re-discover.

For he loves the wild and free,
And though he would never know it,
Nature thrills him with the glee
And the rapture of the poet.

He's a little invoice clerk,
I'm a worn and ancient flivver;
I have an asthmatic spark,
He an alcoholic liver;
Yet with clatter, clang and creak
We are lyrical for one day;
Then another loathly week,
Living for another Sunday.

Jane Read Poem

My daughter Jane makes dresses
For beautiful Princesses;
But though she's plain is Jane,
Of needlework she's vain,
And makes such pretty things
For relatives of Kings.

She reads the picture papers
Where Royalties cut capers,
And often says to me:
'How wealthy they must be,
That nearly every day
A new robe they can pay.

'
Says I: 'If your Princesses
Could fabric pretty dresses,
Though from a throne they stem
I would think more of them.

Peeress and shopgirl are
To my mind on a par.

'
Says Jane: 'But for their backing
I might be sewing sacking.

Instead, I work with joy
In exquisite employ,
Embroidering rich dresses
For elegant Princesses .

.

.

Damn social upsetters
Who criticise their betters!'

Jean Desprez Read Poem

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 came,
Could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame;
Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may:
Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez.

With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land,
And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand;
Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black abyss;
The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss.

And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay,
Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez.

"Rout out the village, one and all!" the Uhlan Captain said.

"Behold! Some hand has fired a shot.

My trumpeter is dead.

Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day,
For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay.

"
They drove the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men,
And from the last, with many a jeer, the Captain chose he ten;
Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why,
Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children cry;
Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood.

A moment only.

.

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.

Ready! Fire!
They weltered in their blood.

But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries,
Who saw these men in sabots fall before their children's eyes;
A Zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh,
He laughed with joy: "Ah! here is where I settle ere I die.

"
He clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and well.

.

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A shot! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan Captain fell.

They dragged the wounded Zouave out; their rage was like a flame.

With bayonets they pinned him down, until their Major came.

A blonde, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye;
He stared to see with shattered skull his favourite Captain lie.

"Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he cried;
"Go nail him to the big church door: he shall be crucified.

"
With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the Zouave there,
And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare;
"Water! A single drop!" he moaned; but how they jeered at him,
And mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim;
And as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet,
The Prussian Major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette.

But mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in horror by,
Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful cry:
"Water! One little drop, I beg! For love of Christ who died.

.

.

.

"
It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and stole aside;
It was the little bare-foot boy who came with cup abrim
And walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him.

A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast away.

The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay.

His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite:
"Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our Prussian might.

Yet stay! I have another thought.

I'll kindly be, and spare;
Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there,
And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill.

Haste! Make him understand
The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand.

And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name,
Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame.

"
They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand;
They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand.

"Make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you must kill or die.

"
The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye.

And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head:
"Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said.

"Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I;
And I will murmur:
Vive La France!
and bless you ere I die.

"
Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway;
Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez.

He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear;
And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear!
He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow;
O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now!
The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss!
The autumn such a dream of gold .

.

.

and all must end in this:
This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around;
The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground;
The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame;
That Prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game.

"Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; "a minute more I give;
A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live.

"
They only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face;
They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race;
The glory of a million men who for fair France have died,
The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied.

Yet .

.

.

he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet.

.

.

.

"Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat.

"Shoot! Shoot!" the dying Zouave moaned; "Shoot! Shoot!" the soldiers said.

Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot .

.

.

the Prussian Major dead!
From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

82-89.

Jim Read Poem

Never knew Jim, did you?

Our boy Jim?

Bless you, there was the likely lad;
Supple and straight and long of limb,
Clean as a whistle, and just as glad.

Always laughing, wasn't he, dad?

Joy, pure joy to the heart of him,
And, oh, but the soothering ways he had,
Jim, our Jim!
But I see him best as a tiny tot,
A bonny babe, though it's me that speaks;
Laughing there in his little cot,
With his sunny hair and his apple cheeks.

And my! but the blue, blue eyes he'd got,
And just where his wee mouth dimpled dim
Such a fairy mark like a beauty spot —
That was Jim.

Oh, the war, the war! How my eyes were wet!
But he says: "Don't be sorrowing, mother dear;
You never knew me to fail you yet,
And I'll be back in a year, a year.

"
'Twas at Mons he fell, in the first attack;
For so they said, and their eyes were dim;
But I laughed in their faces: "He'll come back,
Will my Jim.

"
Now, we'd been wedded for twenty year,
And Jim was the only one we'd had;
So when I whispered in father's ear,
He wouldn't believe me — would you, dad?

There! I must hurry .

.

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hear him cry?

My new little baby.

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.

See! that's him.

What are we going to call him?

Why,
Jim, just Jim.

Jim! For look at him laughing there
In the same old way in his tiny cot,
With his rosy cheeks and his sunny hair,
And look, just look .

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his beauty spot
In the selfsame place.

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Oh, I can't explain,
And of course you think it's a mother's whim,
But I know, I know it's my boy again,
Same wee Jim.

Just come back as he said he would;
Come with his love and his heart of glee.

Oh, I cried and I cried, but the Lord was good;
From the shadow of Death he set Jim free.

So I'll have him all over again, you see.

Can you wonder my mother-heart's a-brim?

Oh, how happy we're going to be!
Aren't we, Jim?

Jobson Of The Star Read Poem

Within a pub that's off the Strand and handy to the bar,
With pipe in mouth and mug in hand sat Jobson of the Star.

"Come, sit ye down, ye wond'ring wight, and have a yarn," says he.

"I can't," says I, "because to-night I'm off to Tripoli;
To Tripoli and Trebizond and Timbuctoo mayhap,
Or any magic name beyond I find upon the map.

I go errant trail to try, to clutch the skirts of Chance,
To make once more before I die the gesture of Romance.

"
The Jobson yawned above his jug, and rumbled: "Is that so?

Well, anyway, sit down, you mug, and have a drink before you go.

"
Now Jobson is a chum of mine, and in a dusty den,
Within the street that's known as Fleet, he wields a wicked pen.

And every night it's his delight, above the fleeting show,
To castigate the living Great, and keep the lowly low.

And all there is to know he knows, for unto him is spurred
The knowledge of the knowledge of the Thing That Has Occurred.

And all that is to hear he hears, for to his ear is whirled
The echo of the echo of the Sound That Shocks The World.

Let Revolutions rage and rend, and Kingdoms rise and fall,
There Jobson sits and smokes and spits, and writes about it all.

And so we jawed a little while on matters small and great;
He told me his cynic smile of graves affairs of state.

Of princes, peers and presidents, and folks beyond my ken,
He spoke as you and I might speak of ordinary men.

For Jobson is a scribe of worth, and has respect for none,
And all the mighty ones of earth are targets for his fun.

So when I said good-bye, says he, with his satyric leer:
"Too bad to go, when life is so damned interesting here.

The Government rides for a fall, and things are getting hot.

You'd better stick around, old pal; you'll miss an awful lot.

"
Yet still I went and wandered far, by secret ways and wide.

Adventure was the shining star I took to be my guide.

For fifty moons I followed on, and every moon was sweet,
And lit as if for me alone the trail before my feet.

From cities desolate with doom my moons swam up and set,
On tower and temple, tent and tomb, on mosque and minaret.

To heights that hailed the dawn I scaled, by cliff and chasm sheer;
To far Cathy I found my way, and fabolous Kashmir.

From camel-back I traced the track that bars the barren bled,
And leads to hell-and-blazes, and I followed where it led.

Like emeralds in sapphire set, and ripe for human rape,
I passed with passionate regret the Islands of Escape.

With death I clinched a time or two, and gave the brute a fall.

Hunger and cold and thirst I knew, yet…how I loved it all!
Then suddenly I seemed to tire of trecking up and town,
And longed for some domestic fire, and sailed for London Town.

And in a pub that's off the Strand, and handy to the bar,
With pipe in mouth and mug in hand sat Jobson of the Star.

"Hullo!" says he, "come, take a pew, and tell me where you've been.

It seems to me that lately you have vanished from the scene.

"
"I've been," says I, "to Kordovan and Kong and Calabar,
To Sarawak and Samarkand, to Ghat and Bolivar;
To Caracas and Guayaquil, to Lhasa  and Pekin,
To Brahmapurta and Brazil, to Bagdad and Benin.

I've sailed the Black Sea and the White, The Yellow and the Red,
The Sula and the Celebes, the Bering and the Dead.

I've climbed on Chimborazo, and I've wandered in Peru;
I've camped on Kinchinjunga, and I've crossed the Great Karoo.

I've drifted on the Hoang-ho, the Nile and Amazon;
I've swam the Tiber and the Po.

.

" thus I was going on,
When Jobson yawned above his beer, and rumbled: "Is that so?

…
It's been so damned exciting here, too bad you had to go.

We've had the devil of a slump; the market's gone to pot;
You should have stuck around, you chump, you've missed an awful lot.

"
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In haggard lands where ages brood, on plains burnt out and dim,
I broke the bread of brotherhood with ruthless men and grim.

By ways untrod I walked with God, by parched and bitter path;
In deserts dim I talked with Him, and learned to know His Wrath.

But in a pub that's off the Strand, sits Jobson every night,
And tells me what a fool I am, and maybe he is right.

For Jobson is a man of stamp, and proud of him am I;
And I am just a bloody tramp, and will be till I die.

Joey Read Poem

I thought I would go daft when Joey died.

He was my first, and wise beyond his years.

For nigh a hundred nights I cried and cried,
Until my weary eyes burned up my tears.

Willie and Rosie tried to comfort me:
A woeful, weeping family were we.

I was a widow with no friends at all,
Ironing men's shirts to buy my kiddies grub;
And then one day a lawyer came to call,
Me with my arms deep in the washing-tub.

The gentleman who ran poor Joey down
Was willing to give us a thousand poun'.

What a godsend! It meant goodbye to care,
The fear of being dumped out on the street.

Rosie and Willie could have wool to wear,
And more than bread and margerine to eat .

.

.

To Joey's broken little legs we owe
Our rescue from a fate of want and woe.

How happily he hurried home to me,
Bringing a new-baked, crisp-brown loaf of bread.

The headlights of the car he did not see,
And when help came they thought that he was dead.

He stared with wonder from a face so wan .

.

.

A long, last look and he was gone,—was gone.

We've comfort now, and yet it hurts to know
We owe our joy to little, laughing Joe.

Julie Claire Read Poem

Oh Julie Claire was very fair,
Yet generous as well,
And many a lad of metal had
A saucy tale to tell
Of sultry squeeze beneath the trees
Or hugging in the hay .

.

.

Of love her share had Julie Claire
When life was lush and gay.

And then the village wealth to pillage
Came the Teuton horde;
The haughty Huns with mighty guns
And clattering of sword.

And Julie Claire had honey hair
With eyes of soft azure,
So she became the favoured flame
Of the Kommandatur.

But when at last the plague was past,
The bloody war well won,
We clipped the locks of every dox
Who dallied with the Hun.

Each wench with scorn was duly shorn;
Our Marie the shears would weld,
And Julie's head with ringlets shed
Was like a turnip peeled.

But of these days of wanton ways
No more the village talks,
For Julie Claire has wed the Maire
Who clipped her golden locks .

.

.

Nay, do not try to me
I must suffer for my sins,
For all agree that Marie must be
The father of her twins.

Julot The Apache Read Poem

You've heard of Julot the apache, and Gigolette, his mome.

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Montmartre was their hunting-ground, but Belville was their home.

A little chap just like a boy, with smudgy black mustache, —
Yet there was nothing juvenile in Julot the apache.

From head to heel as tough as steel, as nimble as a cat,
With every trick of twist and kick, a master of savate.

And Gigolette was tall and fair, as stupid as a cow,
With three combs in the greasy hair she banged upon her brow.

You'd see her on the Place Pigalle on any afternoon,
A primitive and strapping wench as brazen as the moon.

And yet there is a tale that's told of Clichy after dark,
And two gendarmes who swung their arms with Julot for a mark.

And oh, but they'd have got him too; they banged and blazed away,
When like a flash a woman leapt between them and their prey.

She took the medicine meant for him; she came down with a crash .

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"Quick now, and make your get-away, O Julot the apache!" .

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But no! He turned, ran swiftly back, his arms around her met;
They nabbed him sobbing like a kid, and kissing Gigolette.

Now I'm a reckless painter chap who loves a jamboree,
And one night in Cyrano's bar I got upon a spree;
And there were trollops all about, and crooks of every kind,
But though the place was reeling round I didn't seem to mind.

Till down I sank, and all was blank when in the bleary dawn
I woke up in my studio to find — my money gone;
Three hundred francs I'd scraped and squeezed to pay my quarter's rent.

"Some one has pinched my wad," I wailed; "it never has been spent.

"
And as I racked my brains to seek how I could raise some more,
Before my cruel landlord kicked me cowering from the door:
A knock .

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"Come in," I gruffly groaned; I did not raise my head,
Then lo! I heard a husky voice, a swift and silky tread:
"You got so blind, last night, mon vieux, I collared all your cash —
Three hundred francs.

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There! Nom de Dieu," said Julot the apache.

And that was how I came to know Julot and Gigolette,
And we would talk and drink a bock, and smoke a cigarette.

And I would meditate upon the artistry of crime,
And he would tell of cracking cribs and cops and doing time;
Or else when he was flush of funds he'd carelessly explain
He'd biffed some bloated bourgeois on the border of the Seine.

So gentle and polite he was, just like a man of peace,
And not a desperado and the terror of the police.

Now one day in a bistro that's behind the Place Vendôme
I came on Julot the apache, and Gigolette his mome.

And as they looked so very grave, says I to them, says I,
"Come on and have a little glass, it's good to rinse the eye.

You both look mighty serious; you've something on the heart.

"
"Ah, yes," said Julot the apache, "we've something to impart.

When such things come to folks like us, it isn't very gay .

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.

It's Gigolette — she tells me that a gosse is on the way.

"
Then Gigolette, she looked at me with eyes like stones of gall:
"If we were honest folks," said she, "I wouldn't mind at all.

But then .

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you know the life we lead; well, anyway I mean
(That is, providing it's a girl) to call her Angeline.

"
"Cheer up," said I; "it's all in life.

There's gold within the dross.

Come on, we'll drink another verre to Angeline the gosse.

"
And so the weary winter passed, and then one April morn
The worthy Julot came at last to say the babe was born.

"I'd like to chuck it in the Seine," he sourly snarled, "and yet
I guess I'll have to let it live, because of Gigolette.

"
I only laughed, for sure I saw his spite was all a bluff,
And he was prouder than a prince behind his manner gruff.

Yet every day he'd blast the brat with curses deep and grim,
And swear to me that Gigolette no longer thought of him.

And then one night he dropped the mask; his eyes were sick with dread,
And when I offered him a smoke he groaned and shook his head:
"I'm all upset; it's Angeline .

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she's covered with a rash .

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She'll maybe die, my little gosse," cried Julot the apache.

But Angeline, I joy to say, came through the test all right,
Though Julot, so they tell me, watched beside her day and night.

And when I saw him next, says he: "Come up and dine with me.

We'll buy a beefsteak on the way, a bottle and some brie.

"
And so I had a merry night within his humble home,
And laughed with Angeline the gosse and Gigolette the mome.

And every time that Julot used a word the least obscene,
How Gigolette would frown at him and point to Angeline:
Oh, such a little innocent, with hair of silken floss,
I do not wonder they were proud of Angeline the gosse.

And when her arms were round his neck, then Julot says to me:
"I must work harder now, mon vieux, since I've to work for three.

"
He worked so very hard indeed, the police dropped in one day,
And for a year behind the bars they put him safe away.

So dark and silent now, their home; they'd gone — I wondered where,
Till in a laundry near I saw a child with shining hair;
And o'er the tub a strapping wench, her arms in soapy foam;
Lo! it was Angeline the gosse, and Gigolette the mome.

And so I kept an eye on them and saw that all went right,
Until at last came Julot home, half crazy with delight.

And when he'd kissed them both, says he: "I've had my fill this time.

I'm on the honest now, I am; I'm all fed up with crime.

You mark my words, the page I turn is going to be clean,
I swear it on the head of her, my little Angeline.

"
And so, to finish up my tale, this morning as I strolled
Along the boulevard I heard a voice I knew of old.

I saw a rosy little man with walrus-like mustache .

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I stopped, I stared.

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By all the gods! 'twas Julot the apache.

"I'm in the garden way," he said, "and doing mighty well;
I've half an acre under glass, and heaps of truck to sell.

Come out and see.

Oh come, my friend, on Sunday, wet or shine .

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Say! — it's the First Communion of that little girl of mine.

"

Just Think! Read Poem

Just think! some night the stars will gleam
Upon a cold, grey stone,
And trace a name with silver beam,
And lo! ’twill be your own.

That night is speeding on to greet
Your epitaphic rhyme.

Your life is but a little beat
Within the heart of Time.

A little gain, a little pain,
A laugh, lest you may moan;
A little blame, a little fame,
A star-gleam on a stone.

Kail Yard Bard Read Poem

A very humble pen I ply
Beneath a cottage thatch;
And in the sunny hours I try
To till my cabbage patch;
And in the gloaming glad am I
To lift the latch.

I do not plot to pile up pelf,
With jowl and belly fat;
To simple song I give myself,
And seek no gain at that:
Content if milk is on the shelf
To feed the cat.

I joy that haleness I possess,
Though fame has passed me by;
And see such gold of happiness
A-shining in the sky,
I wonder who has won success,
Proud men or I?

I do not grieve that I am poor,
And by the world unknown;
Free as the wind, serene and sure,
In peace I live alone.

'Tis better to be bard obscure
Than King on Throne.

Kathleen Read Poem

It was the steamer Alice May that sailed the Yukon foam.

And touched in every river camp from Dawson down to Nome.

It was her builder, owner, pilot, Captain Silas Geer,
Who took her through the angry ice, the last boat of the year;
Who patched her cracks with gunny sacks and wound her pipes with wire,
And cut the spruce upon the banks to feed her boiler fire;
Who headed her into the stream and bucked its mighty flow,
And nosed her up the little creeks where no one else would go;
Who bragged she had so small a draft, if dew were on the grass,
With gallant heart and half a start his little boat would pass.

Aye, ships might come and ships might go, but steady every year
The Alice May would chug away with Skipper Silas Geer.

Now though Cap geer had ne'er a fear the devil he could bilk,
He owned a gastric ulcer and his grub was mostly milk.

He also owned a Jersey cow to furnish him the same,
So soft and sleek and mild and meek, and Kathleen was her name.

And so his source of nourishment he got to love her so
That everywhere the captain went the cow would also go;
And though his sleeping quarters were ridiculously small,
He roped a section of them off to make Kathleen a stall.

So every morn she'd wake him up with mellifluous moo,
And he would pat her on the nose and go to wake the crew.

Then when he'd done his daily run and hitched on to the bank,
She'd breath above his pillow till to soothing sleep he sank.

So up and down the river seeded sourdoughs would allow,
They made a touching tableau, Captain Silas and his cow.

Now as the Captain puffed his pipe and Kathleen chewed her cud,
There came to him a poetess, a Miss Belinda Budd.

"An epic I would write," said she, "about this mighty stream,
And from your gallant bark 'twould be romantic as a dream.

"
Somewhat amazed the Captain gazed at her and shook his head;
"I'm sorry, Miss, but we don't take she passengers," he said.

"My boat's a freighter, we have no accommodation space
For women-folk - my cabin is the only private palce.

It's eight foot small from wall to wall, and I have, anyhow,
No room to spare, for half I share with Kathleen, That's my cow.

"
The lady sighed, then soft replied: "I love your Yukon scene,
And for its sake your room I'll take, and put up with Kathleen.

"
Well, she was so dead set to go the Captain said: "By heck!
I like your spunk; you take my bunk and I'll camp on the deck.

"
So days went by then with a sigh she sought him so anew:
"Oh, Captain Geer, Kathleen's a dear, but does she have to moo?

In early morn like motor horn she bellows overhead,
While all the night without respite she snores above my bed.

I know it's true she dotes on you, your smile she seems to miss;
She leans so near I live in fear my brow she'll try to kiss.

Her fond regard makes it so hard my Pegasus to spur…
Oh, please be kind and try to find another place for her.

"
Bereft of cheer was captain Geer; his face was glazed with gloom:
He scratched his head: "There ain't," he said, "another inch of room.

With freight we're packed; it's stowed and stacked - why even on the deck.

There's seven salted sourdoughs and they're sleeping neck and neck.

I'm sorry, Miss, that Kathleen's kiss has put your muse to flight;
I realize her amber eyes abstract you when you write.

I used to love them orbs above a-shining down on me,
And when she'd chew my whickers you can't calculate my glee.

I ain't at all poetical, but gosh! I guess your plight,
So I will try to plan what I can fix up for to-night.

"
Thus while upon her berth the wan and weary Author Budd
Bewailed her fate, Kathleen sedate above her chewed her cud;
And as he sought with brain distraught a steady course to steer,
Yet find a plan, a worried man was Captain Silas Geer.

Then suddenly alert was he, he hollerred to his mate;
"Hi, Patsy, press our poetess to climb on deck and wait.

Hip-hip-hooray! Bid her be gay and never more despair;
My search is crowned - by heck, I've found an answer to her prayer.

"
To Patsy's yell like glad gazelle came bounding Bardess Budd;
No more forlorn, with hope new-born she faced the foaming flood;
While down the stair with eager air was seen to disappear,
Like one inspired (by genius fired) exultant Captain Geer.

Then up he came with eye aflame and honest face aglow,
And oh, how loud he laughed, as proud he led her down below.

"Now you may write by day or night upon our Yukon scene,
For I," he cried, "have clarified the problem of Kathleen.

I thought a lot, then like a shot the remedy I found:
I jest unhitched her rope and switched the loving creature round.

No more her moo will trouble you, you'll sleep right restful now.

Look, Lady, look! - I'm giving you… the tail end of the cow.

"

Katie Drummond Read Poem

My Louis loved me oh so well
And spiered me for his wife;
He would have haled me from the hell
That was my bawdy life:
The mother of his bairns to be,
Daftlike he saw in me.

But I, a hizzie of the town
Just telt him we must part;
Loving too well to drag him down
I tore him from my heart:
To save the honour of his name
I went back to my shame.

They say he soared to starry fame,
Romance flowed from his pen;
A prince of poets he became,
Pride of his fellow men:
My breast was pillow for his head,
Yet naught of his I've read.

Smoking my cutty pipe the while,
In howths of Leith I lag;
* My Louis lies in South Sea isle
As I a sodden hag
Live on .

.

.

Oh Love, by men enskied
The day you went—I died.

Kelly Of The Legion Read Poem

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,
The Legion leads the way.

"The scourings of creation,
Of every sin and station,
The men who've known damnation,
Are picked to lead the way.

"
Well, Kelly joined the Legion;
They marched him day and night;
They rushed him to the region
Where largest loomed the fight.

"Behold your mighty mission,
Your destiny," said they;
"By glorious tradition
The Legion leads the way.

"With tattered banners flying
With trail of dead and dying,
On! On! All hell defying,
The Legion sweeps the way.

"
With grim, hard-bitten faces,
With jests of savage mirth,
They swept into their places,
The men of iron worth;
Their blooded steel was flashing;
They swung to face the fray;
Then rushing, roaring, crashing,
The Legion cleared the way.

The trail they blazed was gory;
Few lived to tell the story;
Through death they plunged to glory;
But, oh, they cleared the way!
Now Kelly lay a-dying,
And dimly saw advance,
With split new banners flying,
The fantassins  of France.

Then up amid the melee
He rose from where he lay;
"Come on, me boys," says Kelly,
"The Layjun lades the way!"
Aye, while they faltered, doubting
(Such flames of doom were spouting),
He caught them, thrilled them, shouting:
"The Layjun lades the way!"
They saw him slip and stumble,
Then stagger on once more;
They marked him trip and tumble,
A mass of grime and gore;
They watched him blindly crawling
Amid hell's own affray,
And calling, calling, calling:
"The Layjun lades the way!"
And even while they wondered,
The battle-wrack was sundered;
To Victory they thundered,
But .

.

.

Kelly led the way.

Still Kelly kept agoing;
Berserker-like he ran;
His eyes with fury glowing,
A lion of a man;
His rifle madly swinging,
His soul athirst to slay,
His slogan ringing, ringing,
"The Layjun lades the way!"
Till in a pit death-baited,
Where Huns with Maxims waited,
He plunged .

.

.

and there, blood-sated,
To death he stabbed his way.

Now Kelly was a fellow
Who simply loathed a fight:
He loved a tavern mellow,
Grog hot and pipe alight;
I'm sure the Show appalled him,
And yet without dismay,
When Death and Duty called him,
He up and led the way.

So in Valhalla drinking
(If heroes meek and shrinking
Are suffered there), I'm thinking
'Tis Kelly leads the way.

Kings Must Die Read Poem

Alphonso Rex who died in Rome
Was quite a fistful as a kid;
For when I visited his home,
That gorgeous palace in Madrid,
The grinning guide-chap showed me where
He rode his bronco up the stair.

That stairway grand of marbled might,
The most majestic in the land,
In statured splendour, flight on flight,
He urged his steed with whip in hand.

No lackey could restrain him for
He gained the gilded corridor.

He burst into the Royal suite,
And like a cowboy whooped with glee;
Dodging the charger's flying feet
The Chamberlain was shocked to see:
Imagine how it must have been a
Grief to Mother Queen Christina!
And so through sheer magnificence
I roamed from stately room to room,
Yet haunted ever by the sense
Of tragical dynastic doom.

The walls were wailing: Kings must die,
Being plain blokes like you and I.

Well, here's the moral to my rhyme:
When memories more worthy fade
We find that whimsically Time
Conserves some crazy escapade.

So as I left I stood to stare
With humorous enjoyment where
Alphonso crashed the Palace stair.

Kittens Read Poem

A ray of sun strayed softly round,
For something to caress,
Until a resting place it found
Of joy and thankfulness;
'Twas Minette, our Angora cat,
With deep contented purr,
Relaxed in rapture on a mat,
Three kittens nuzzling her.

With tenderness the sunbeam kissed
her fur of silver-grey;
Her eyes held an ecstatic mist,
In boundless bliss she lay;
The sunny radiance seemed to hold
Her longer than it should,
As if it sought to shine in gold
Such mystic motherhood.

The darling kittens grew and grew;
Then one day Mother Cat,
Back from their gambolling withdrew,
And glared at them and - spat.

Aye, though they toddled after her
With playful stratagem,
Instead of soft maternal purr
She snarled and clawed at them.

And now she goes her callous way
And never gives them heed;
You barely would believe that they
Were children of her breed.

Upon the roof we see her creep
And howl with fiendish tone,
While on the hearth-rug softly sleep
Three kittens on their own.

And such is nature's way, it seems,
And maybe right at that;
So Mother, drop your foolish dreams
And emulate the Cat.

And when your offspring well are grown,
And strong and swift and tall,
Just turn them out upon their own
And let them fight - or fall.

L'Envoi Read Poem

We talked of yesteryears, of trails and treasure,
Of men who played the game and lost or won;
Of mad stampedes, of toil beyond all measure,
Of camp-fire comfort when the day was done.

We talked of sullen nights by moon-dogs haunted,
Of bird and beast and tree, of rod and gun;
Of boat and tent, of hunting-trip enchanted
Beneath the wonder of the midnight sun;
Of bloody-footed dogs that gnawed the traces,
Of prisoned seas, wind-lashed and winter-locked;
The ice-gray dawn was pale upon our faces,
Yet still we filled the cup and still we talked.

The city street was dimmed.

We saw the glitter
Of moon-picked brilliants on the virgin snow,
And down the drifted canyon heard the bitter,
Relentless slogan of the winds of woe.

The city was forgot, and, parka-skirted,
We trod that leagueless land that once we knew;
We saw stream past, down valleys glacier-girted,
The wolf-worn legions of the caribou.

We smoked our pipes, o'er scenes of triumph dwelling;
Of deeds of daring, dire defeats, we talked;
And other tales that lost not in the telling,
Ere to our beds uncertainly we walked.

And so, dear friends, in gentler valleys roaming,
Perhaps, when on my printed page you look,
Your fancies by the firelight may go homing
To that lone land that haply you forsook.

And if perchance you hear the silence calling,
The frozen music of star-yearning heights,
Or, dreaming, see the seines of silver trawling
Across the sky's abyss on vasty nights,
You may recall that sweep of savage splendor,
That land that measures each man at his worth,
And feel in memory, half fierce, half tender,
The brotherhood of men that know the North.

L'envoi Read Poem

Oh spacious days of glory and of grieving!
Oh sounding hours of lustre and of loss!
Let us be glad we lived you, still believing
The God who gave the cannon gave the Cross.

Let us be sure amid these seething passions,
The lusts of blood and hate our souls abhor,
The Power that Order out of Chaos fashions
Smites fiercest in the wrath-red forge of War.

.

.

.

Have faith! Fight on! Amid the battle-hell
Love triumphs, Freedom beacons, all is well.

L'Escargot D'Or Read Poem

O Tavern of the Golden Snail!
Ten sous have I, so I'll regale;
Ten sous your amber brew to sip
(Eight for the bock and two the tip),
And so I'll sit the evening long,
And smoke my pipe and watch the throng,
The giddy crowd that drains and drinks,
I'll watch it quiet as a sphinx;
And who among them all shall buy
For ten poor sous such joy as I?

As I who, snugly tucked away,
Look on it all as on a play,
A frolic scene of love and fun,
To please an audience of One.

O Tavern of the Golden Snail!
You've stuff indeed for many a tale.

All eyes, all ears, I nothing miss:
Two lovers lean to clasp and kiss;
The merry students sing and shout,
The nimble garcons dart about;
Lo! here come Mimi and Musette
With: "S'il vous plait, une cigarette?

"
Marcel and Rudolf, Shaunard too,
Behold the old rapscallion crew,
With flowing tie and shaggy head .

.

.

Who says Bohemia is dead?

Oh shades of Murger! prank and clown,
And I will watch and write it down.

O Tavern of the Golden Snail!
What crackling throats have gulped your ale!
What sons of Fame from far and near
Have glowed and mellowed in your cheer!
Within this corner where I sit
Banville and Coppée clashed their wit;
And hither too, to dream and drain,
And drown despair, came poor Verlaine.

Here Wilde would talk and Synge would muse,
Maybe like me with just ten sous.

Ah! one is lucky, is one not?

With ghosts so rare to drain a pot!
So may your custom never fail,
O Tavern of the Golden Snail!

Land Mine Read Poem

A grey gull hovered overhead,
Then wisely flew away.

'In half a jiffy you'll be dead,'
I thought I heard it say;
As there upon the railway line,
Checking an urge to cough,
I laboured to de-fuse the mine
That had not yet gone off.

I tapped around the time-clock rim,
Then something worried me.

I heard the singing of a hymn:
Nearer my God to Thee.

That damned Salvation Army band!
I phoned back to the boys:
'Please tell them,—they will understand,—
Cut out the bloody noise!'
Silence .

.

.

I went to work anew,
And then I heard a tick
That told me the blast was due,—
I never ran so quick.

I heard the fury-roar behind;
The earth erupted hell,
As hoisted high and stunned and blind
Into a ditch I fell.

Then when at last I crawled from cover,
My hands were bloody raw;
And I was blue and bruised all over,
And this is what I saw:
All pale, but panting with elation,
And very much unstuck,
There was the Army of Salvation
Emerging from the muck.

And then I heard the Captain saying:
''Twas Heaven heard our pleas;
For there anight we all were praying
Down on our bended knees.

'Twas little hope your comrades gave you,
Though we had faith divine .

.

.

The blessed Lord stooped down to save you,
But Gosh! He cut it fine.

'

Last Look Read Poem

What would I choose to see when I
To this bright earth shall bid good-bye?

When fades forever from my sight
The world I've loved with long delight?

What would I pray to look on last,
When Death shall draw the Curtain fast?

I've loved the farewell of the Sun,
Low-lapsing after work well done;
Or leaping from a sea forlorn,
Gold-glad to greet a day new born.

.

.

.

Shall I elect to round my dream
The Sun I hail as Lord Supreme?

Ah no! Of Heaven's shining host,
It is the Moon I love the most;
And if, when I shall cease to be,
God lets me keep one memory
Of loveliness that held me thrall,
The Moon's the one I would recall.

.

.

.

The new Moon fine as pearly clip
From Cleopatra's finger-tip;
.

.

.

The ripe Moon vaulting o'er the trees
As ruddy as a Cheddar cheese;
.

.

.

The late Moon, frail and wanly fair,
Relaxed on silver rocking chair.

.

.

.

But most of all, the Moon intense
With radiant indifference;
So placid, glacid, pure, serene,
Of all perfection proudly Queen.

.

.

.

Oh Mistress Mine, let me adore
Your beauty but one moment more!
One last look .

.

.

Let the Curtain fall,
Then let me look no more at all.

Laughter Read Poem

I Laugh at Life: its antics make for me a giddy games,
Where only foolish fellows take themselves with solemn aim.

I laugh at pomp and vanity, at riches, rank and pride;
At social inanity, at swager, swank and side.

At poets, pastry-cooks and kings, at folk sublime and small,
Who fuss about a thousand things that matter not at all;
At those who dream of name and fame, at those who scheme for pelf.

.

.

.

But best of all the laughing game - is laughing at myself.

Some poet chap had labelled man the noblest work of God:
I see myself a charlatan, a humbug and a fraud.

Yea, 'spite of show and shallow wit, an sentimental drool,
I know myself a hypocrite, a coward and a fool.

And though I kick myself with glee profoundly on the pants,
I'm little worse, it seems to me, than other human ants.

For if you probe your private mind, impervious to shame,
Oh, Gentle Reader, you may find you're much about the same.

Then let us mock with ancient mirth this comic, cosmic plan;
The stars are laughing at the earth; God's greatest joke is man.

For laughter is a buckler bright, and scorn a shining spear;
So let us laugh with all our might at folly, fraud and fear.

Yet on our sorry selves be spent our most sardonic glee.

Oh don't pay life a compliment to take is seriously.

For he who can himself despise, be surgeon to the bone,
May win to worth in others' eyes, to wisdom in his own.

Laziness Read Poem

Let laureates sing with rapturous swing
Of the wonder and glory of work;
Let pulpiteers preach and with passion impeach
The indolent wretches who shirk.

No doubt they are right: in the stress of the fight
It's the slackers who go to the wall;
So though it's my shame I perversely proclaim
It's fine to do nothing at all.

It's fine to recline on the flat of one's spine,
With never a thought in one's head:
It's lovely to le staring up at the sky
When others are earning their bread.

It's great to feel one with the soil and the sun,
Drowned deep in the grasses so tall;
Oh it's noble to sweat, pounds and dollars to get,
But - it's grand to do nothing at all.

So sing to the praise of the fellows who laze
Instead of lambasting the soil;
The vagabonds gay who lounge by the way,
Conscientious objectors to toil.

But lest you should think, by this spatter of ink,
The Muses still hold me in thrall,
I'll round out my rhyme, and (until the next time)
Work like hell - doing nothing at all.

Learn To Like Read Poem

School yourself to savour most
Joys that have but little cost;
Prove the best of life is free,
Sun and stars and sky and sea;
Eager in your eyes to please,
Proffer meadows, brooks and trees;
Nature strives for your content,
Never charging you a cent.

Learn to love a garden gay,
Flowers and fruit in rich array.

Care for dogs and singing birds,
Have for children cheery words.

Find plain food and comfort are
More than luxury by far.

Music, books and honest friends
Outweigh golden dividends.

Love your work and do it well,
Scorning not a leisure spell.

Hold the truest form of wealth
Body fit and ruddy health.

Let your smile of happiness
Rustic peace serenely stress:
Home to love and heart to pray—
Thank your God for every day.

Leaves Read Poem

The leaves are falling one and one,
Each like a life to me,
As over-soonly in the sun
They spiral goldenly:
So airily and warily
They falter free.

The leaves are falling two and two,
Beneath a baleful sky;
So silently the sward they strew,
Reluctantly they die .

.

.

Rich crimson leaves,—and no one grieves
There doom but I.

The leaves are falling three and three
Beneath the mothlike moon;
They flutter downward silverly
In muted rigadoon;
And russet dry remote they lie
From feathered tune.

The leaves are lying numberless,
Disconsolately dead;
Where lucent was their sylvan dress
And lightsome was their tread,
They rot below the bitter snow,
Uncomforted.

A leaf's a life, and one by one
They drift each darkling day;
Rare friends who lusted in the sun
Are frailing fast away .

.

.

How sadly soon will mourn the moon
My dark decay!

Les Grands Mutiles Read Poem

I saw three wounded of the war:
And the first had lost his eyes;
And the second went on wheels and had
No legs below the thighs;
And the face of the third was featureless,
And his mouth ran cornerwise.

So I made a rhyme about each one,
And this is how my fancies run.

Lindy Lou Read Poem

If the good King only knew,
Lindy Lou,
What a cherub child are you,
It is true,
He would step down from his throne,
And would claim you for his own,
Then whatever would I do,
Lindy Lou?

As I kiss your tiny feet,
Lindy Lou,
I just feel I want to eat
All of you.

What's so heaven-sweet and mild
As a happy baby-child?

If you died I would die too,
Lindy Lou?

What's so lovely on this earth,
Lindy Lou,
As your innocence and mirth
Shining through?

Let us all do what we may
To make little children gay,
Heaven-happy, just as you,
Lindy Lou.

Lip-Stick Liz Read Poem

Oh Lip-Stick Liz was in the biz, That's the oldest known in history;
She had a lot of fancy rags, Of her form she made no myst'ry.

She had a man, a fancy man, His name was Alexander,
And he used to beat her up because he couldn't understand her.

Now Lip-Stick Liz she loved her man And she couldn't love no other
So when she saw him with a Broadway Blonde, Her rage she could not smother.

She saw him once and she saw him twice But the third time nearly crazed her,
So she walked bang into a hardware store, And she bought a brand new razor.

Now Lip-Stick Liz she trailed them two For she was tired of weeping;
She trailed them two, in a flash hotel And there she found them sleeping;
So she gashed them once and she gashed them twice Their ju'lar veins to sever,
And the bright blood flowed like a brook between.

And their lives were gone forever.

Now Lip-Stick Liz went to the p'lice And sez she: "Me hands are gory,
And you'll put me away in a deep dark cell When once you've heard me story.

"
So they've put her away in a deep dark cell, Until her life be over
And what is the moral of the whole damn show, I wish I could discover.

Chorus:
Oh Lip-Stick Liz! What a lousy life this is.

It's a hell of a break for a girl on the make,
Oh Lip-Stick Liz!

Little Brother Read Poem

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 seeds of death,
There's no moment to delay;
Sorrowing the stars are blind.

Little Brother, how I pray
You may sanctuary find.

Peoples of the world succumb .

.

.

Fly, poor fools, the WRATH TO COME!

Little Moccasins Read Poem

Come out, O Little Moccasins, and frolic on the snow!
Come out, O tiny beaded feet, and twinkle in the light!
I'll play the old Red River reel, you used to love it so:
Awake, O Little Moccasins, and dance for me to-night!
Your hair was all a gleamy gold, your eyes a corn-flower blue;
Your cheeks were pink as tinted shells, you stepped light as a fawn;
Your mouth was like a coral bud, with seed pearls peeping through;
As gladdening as Spring you were, as radiant as dawn.

Come out, O Little Moccasins! I'll play so soft and low,
The songs you loved, the old heart-songs that in my mem'ry ring;
O child, I want to hear you now beside the campfire glow!
With all your heart a-throbbing in the simple words you sing.

For there was only you and I, and you were all to me;
And round us were the barren lands, but little did we fear;
Of all God's happy, happy folks the happiest were we.

.

.

.

(Oh, call her, poor old fiddle mine, and maybe she will hear!)
Your mother was a half-breed Cree, but you were white all through;
And I, your father was — but well, that's neither here nor there;
I only know, my little Queen, that all my world was you,
And now that world can end to-night, and I will never care.

For there's a tiny wooden cross that pricks up through the snow:
(Poor Little Moccasins! you're tired, and so you lie at rest.

)
And there's a grey-haired, weary man beside the campfire glow:
(O fiddle mine! the tears to-night are drumming on your breast.

)

Little Puddleton Read Poem

I
Let others sing of Empire and of pomp beyond the sea,
A song of Little Puddleton is good enough for me,
A song of kindly living, and of coming home to tea.

I seldom read the papers, so I don't know what goes on.

I go to bed at sunset, and I leap alert at dawn,
To gossip with my garden, which I'll have you understand,
Is the neatest and the sweetest little garden in the land;
A span of sunny quietude, with walls so high and stout,
They shut me in from all the world, and shut the whole world out,
So that its sad bewilderment  seems less than true to me:
As placid as a pool I live, as tranquil as a tree;
And all its glory I would give for glint of linnet's wings;
My cabbages are more to me than continents and kings.

Dominion have I of my own, where feud and faction cease,
A heaven of tranquillity, a paradise of peace.

II
Let continents be bathed in blood and cities leap in flame;
The life of Little Puddleton goes on and on the same;
Its ritual we follow, as we play a pleasant game.

The village wortkies sit and smoke their long-stemmed pipes of clay.

And cheerily they nod to me, and pass the time of day.

We talk of pigs and clover, and the prospect of the crops,
And the price of eggs and butter - there the conversation drops.

For in a doubt-distracted world I keep the rustic touch;
I think it better not to think too deeply nor too much;
But just to dream and take delight in all I hear and see,
The tinker in the tavern, with his trollop on his knee;
The ivied church, the anvil clang, the geese upon the green,
The drowsy noon, the hush of eve so holy and screne.

This is my world, then back again with heart of joy I go
To cottage walls of mellow stain, and garden all aglow.

III
For all I've been and all I've seen I have no vain regret
One comes to Little Puddleton, contented to forget;
Accepting village values, immemorially set.

I did not make this world and so it's not my job to mend;
But I have fought for fifty years and now I hear the end;
And I am heart-faint  from the fight, and claim the right to rest,
And dare to hope the last of life will prove to be the best.

For there have I four sturdy walls with low and humble thatch,
A smiling little orchard and a big potato patch.

And so with hoe in hand I stand and mock the dubious sky;
let revolution rock the land, serene, secure am I.

I grow my simple food, I groom my lettuce and my beans;
I feast in colour, form and song, and ask not what it means.

Beauty suffiices in itself; then when my strength is spent,
like simple hind with empty mind, I cultivate content.

Behold then Little Puddleton, the end of all my dreams.

Not much to show for life, I know; yet O how sweet it seems!
For when defeated day goes down in carnage in the West,
How blesses sanctuary is, and peace and love and rest!

Lobster For Lunch Read Poem

His face was like a lobster red,
His legs were white as mayonnaise:
"I've had a jolly lunch," he said,
That Englishman of pleasant ways.

"Thy do us well at our hotel:
In England food is dull these days.

"
"We had a big langouste for lunch.

I almost ate the whole of it.

And now I'll smoke and read my Punch,
And maybe siesta a bit;
And then I'll plunge into the sea
And get an appetite for tea.

"
We saw him plunge into the sea,
With jolly laugh, his wife and I.

"George does enjoy his food," said she;
"In Leeds lobsters are hard to buy.

How lucky we to have a chance
To spend our holiday in France!"
And so we watched him swim and swim
So far and far we scarce could see,
Until his balding head grew dim;
And then there came his children three,
And we all waited there for him, -
Ah yes, a little anxiously.

But George, alas! came never back.

Of him they failed to find a trace;
His wife and kids are wearing black,
And miss a lot his jolly face .

.

.

But oh how all the lobsters laugh,
And write in wrack his epitaph.

Local Lad Read Poem

I never saw a face so bright
With brilliant blood and joy,
As was the grinning mug last night
Of Dick, our local boy,
When with a clumsy, lucky clout
He knocked the champion out.

A week ago he swung a pick
And sweated in a ditch.

Tonight he's togged up mighty slick,
And fancies himself rich.

With floozies, fine food, bubbly drink
He'll go to hell I think.

Unless they make another match;
And if they do I guess
The champion won't have a scratch,
But Dick will be a mess;
His map will be a muck of gore
As he sprawls on the floor.

Then he'll go back his pick to swing,
And sweat deep in the mud .

.

.

Yet still I see him in the ring,
So gay with glee and blood,
Dancing a jig and holding high
His gloves to climb the sky.

Longevity Read Poem

I watched one day a parrot grey - 'twas in a barber shop.

"Cuckold!" he cried, until I sighed: "You feathered devil, stop!"
Then balefully he looked at me, and slid along his perch,
With sneering eye that seemed to pry me very soul to search.

So fierce, so bold, so grim, so cold, so agate was his stare:
And then that bird I thought I heard this sentiment declare: -
"As it appears, a hundred years a parrot may survive,
When you are gone I'll sit upon this perch and be alive.

In this same spot I'll drop my crot, and crack my sunflower seeds,
And cackle loud when in a shroud you rot beneath the weeds.

I'll carry on when carrion you lie beneath the yew;
With claw and beak my grub I'll seek when grubs are seeking you.

"
"Foul fowl! said I, "don't prophesy, I'll jolly well contrive
That when I rot in bone-yard lot you cease to be alive.

"
So I bespoke that barber bloke: "Joe, here's a five pound note.

It's crisp and new, and yours if you will slice that parrot's throat.

"
"In part," says he, "I must agree, for poor I be in pelf,
With right good will I'll take your bill, but - cut his throat yourself.

"
So it occurred I took that bird to my ancestral hall,
And there he sat and sniggered at the portraits on the wall.

I sought to cut his wind-pipe but he gave me such a peck,
So cross was I, I swore I'd try to wring his blasted neck;
When shrill he cried: "It's parrotcide what you propose to do;
For every time you make a rhyme you're just a parrot too.

"
Said I: "It's true.

I bow to you.

Poor parrots are we all.

"
And now I sense with reverence the wisdom of his poll.

For every time I want a rhyme he seems to find the word;
In any doubt he helps me out - a most amazing bird.

This line that lies before your eyes he helped me to indite;
I sling the ink but often think it's he who ought to write.

It's he who should in mystic mood concoct poetic screeds,
And I who ought to drop my crot and crackle sunflower seeds.

A parrot nears a hundred years (or so the legend goes),
So were I he this century I might see to its close.

Then I might swing within my ring while revolutions roar,
And watch a world to ruin hurled - and find it all a bore.

As upside-down I cling and clown, I might with parrot eyes
Blink blandly when excited men are moulding Paradise.

New Christs might die, while grimly I would croak and carry on,
Till gnarled and old I should behold the year TWO THOUSAND dawn.

But what a fate! How I should hate upon my perch to sit,
And nothing do to make anew a world for angels fit.

No, better far, though feeble are my lyric notes and flat,
Be dead and done than anyone who lives a life like that.

Though critic-scarred a humble bard I feel I'd rather be,
Than flap and flit and shriek and spit through all a century.

So feathered friend, until the end you may divide my den,
And make a mess, which (more or less) I clean up now and then.

But I prefer the doom to share of dead and gone compeers,
Than parrot be, and live to see ten times a hundred years.

Lord Let Me Live Read Poem

Lord, let me live, that more and more
Your wonder world I may adore;
With every dawn to grow and grow
Alive to graciousness aglow;
And every eve in beauty see
Reason for rhapsody.

Lord, let me bide, that I may prove
The buoyant brightness of my love
For sapphire sea and lyric sky
And buttercup and butterfly;
And glory in the golden thought
Of rapture You have wrought.

Lord, let me linger, just for this,—
To win to utterness of bliss;
To see in every dawn design
Proof of Your Providence divine;
With night to find ablaze above,
Assurance of Your love.

Lord, for Your praise my days prolong,
That I may sing in sunny sort,
And prove with my exultant song
The longest life is all to short:
Aye, even in a bead of dew
To shrine in beauty—YOU.

Lost Read Poem

"Black is the sky, but the land is white —
(O the wind, the snow and the storm!) —
Father, where is our boy to-night?

Pray to God he is safe and warm.

"
"Mother, mother, why should you fear?

Safe is he, and the Arctic moon
Over his cabin shines so clear —
Rest and sleep, 'twill be morning soon.

"
"It's getting dark awful sudden.

Say, this is mighty queer!
Where in the world have I got to?

It's still and black as a tomb.

I reckoned the camp was yonder, I figured the trail was here —
Nothing! Just draw and valley packed with quiet and gloom;
Snow that comes down like feathers, thick and gobby and gray;
Night that looks spiteful ugly — seems that I've lost my way.

"The cold's got an edge like a jackknife — it must be forty below;
Leastways that's what it seems like — it cuts so fierce to the bone.

The wind's getting real ferocious; it's heaving and whirling the snow;
It shrieks with a howl of fury, it dies away to a moan;
Its arms sweep round like a banshee's, swift and icily white,
And buffet and blind and beat me.

Lord! it's a hell of a night.

"I'm all tangled up in a blizzard.

There's only one thing to do —
Keep on moving and moving; it's death, it's death if I rest.

Oh, God! if I see the morning, if only I struggle through,
I'll say the prayers I've forgotten since I lay on my mother's breast.

I seem going round in a circle; maybe the camp is near.

Say! did somebody holler?

Was it a light I saw?

Or was it only a notion?

I'll shout, and maybe they'll hear —
No! the wind only drowns me — shout till my throat is raw.

"The boys are all round the camp-fire wondering when I'll be back.

They'll soon be starting to seek me; they'll scarcely wait for the light.

What will they find, I wonder, when they come to the end of my track —
A hand stuck out of a snowdrift, frozen and stiff and white.

That's what they'll strike, I reckon; that's how they'll find their pard,
A pie-faced corpse in a snowbank — curse you, don't be a fool!
Play the game to the finish; bet on your very last card;
Nerve yourself for the struggle.

Oh, you coward, keep cool!
I'm going to lick this blizzard; I'm going to live the night.

It can't down me with its bluster — I'm not the kind to be beat.

On hands and knees will I buck it; with every breath will I fight;
It's life, it's life that I fight for — never it seemed so sweet.

I know that my face is frozen; my hands are numblike and dead;
But oh, my feet keep a-moving, heavy and hard and slow;
They're trying to kill me, kill me, the night that's black overhead,
The wind that cuts like a razor, the whipcord lash of the snow.

Keep a-moving, a-moving; don't, don't stumble, you fool!
Curse this snow that's a-piling a-purpose to block my way.

It's heavy as gold in the rocker, it's white and fleecy as wool;
It's soft as a bed of feathers, it's warm as a stack of hay.

Curse on my feet that slip so, my poor tired, stumbling feet —
I guess they're a job for the surgeon, they feel so queerlike to lift —
I'll rest them just for a moment — oh, but to rest is sweet!
The awful wind cannot get me, deep, deep down in the drift.

"
"Father, a bitter cry I heard,
Out of the night so dark and wild.

Why is my heart so strangely stirred?

'Twas like the voice of our erring child.

"
"Mother, mother, you only heard
A waterfowl in the locked lagoon —
Out of the night a wounded bird —
Rest and sleep, 'twill be morning soon.

"
Who is it talks of sleeping?

I'll swear that somebody shook
Me hard by the arm for a moment, but how on earth could it be?

See how my feet are moving — awfully funny they look —
Moving as if they belonged to a someone that wasn't me.

The wind down the night's long alley bowls me down like a pin;
I stagger and fall and stagger, crawl arm-deep in the snow.

Beaten back to my corner, how can I hope to win?

And there is the blizzard waiting to give me the knockout blow.

Oh, I'm so warm and sleepy! No more hunger and pain.

Just to rest for a moment; was ever rest such a joy?

Ha! what was that?

I'll swear it, somebody shook me again;
Somebody seemed to whisper: "Fight to the last, my boy.

"
Fight! That's right, I must struggle.

I know that to rest means death;
Death, but then what does death mean?

— ease from a world of strife.

Life has been none too pleasant; yet with my failing breath
Still and still must I struggle, fight for the gift of life.

* * * * *
Seems that I must be dreaming! Here is the old home trail;
Yonder a light is gleaming; oh, I know it so well!
The air is scented with clover; the cattle wait by the rail;
Father is through with the milking; there goes the supper-bell.

* * * * *
Mother, your boy is crying, out in the night and cold;
Let me in and forgive me, I'll never be bad any more:
I'm, oh, so sick and so sorry: please, dear mother, don't scold —
It's just your boy, and he wants you.

.

.

.

Mother, open the door.

.

.

.

"Father, father, I saw a face
Pressed just now to the window-pane!
Oh, it gazed for a moment's space,
Wild and wan, and was gone again!"
"Mother, mother, you saw the snow
Drifted down from the maple tree
(Oh, the wind that is sobbing so!
Weary and worn and old are we) —
Only the snow and a wounded loon —
Rest and sleep, 'twill be morning soon.

"

Lost Kitten Read Poem

Two men I saw reel from a bar
And stumble down the street;
Coarse and uncouth as workmen are,
They walked with wobbly feet.

I watched them, thinking sadly as
I heard their hobnails clink,
The only joy a toiler has
Is to get drowned in drink.

A kitten on a wall,
A skinny, starving stray;
It looked so pitifully small,
A fluff of silver grey.

One of the men came to a stand,
A kindly chap was he,
For with a huge and horny hand
He stroked it tenderly.

With wistful hope it gazed at him
And arched a spine of fur;
It licked his hand so grimy grim
And feebly tried to purr.

And then it climbed upon his chest,
And to his drunken glee,
Upon his shoulder came to rest,
Contented as could be.

The other fellow with a jeer
Made feint to dash it down,
but as it shrank with sudden fear
I saw the first one frown;
And then I heard him coarsely cry:
"Have care for what you do;
Just harm a hair of it and I
Will twist my knife in you.

"
So there they stood like brutes at bay,
Their blood at fighting heat;
And snarling at each other they
Went weaving down the street,
Leaving the kitten all alone
Upon its stony shelf .

.

.

And as I haven't heart of stone
I took it home myself.

Lost Shepherd Read Poem

Ah me! How hard is destiny!
If we could only know.

.

.

.

I bought my son from Sicily
A score of years ago;
I haled him from our sunny vale
To streets of din and squalor,
And left it to professors pale
To make of him a scholar.

Had he remained a peasant lad,
A shepherd on the hill,
like golden faun in goatskin clad
He might be singing still;
He would have made the flock his care
And lept with gay reliance
On thymy heights, unwitting there
Was such a thing as science.

He would have crooned to his guitar,
Draughts of chianti drinking;
A better destiny by far
Than reading, writing, thinking.

So bent above his books was he,
His thirst for knowledge slaking,
He did not realize that we
Are worm-food in the making.

Ambition got him in its grip
And inched him to his doom;
Fate granted him a fellowship,
Then graved for him a tomb.

"Beneath my feet I can't allow
The grass to grow," he said;
And toiled so tirelessly that now
It grows above his head.

His honour scrolls shall feed the flame,
They mean no more to me;
His ashes I with bitter blame
Will take to Sicily.

And there I'll weep with heart bereft,
By groves and sunny rills,
And wish my laughing boy I'd left
A shepherd on the hills.

Lottery Ticket Read Poem

'A ticket for the lottery
I've purchased every week,' said she
'For years a score
Though desperately poor am I,
Oh how I've scrimped and scraped to buy
One chance more.

Each week I think I'll gain the prize,
And end my sorrows and my sighs,
For I'll be rich;
Then nevermore I'll eat bread dry,
With icy hands to cry and cry
And stitch and stitch.

'
'Tis true she won the premier prize;
It was of formidable size,
Ten million francs.

I know, because the man who sold
It to her splenically told
He got no thanks.

The lucky one was never found,
For she was snugly underground,
And minus breath;
And with that ticket tucked away,
In some old stocking, so they say,
She starved to death.

Lowly Laureate Read Poem

O Sacred Muse, my lyre excuse! -
My verse is vagrant singing;
Rhyme I invoke for simple folk
Of penny-wise upbringing:
For Grannies grey to paste away
Within an album cover;
For maids in class to primly pass,
And lads to linger over.

I take the clay of every day
And mould it in my fashion;
I seek to trace the commonplace
With humor and compassion.

Of earth am I, and meekly try
To be supremely human:
To please, I plan, the little man,
And win the little women.

No evil theme shall daunt my dream
Of fellow-love and pity;
I tune my lute to prostitute,
To priest I pipe my ditty.

Through gutter-grime be in my rhyme,
I bow to altars holy.

.

.

.

Lord, humble me, so I may be
A Laureate of the Lowly.

Lucille Read Poem

Of course you've heard of the Nancy Lee, and how she sailed away
On her famous quest of the Arctic flea, to the wilds of Hudson's Bay?

For it was a foreign Prince's whim to collect this tiny cuss,
And a golden quid was no more to him than a copper to coves like us.

So we sailed away and our hearts were gay as we gazed on the gorgeous scene;
And we laughed with glee as we caught the flea of the wolf and the wolverine;
Yea, our hearts were light as the parasite of the ermine rat we slew,
And the great musk ox, and the silver fox, and the moose and the caribou.

And we laughed with zest as the insect pest of the marmot crowned our zeal,
And the wary mink and the wily "link", and the walrus and the seal.

And with eyes aglow on the scornful snow we danced a rigadoon,
Round the lonesome lair of the Arctic hare, by the light of the silver moon.

But the time was nigh to homeward hie, when, imagine our despair!
For the best of the lot we hadn't got — the flea of the polar bear.

Oh, his face was long and his breath was strong, as the Skipper he says to me:
"I wants you to linger 'ere, my lad, by the shores of the Hartic Sea;
I wants you to 'unt the polar bear the perishin' winter through,
And if flea ye find of its breed and kind, there's a 'undred quid for you.

"
But I shook my head: "No, Cap," I said; "it's yourself I'd like to please,
But I tells ye flat I wouldn't do that if ye went on yer bended knees.

"
Then the Captain spat in the seething brine, and he says: "Good luck to you,
If it can't be did for a 'undred quid, supposin' we call it two?

"
So that was why they said good-by, and they sailed and left me there —
Alone, alone in the Arctic Zone to hunt for the polar bear.

Oh, the days were slow and packed with woe, till I thought they would never end;
And I used to sit when the fire was lit, with my pipe for my only friend.

And I tried to sing some rollicky thing, but my song broke off in a prayer,
And I'd drowse and dream by the driftwood gleam; I'd dream of a polar bear;
I'd dream of a cloudlike polar bear that blotted the stars on high,
With ravenous jaws and flenzing claws, and the flames of hell in his eye.

And I'd trap around on the frozen ground, as a proper hunter ought,
And beasts I'd find of every kind, but never the one I sought.

Never a track in the white ice-pack that humped and heaved and flawed,
Till I came to think: "Why, strike me pink! if the creature ain't a fraud.

"
And then one night in the waning light, as I hurried home to sup,
I hears a roar by the cabin door, and a great white hulk heaves up.

So my rifle flashed, and a bullet crashed; dead, dead as a stone fell he,
And I gave a cheer, for there in his ear — Gosh ding me! — a tiny flea.

At last, at last! Oh, I clutched it fast, and I gazed on it with pride;
And I thrust it into a biscuit-tin, and I shut it safe inside;
With a lid of glass for the light to pass, and space to leap and play;
Oh, it kept alive; yea, seemed to thrive, as I watched it night and day.

And I used to sit and sing to it, and I shielded it from harm,
And many a hearty feed it had on the heft of my hairy arm.

For you'll never know in that land of snow how lonesome a man can feel;
So I made a fuss of the little cuss, and I christened it "Lucille".

But the longest winter has its end, and the ice went out to sea,
And I saw one day a ship in the bay, and there was the Nancy Lee.

So a boat was lowered and I went aboard, and they opened wide their eyes —
Yes, they gave a cheer when the truth was clear, and they saw my precious prize.

And then it was all like a giddy dream; but to cut my story short,
We sailed away on the fifth of May to the foreign Prince's court;
To a palmy land and a palace grand, and the little Prince was there,
And a fat Princess in a satin dress with a crown of gold on her hair.

And they showed me into a shiny room, just him and her and me,
And the Prince he was pleased and friendly-like, and he calls for drinks for three.

And I shows them my battered biscuit-tin, and I makes my modest spiel,
And they laughed, they did, when I opened the lid, and out there popped Lucille.

Oh, the Prince was glad, I could soon see that, and the Princess she was too;
And Lucille waltzed round on the tablecloth as she often used to do.

And the Prince pulled out a purse of gold, and he put it in my hand;
And he says: "It was worth all that, I'm told, to stay in that nasty land.

"
And then he turned with a sudden cry, and he clutched at his royal beard;
And the Princess screamed, and well she might — for Lucille had disappeared.

"She must be here," said his Noble Nibbs, so we hunted all around;
Oh, we searched that place, but never a trace of the little beast we found.

So I shook my head, and I glumly said: "Gol darn the saucy cuss!
It's mighty queer, but she isn't here; so .

.

.

she must be on one of us.

You'll pardon me if I make so free, but — there's just one thing to do:
If you'll kindly go for a half a mo' I'll search me garments through.

"
Then all alone on the shiny throne I stripped from head to heel;
In vain, in vain; it was very plain that I hadn't got Lucille.

So I garbed again, and I told the Prince, and he scratched his august head;
"I suppose if she hasn't selected you, it must be me," he said.

So he retired; but he soon came back, and his features showed distress:
"Oh, it isn't you and it isn't me.

" .

.

.

Then we looked at the Princess.

So she retired; and we heard a scream, and she opened wide the door;
And her fingers twain were pinched to pain, but a radiant smile she wore:
"It's here," she cries, "our precious prize.

Oh, I found it right away.

.

.

.

"
Then I ran to her with a shout of joy, but I choked with a wild dismay.

I clutched the back of the golden throne, and the room began to reel .

.

.

What she held to me was, ah yes! a flea, but .

.

.

it wasn't my Lucille.

Lucindy Jane Read Poem

When I was young I was too proud
To wheel my daughter in her pram.

"It's infra dig," I said aloud,—
Bot now I'm old, behold I am
Perambulating up and down
Grand-daughter through the town.

And when I come into the Square,
Beside the fountain I will stop;
And as to rest I linger there,
The dames will say: "How do, Grand-pop!
Lucindy Jane with eyes so blue
Looks more and more like you.

"
And sure it's pleased as Punch I get,
And take Lucindy on my knee;
Aye, at the risk of getting wet,
I blether to the girls a wee:
Then as we have a bottle date
Home we perambulate.

Gosh! That's the joy of all my day;
And as I play the part of nurse:
"She's got your nose," I hear them say.

Thinks I: "Well now, she might have worse.

"
And how I dream I'll live to see
A great-grandchild upon my knee,
Whom folks say looks like me!

MacTavish Read Poem

I do not write for love of pelf,
Nor lust for phantom fame;
I do not rhyme to please myself,
Nor yet to win acclaim:
No, strange to say it is my plan,
What gifts I have, to lavish
Upon a simple working man
MACTAVISH.

For that's the rather smeary name,
Of dreary toil a hinter,
That heads the galley proofs that came
This morning from my printer;
My patient pencil much they need,
Yet how my eyes they ravish,
As at the top of each I read:
MACTAVISH.

Who is the meek and modest man,
Who puffs no doubt a pipe,
And has my manuscript to scan,
And put in magic type?

Somehow I'm glad that he is not
Iberian or Slavish -
I hail him as a brother Scot,
MACTAVISH.

I do not want to bore him with
My work, I make it snappy;
For even though his name were Smith,
I'd like him to be happy.

I hope, because I'm stumped for rhyme,
He will not think me knavish,
If I should call him just this time:
MACTAVISH.

Forgive me, Friend Mactavish.

I
No doubt have cost you curses;
I'm sorry for you as you try
To put my type in verses;
And though new names I know you by,
When of new books creator,
I'll always look on you as my
COLLABORATOR.

Mad Maria Read Poem

Mad Maria in the Square
Sits upon a wicker chair.

When the keeper asks the price
Mad Maria counts her lice.

No pesito can she pay,
So he shrugs and goes away;
Hopes she'll pay him with her prayers,
Shabby keeper of the chairs.

Mad Maria counts her lice,
Cracks them once and cracks them twice,
Combs them from her sunny hair;
People stop to turn and stare.

Innocent in thought and deed
Mad Maria pays no heed,
And the Cross upon her breast
Proves her blessed of the blest.

So she sings her little song,
Happy as the day is long,
hunting in her camisole
Shy partakers of her dole;
thinking: Heaven please forgive -
Even lice have leave to live;
(But sweet Reader, do not blame,
For she kills them just the same.

)
Mad Maria goes unchid,
Mildest maid in all Madrid;
While around in serried ranks
Rear the bold facades of Banks;
But when wrath of Heaven smites
Hosts of Mammon's parasites,
Mad Maria will not fall,
Being oh so very small.

Pariahs to God belong,
to be weak is to be strong;
Fools are richer than the wise,
And who see with shining eyes
Angels in the sordid street
Deem their happiness complete.

.

.

.

Mad Maria counts her beads,
Cracks her lice and - Heaven heeds.

Madam La Maquise Read Poem

Said Hongray de la Glaciere unto his proud Papa:
"I want to take a wife mon Père," The Marquis laughed: "Ha! Ha!
And whose, my son?

" he slyly said; but Hongray with a frown
Cried, "Fi! Papa, I mean - to wed, I want to settle down.

"
The Marquis de la Glaciere responded with a smile;
"You're young my boy; I much prefer that you should wait awhile.

"
But Hongray sighed: "I cannot wait, for I am twenty-four;
And I have met my blessed fate: I worship and adore.

Such beauty, grace and charm has she, I'm sure you will approve,
For if I live a century none other can I love.

"
"I have no doubt," the Marquis shrugged, "that she's a proper pet;
But has she got a decent dot, and is she of our set?

"
"Her dot," said Hongray, "will suffice; her family you know.

The girl with whom I fain would splice is Mirabelle du Veau.

"
What made the Marquis start and stare, and clutch his perfumed beard?

Why did he stagger to a chair and murmur: "As I feared?

"
Dilated were his eyes with dread, and in a voice of woe
He wailed: "My son, you cannot wed with Mirabelle du Veau.

"
"Why not?

my Parent," Hongray cried.

"Her name's without a slur.

Why should you look so horrified that I should wed with her?

"
The Marquis groaned: "Unhappy lad! Forget her if you can,
And see in your respected Dad a miserable man.

"
"What id the matter?

I repeat," said Hongray growing hot.

"She's witty, pretty, rich and sweet… Then- mille diables!- what?

"
The Marquis moaned: "Alas! that I your dreams of bliss should banish;
It happened in the days gone-by, when I was Don Juanish.

Her mother was your mother's friend, and we were much together.

Ah well! You know how such things end.

(I blame it on the weather.

)
We had a very sultry spell.

One day, mon Dieu! I kissed her.

My son, you can't wed Mirabelle.

She is… she is your sister.

"
So broken-hearted Hongray went and roamed the world around,
Till hunting in the Occident forgetfulness he found.

Then quite recovered, he returned to the paternal nest,
Until one day, with brow that burned, the Marquis he addresses:
"Felicitate me, Father mine; my brain s in a whirl;
For I have found the mate divine, the one, the perfect girl.

She's healthy, wealthy, witching, wise, with loveliness serene.

And Proud am I to win a prize, half angel and half queen.

"
"'Tis time to wed," the Marquis said, "You must be twenty-seven.

But who is she whose lot may be to make your life a heaven?

"
"A friend of childhood," Hongray cried.

"For whom regard you feel.

The maid I fain would be my bride is Raymonde de la Veal.

"
The Marquis de la Glaciere collapsed upon the floor,
And all the words he uttered were: "Forgive me, I implore.

My sins are heavy on my head.

Profound remorse I feel.

My son, you simply cannot wed with Raymonde de la Veal.

"
Then Hongray spoke voice that broke, and corrugated brow:
"Inform me, Sir, why you demur.

What is the matter now?

"
The Marquis wailed: "My wicked youth! Ah! how it gives me pain.

But let me tell the awful truth, my agony explain…
A cursed Casanova I; a finished flirt her mother;
And so alas! it came to pass we fell for one another:
Our lives were blent in bliss and joy, The sequel you may gather:
You cannot wed Raymonde, my boy, because I am…her father.

"
Again sore-stricken Hongray fled, and sought his grief to smother,
And as he writhed upon his bed to him there came his Mother.

The Marquise de la Glaciere was snowy-haired and frigid.

Her wintry featured chiselled were, her manner stiff and rigid.

The pride of race was in her face, her bearing high and stately,
And sinking down by Hongray's side she spoke to him sedately:
"What ails you so, my precious child?

What throngs of sorrow smite you?

Why are your eyes so wet and wild?

Come tell me, I invite you.

"
"Ah! if I told you, Mother dear," said Hongray with a shiver,
"Another's honour would, I fear, be in the soup forever.

"
"Nay trust," she begged, "My only boy, the fond Mama who bore you.

Perhaps I may, your grief alloy.

Please tell me, I implore you.

"
And so his story Hngray told, in accents choked and muffled.

The Marquise listened calm and cold, her visage quite unruffled.

He told of Mirabelle du Veau, his agony revealing.

For Raymonde de la Veal his woe was quite beyond concealing.

And still she sat without a word, her look so high and haughty,
You'd ne'er have thought it was her lord who had behaved so naughty.

Then Hongray finished up: "For life my hopes are doomed to slaughter;
For if I choose another wife, she's sure to be his daughter.

"
The Marquise rose.

"Cheer up," said she, "the last word is not spoken.

A Mother cannot sit and see her boy's heart rudely broken.

So dry your tears and calm your fears; no longer need you tarry;
To-day your bride you may decide, to-morrow you may marry.

Yes, you may wed with Mirabelle, or Raymonde if you'd rather…
For I as well the truth may tell…Papa is not your father.

"

Maids In May Read Poem

Three maids there were in meadow bright,
The eldest less then seven;
Their eyes were dancing with delight,
And innocent as Heaven.

Wild flowers they wound with tender glee,
Their cheeks with rapture rosy;
All radiant they smiled at me,
When I besought a posy.

She gave me a columbine,
And one a poppy brought me;
The tiniest, with eyes ashine,
A simple daisy sought me.

And as I went my sober way,
I heard their careless laughter;
Their hearts too happy with to-day
To care for what comes after.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

That's long ago; they're gone, all three,
To walk amid the shadows;
Forgotten is their lyric glee
In still and sunny meadows.

For Columbine loved life too well,
And went adventure fairing;
And sank into the pit of hell,
And passed but little caring.

While Poppy was a poor man's wife,
And children had a-plenty;
And went, worn out with toil and strife
When she was five-and-twenty.

And Daisy died while yet a child,
As fragile blossoms perish,
When Winter winds are harsh and wild,
With none to shield and cherish.

Ah me! How fate is dark and dour
To little Children of the Poor.

Making Good Read Poem

No man can be a failure if he thinks he's a success;
he may not own his roof-tree overhead,
He may be on his uppers and have hocked his evening dress -
(Financially speaking - in the red)
He may have chronic shortage to repay the old home mortgage,
And almost be a bankrupt in his biz.

,
But though he skips his dinner,
And each day he's growing thinner,
If he thinks he is a winner,
Then he is.

But when I say Success I mean the sublimated kind;
A man may gain it yet be on the dole.

To me it's music of the heart and sunshine of the mind,
Serenity and sweetness of the soul.

You may not have a brace of bucks to jingle in your jeans,
Far less the dough to buy a motor car;
But though the row you're hoeing
May be grim, ungodly going,
If you think the skies are glowing -
Then they are.

For a poor man may be wealthy and a millionaire may fail,
It all depends upon the point of view.

It's the sterling of your spirit tips the balance of the scale,
It's optimism, and it's up to you.

For what I figure as success is simple Happiness,
The consummate contentment of your mood:
You may toil with brain and sinew,
And though little wealth is win you,
If there's health and hope within you -
You've made good.

Mammy Read Poem

I often wonder how
Life clicks because
They don't make women now
Like Mammy was.

When broods of two or three
Content most men,
How wonderful was she
With children ten!
Though sixty years have gone,
As I look back,
I see her rise at dawn,
Our boots to black;
Pull us from drowsy bed,
Wet sponge to pass,
And speed us porridge fed
To morning class.

Our duds to make and mend,
Far into night,
O'er needle she would spend
By bleary light.

Yet as her head drooped low,
With withered hair,
It seemed the candle glow
Made halo there.

And so with silvered pow
I sigh because
They don't make women now
Like Mammy was.

Man Child Read Poem

All day he lay upon the sand
When summer sun was bright,
And let the grains sift through 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 signaled 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's 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.

.

.

.

Then suddenly I see him rise,
Tall, stalwart and serene .

.

.

Lo! There he stands before my eyes,
The man he might have been.

"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 you 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.

Marie Antoinette Read Poem

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 ache:
If people starve for want of bread
Let them eat cake.

"
The Court re-echoed her bon mot;
It rang around the land,
Till masses wakened from their woe
With scyth and pick in hand.

It took a careless, callous phrase
To rouse the folk forlorn:
A million roared the Marseillaise:
Freedom was born.

And so to Marie Antoinette
Let's pay a tribute due;
Humanity owes her a debt,
(Ironical, it's true).

She sparked world revolution red,
And as with glee they bore
Upon a pike her lovely head
—Her curls dripped gore.

Mary Ellen Read Poem

It's mighty quiet in the house
Since Mary Ellen quit me cold;
I've swept the hearth and fed the mouse
That's getting fat and overbold.

I've bought a pig's foot for the pot
And soon I'll set the fire alight;
Then I may eat or I may not,
Depends upon my appetite.

Since Mary Ellen left me lone
I haven't earned a bloody bob.

I sit and sigh, and mope and moan,
And bellyache I quit my job.

My money's mostly gone,—I think
I ought to save it up for food .

.

.

But no, I'll blow it in for drink,
Then do a bunk for good.

I watch my mouse his whiskers preen;
He watches me with wicked glee.

Today—oh God! It's years sixteen
Since Mary Ellen wed with me.

Oh how the dear girl hated vermin!
She left rat poison on the shelf .

.

.

Friend Mouse, your doom I new determine
Then—how about myself?

Matador Read Poem

Unless there is a lot of goring
I always find a bull-fight boring.

Lopez, the famous Mexican,
Was starring in Madrid,
And mobs acclaimed that mighty man
For daring deeds he did.

His tunic braid was primrose gold,
His pants were lily white,
As round the sanded ring he strolled,
A dazzle to the sight.

But haply in a thousand fights
A matador may slip;
With women, wine and hectic nights
His hand may lose its grip.

So as he dealt the lethal blow
The bull lunged out once more,
And Lopez, pride of Mexico
Was mingled with its gore.

A pretty maid from U.

S.

A.

Was sitting by my side,
And as they bore the man away
Right bitterly she cried.

She sobbed to see a Mexican
Who round the ringside struts,
Be carried forth, a dying man,
A horn-thrust in his guts.

'Twas sad to view―then suddenly
She laughed and laughed aloud;
Aye, she betrayed a wanton glee
Before that grieving crowd.

"I'm glad to see him killed!" she cried;
"It’s such a devil's game!” .

.

.

Somehow I'd like to think she lied,
But I think just the same.

With skill and art their parts they play,
Six bulls are duly slain;
With dreary logic they display
The cruelty of Spain.

But still I go to bull-fights for
I hope I may be thrilled
To see another Matador
BE KILLED.

Taken from Rhymes of a Rebel Pub Ernest benn, London 1952  Pages 60-61
JS

Maternity Read Poem

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 wed and he had no dread
Of domestic woes and wrangles;
For he thought that his fate was to procreate
Cute little Squares and Triangles.

Now it happened one day on that geometric way
There swaggered a big bold Cube,
With a haughty stare and he made that Square
Have the air of a perfect boob;
To his solid spell the Triangle fell,
And she thrilled with love’s sweet sickness,
For she took delight in his breadth and height—
But how she adored his thickness!

So that poor little Square just died of despair,
For his love he could not strangle;
While the bold Cube led to the bridal bed
That cute and acute Triangle.

The Square’s sad lot she has long forgot,
And his passionate pretensions .

.

.

For she dotes on her kids—Oh such cutePyramids
In a world of three dimensions.

May Miracle Read Poem

On this festive first of May,
Wending wistfully my way
Three sad sights I saw today.

The first was such a lovely lad
He lit with grace the sordid street;
Yet in a monk's robe he was clad,
With tonsured head and sandalled feet.

Though handsome as a movie star
His eyes had holiness in them,
As if he saw afaint, afar
A stable-stall in Bethlehem.

The second was a crippled maid
Who gazed and gazed with eager glance
Into a window that displayed
The picture of a ballet dance.

And as she leaned on crutches twain,
Before that poster garland-gay
She looked so longingly and vain
I thought she'd never go away.

The last one was a sightless man
Who to the tune of a guitar
Caught coppers in a dingy can,
Patient and sad as blind men are.

So old and grey and grimy too,
His fingers fumbled on the strings,
As emptily he looked at you,
And sang as only sorrow sings.

Then I went home and had a dream
That seemed fantastical to me…
I saw the youth with eye agleam
Put off his robe and dance with glee.

The maid her crutches threw away;
Her withered limbs seemed shapely fine;
And there the two with radiance gay
Divinely danced in soft entwine:
While the blind man, his sight restored,
Guitared the Glory of the Lord.

Mazie's Ghost Read Poem

In London City I evade
For charming Burlington Arcade -
For thee in youth I met a maid
By name of Mazie,
Who lost no time in telling me
The Ritz put up a topping tea,
But having only shillings three
My smile was hazy.

:Instead," said I, "it might be sport
To take a bus to Hampton Court,"
(Her manner, I remarked, was short,)
But she assented.

We climbed on top, and all the way
I held her hand, I felt quite gay,
Bu Mazie, I regret to say,
Seemed discontented.

In fact we almost had a tiff.

It's true it rained and she was stiff,
And all she did was sneeze and sniff
And shudder coldly.

So I said: "Mazzie, there's the maze;
Let's frolic in its leafy ways,"
And buying tickets where one pays
I entered boldly.

The, as the game is, we were lots;
We dashed and darted, crissed and crossed,
But Mazie she got vexed and sauced
Me rather smartly.

There wasn't but us two about;
We hollered, no one heard our shout;
The rain poured down: "Oh let's get out,"
Cried Mazie tartly.

"Keep cool, says I.

"You fool," says she;
"I'm sopping wet, I want my tea,
Please take me home," she wailed to me
In accents bitter.

Again we tried, this way and that,
Yet came to where we started at,
And Mazie acted like a cat,
A champion spitter.

She stomped and romped till all was blue,
Then sought herself to find the clue,
And when I saw her next 'twas through
A leafy screening;
"Come on, she cooed, "and join me here;
You'll take me to the Savoy, dear,
And Heidsieck shall our spirits cheer.

"
I got her meaning.

And yet I sought her everywhere;
I hurried here, I scurried there,
I took each likely lane, I swar,
As I surmised it:
The suddenly I saw once more,
Confronting me, the exit door,
And I was dashing through before
I realized it.

And there I spied a passing bus.

Thinks I: "It's mean to leave her thus,
But after all her fret and fuss
I can't abide her.

So I sped back to London town
And grubbed alone for half-a-crown,
On steak and kidney pie washed down
With sparkling cider.

But since I left that damsel fair,
The thought she may have perished there,
Of cold, starvation and dispair
Nigh drives me crazy.

So, stranger, if you should invade
The charming Burlington Arcade,
Tell me if you behold a shade,
Ghost of a most unhappy maid
By name of Mazie.

Mc'Clusky's Nell Read Poem

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 he spied a tiny child.

Then Mike Maloney muttered: "Hell! Now ain't that jest too bad;
It's Dud McClusky's orphen Nell a-lookin' for her dad.

An' him in back, a-lushin' wine wi' Violet de Vere-
Three times I've told the lousy swine to keep away from here.

"
"Pore leetle sing! He leaves her lone, so he go on ze spree:
I feex her yet, zat Violet," said Montreal Maree.

Now I'm accommodatin' when it comes to scented sin
But when I saw that innocent step in our drunken din,
I felt that I would like to crawl an' hide my head in shame.

An' judgin' by their features all them sourdoughs felt the same.

For there they stood like chunks o' wood, forgettin' how to swear,
An' every glass o' likker was suspended in the air.

For with her hair of sunny silk, and big, blue pansy eyes
She looked jest like an angel child stepped outa paradise.

So then Big Mike, paternal like, took her upon his knee.

"Ze pauv' petite! She ees so sweet," said Montreal Maree.

The kid was mighty scared, we saw, an' peaked an' pale an' sad;
She nestled up to One-eyed Mike jest like he was her dad.

Then he got strokin' of her hair an' she began to sob,
An' there was anger in the air of all that plastered mob,
When in a hush so stark an' strained it seemed to stab the ear,
We heard the lush, plunk-parlour laugh o' Violet de Vere.

Then Montreal Maree arose an' vanished from our sight,
An' soon we heard the sound o' blows suggestin' female fight.

An' when she joined the gang again dishevelly was she:
"Jeezecrize! I fix zat Violet," said Montreal Maree.

Then Barman Bill cam forward with what seemed a glass o' milk:
"It's jest an egg-nog Missy, but it's slick an' smooth as silk.

"
An' as the kiddy slowly sipped wi' gaze o' glad surprise,
Them fifty sozzled sourdoughs uttered fifty happy sighs.

Then Ragtime Joe swung on his stool an' soft began to play
A liltin' tune that made ye think o' daffydills in May;
An' Gumboot Jones in solemn tones said: "You should hear her sing;
They've got the cabin next to mine, an like a bird in Spring,
She fills that tumble-down old shack wi' simple melodee.

"
"Maybe she sing a song for us," said Montreal Maree.

Now I don't hold wi' mushy stuff, tear-jerkin' ain't my line,
Yet somehow that kid's singin' sent the shivers down my spine;
An' all them salted sourdoughs sighed, an' every eye was dim
For what she sang upon the bar was just a simple hymn;
Somethin' about "Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,"
My Mother used to sing it - say, I listened bleary-eyed.

That childish treble was so sweet, so clear, so tender true,
It seemed to grip you by the heart an' did queer things to you.

It made me think o' childhood days from sin an' sorrow free:
"Zat child, she make me want to cry," said Montreal Maree.

Then up spoke One-eyed Mike: "What can't with us let her abide;
For her dear Mother's sake we gotta send that kid outside.

Ye know this camp's a den o' sin, ye know that Dud's no dice -
Let's stake her to a convent school, an' have her brought up nice.

"
An' so them bearded sourdoughs crowded round an' on an' all,
Dug down an' flung upon the bar their nuggets great and small.

"I guess we got a thousand bucks," exulted One-eyed Mike;
"You bastards are a credit to the camp of Lucky Strike.

"
"You see zis leetle silver cross my mozzaire give to me -
Look, boys, I hang it on zee gosse," said Montreal Maree.

Time marches on; that little Nell is now a famous star,
An' yet she got her singin' start on Mike Maloney's bar.

Aye it was back in ninety-eight she made her first dayboo,
An' of that audience to-day are left but only two.

For all them bibulous sourdoughs have bravely passed away.

An' Lucky Strike is jest another ghost town to-day.

But Nell now sings in opera, we saw her in Boheem;
'Twas at a high-toned matinay, an' say! she was a dream.

So also thought the white-haired dame a-sittin' down by me -
My lovin' spouse that once was known as Montreal Maree.

Men of the High North Read Poem

Men of the High North, the wild sky is blazing;
Islands of opal float on silver seas;
Swift splendors kindle, barbaric, amazing;
Pale ports of amber, golden argosies.

Ringed all around us the proud peaks are glowing;
Fierce chiefs in council, their wigwam the sky;
Far, far below us the big Yukon flowing,
Like threaded quicksilver, gleams to the eye.

Men of the High North, you who have known it;
You in whose hearts its splendors have abode;
Can you renounce it, can you disown it?

Can you forget it, its glory and its goad?

Where is the hardship, where is the pain of it?

Lost in the limbo of things you've forgot;
Only remain the guerdon and gain of it;
Zest of the foray, and God, how you fought!
You who have made good, you foreign faring;
You money magic to far lands has whirled;
Can you forget those days of vast daring,
There with your soul on the Top o' the World?

Nights when no peril could keep you awake on
Spruce boughs you spread for your couch in the snow;
Taste all your feasts like the beans and the bacon
Fried at the camp-fire at forty below?

Can you remember your huskies all going,
Barking with joy and their brushes in air;
You in your parka, glad-eyed and glowing,
Monarch, your subjects the wolf and the bear?

Monarch, your kingdom unravisht and gleaming;
Mountains your throne, and a river your car;
Crash of a bull moose to rouse you from dreaming;
Forest your couch, and your candle a star.

You who this faint day the High North is luring
Unto her vastness, taintlessly sweet;
You who are steel-braced, straight-lipped, enduring,
Dreadless in danger and dire in defeat:
Honor the High North ever and ever,
Whether she crown you, or whether she slay;
Suffer her fury, cherish and love her —
He who would rule he must learn to obey.

Men of the High North, fierce mountains love you;
Proud rivers leap when you ride on their breast.

See, the austere sky, pensive above you,
Dons all her jewels to smile on your rest.

Children of Freedom, scornful of frontiers,
We who are weaklings honor your worth.

Lords of the wilderness, Princes of Pioneers,
Let's have a rouse that will ring round the earth.

Michael Read Poem

"There's something in your face, Michael, I've seen it all the day;
There's something quare that wasn't there when first ye wint away.

.

.

.

"
"It's just the Army life, mother, the drill, the left and right,
That puts the stiffinin' in yer spine and locks yer jaw up tight.

.

.

.

"
"There's something in your eyes, Michael, an' how they stare and stare —
You're lookin' at me now, me boy, as if I wasn't there.

.

.

.

"
"It's just the things I've seen, mother, the sights that come and come,
A bit o' broken, bloody pulp that used to be a chum.

.

.

.

"
"There's something on your heart, Michael, that makes ye wake at night,
And often when I hear ye moan, I trimble in me fright.

.

.

.

"
"It's just a man I killed, mother, a mother's son like me;
It seems he's always hauntin' me, he'll never let me be.

.

.

.

"
"But maybe he was bad, Michael, maybe it was right
To kill the inimy you hate in fair and honest fight.

.

.

.

"
"I did not hate at all, mother; he never did me harm;
I think he was a lad like me, who worked upon a farm.

.

.

.

"
"And what's it all about, Michael; why did you have to go,
A quiet, peaceful lad like you, and we were happy so?

.

.

.

"
"It's thim that's up above, mother, it's thim that sits an' rules;
We've got to fight the wars they make, it's us as are the fools.

.

.

.

"
"And what will be the end, Michael, and what's the use, I say,
Of fightin' if whoever wins it's us that's got to pay?

.

.

.

"
"Oh, it will be the end, mother, when lads like him and me,
That sweat to feed the ones above, decide that we'll be free.

.

.

.

"
"And when will that day come, Michael, and when will fightin' cease,
And simple folks may till their soil and live and love in peace?

.

.

.

"
"It's coming soon and soon, mother, it's nearer every day,
When only men who work and sweat will have a word to say;
When all who earn their honest bread in every land and soil
Will claim the Brotherhood of Man, the Comradeship of Toil;
When we, the Workers, all demand: `What are we fighting for?

' .

.

.

Then, then we'll end that stupid crime, that devil's madness — War.

"

Mike Read Poem

My lead dog Mike was like a bear;
I reckon he was grizzly bred,
For when he reared up in the air
He over-topped me by a head.

He'd cuff me with his hefty paws,
Jest like a puppy actin' cute,
And I would swear: by Gosh! he was
The world's most mighty malemute.

But oh the grub that dog could eat!
Yet he was never belly-tight;
It almost broke me buying meat
To satisfy his appetite.

Then came a change I wondered at:
Returning when the dawn was dim,
He seemed mysteriously fat,
And scorned the bones I'd saved for him.

My shack was near the hospital,
Wherein there laboured Nurse Louise,
Who was to me a little pal
I planned in every way to please.

As books and sweets for her I bought,
My mug she seemed to kindo' like;
But Mike - he loved her quite a lot,
And she was very fond of Mike.

Strolling with her as moonlight gleamed,
I saw a strand of cotton trail
From Mike, the which unseemly seemed
To have its source behind his tail.

I trod on it with chagrin grim,
And with a kick his absence urged;
But as he ran, from out of him
Such yards and yards of lint emerged.

And then on me the truth did dawn
Beyond the shadow of a doubt:
That poor dam dog was gorged upon
The poultices threw out.

.

.

.

So "love my dog love me," I thought,
And seized the moment to propose .

.

.

Mike's dead, but in our garden lot
He's manure for a big dog-rose.

Milking Time Read Poem

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 a cuckoo calling, calling,
And a score of larks (God bless 'em) .

.

.

but it's 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 fall;
And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only 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 mother's 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 a 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 blossom 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
Of the battered, tattered trenches is a 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 rottin' Frenchy.

Whew! 'E ain't 'arf prime.

"
From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

63-66.

Miracles Read Poem

Each time that I switch on the light
A Miracle it seems to me
That I should rediscover sight
And banish dark so utterly.

One moment I am bleakly blind,
The next—exultant life I find.

Below the sable of the sky
My eyelids double darkness make.

Sleep is divine, yet oh how I
Am glad with wonder to awake!
To welcome, glimmery and wan
The mighty Miracle of Dawn.

For I've mad moments when I seem,
With all the marvel of a child,
To dwell within a world of dream,
To sober fact unreconciled.

Each simple act has struck me thus—
Incredibly miraculous.

When everything I see and do
So magical can seem to me,
How vain it is to seek the True,
The riddle of Reality .

.

.

So let me with joy lyrical
Proclaim all Life a Miracle!

Miss Mischievous Read Poem

Miss Don't-do-this and Don't-do-that
Has such a sunny smile
You cannot help but chuckle at
Her cuteness and her guile.

Her locks are silken floss of gold,
Her eyes are pansy blue:
Maybe of years to eighty old
The best is two.

Miss Don't-do-this and Don't-do-that
To roguishness is fain;
To guard that laughter-loving brat
Is quite a strain;
But when she tires of prank and play
And says good-night,
I'm longing for another day
Of child delight.

Miss Don't-do-this and Don't-do-that
Will grow up soon.

I hope she'll never throw her hat
Athwart the moon.

Yet I'll be sorrowful indeed,
Remembering a day
Before she learned to humbly heed
The word OBEY.

Missis Moriarty's Boy Read Poem

Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she:
"Sure the heart of me's broken entirely now — it's the fortunate woman you are;
You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your home, but me Patsy boy where is he?

Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weariful wahr.

Oh, I'm seein' him now as I looked on him last, wid his hair all curly and bright,
And the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, and his eyes as he wint away,
Shinin' and lookin' down on me from the pride of his proper height:
Sure I'll remember me boy like that if I live to me dyin' day.

"
And just as she spoke them very same words me Dinnis came in at the door,
Came in from McGonigle's ould shebeen, came in from drinkin' his pay;
And Missis Moriarty looked at him, and she didn't say anny more,
And she wrapped her head in her ould black shawl, and she quietly wint away.

And what was I thinkin', I ask ye now, as I put me Dinnis to bed,
Wid him ravin' and cursin' one half of the night, as cold by his side I sat;
Was I thinkin' the poor ould woman she was wid her Patsy slaughtered and dead?

Was I weepin' for Missis Moriarty?

I'm not so sure about that.

Missis Moriarty goes about wid a shinin' look on her face;
Wid her grey hair under her ould black shawl, and the eyes of her mother-mild;
Some say she's a little bit off her head; but annyway it's the case,
Her timper's so swate that you nivver would tell she'd be losin' her only child.

And I think, as I wait up ivery night for me Dinnis to come home blind,
And I'm hearin' his stumblin' foot on the stair along about half-past three:
Sure there's many a way of breakin' a heart, and I haven't made up me mind —
Would I be Missis Moriarty, or Missis Moriarty me?

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

164-165.

Mistinguette Read Poem

He was my one and only love;
My world was mirror for his face.

We were as close as hand and glove,
Until he came with smiling grace
To say: 'We must be wise, my dear.

You are the idol of today,
But I too plan a proud career,—
Let's kiss and go our way.

'
And then he soared to sudden fame,
And even queens applauded him.

A halo glorified his name
That dust of time may never dim.

And me,—I toured golden Brazil,
Yet as gay mobs were cheering me,
The sun seemed black, the brilliance chill,
My triumph mockery.

Today if I should say: 'Hello!'
He'd say: 'How are you?

' I'd say: 'Fine.

'
Yet never shall he see the woe,
The wanness of my frail decline.

I love him now and always will.

Oh may his star be long to set!
My Maurice is an idol still,—
What wreaths for Mistinguette!

Montreal Maree Read Poem

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 tribute-taker from the Ladies on the Loose.

But say, you never heard of how he aimed my gore to spill
(That big gorilla gunnin' for a little guy like me,)
A-howlin' like a malamute an' ravin' he would drill
Me full of holes and all because of Montreal Maree.

Now Spike Mahoney's Bar was stiff with roarin' drunks,
And I was driftin' lonesome-like, scarce knowin' what to do,
So come I joined a poker game and dropped a hundred plunks,
And bein' broke I begged of Spike to take my I.

O.

U.

Says he: "Me lad, I'll help ye out, but let me make this clear:
If you you don't pay by New year's day your wage I'll garnishee.

"
So I was broodin' when I heard a whisper in my ear:
"What ees zee trouble, leetle boy?

" said Montreal Maree.

Now dance-hall gels is good and bad, but most is in between;
Yeh, some is scum and some is dumb, and some is just plumb cold;
But of straight-shootin' Dawson dames Maree was rated queen,
As pretty as a pansy, wi' a heart o' Hunker gold.

And so although I didn't know her more that passin' by,
I told how Spike would seek my Boss, and jobless I would be;
She listened sympathetic like: "Zut! Baby, don't you cry;
I lend to you zee hundred bucks," said Montreal Maree.

Now though I zippered up my mug somehow the story spread
That I was playin' poker and my banker was Maree;
And when it got to Windy Bill, by Golly, he saw red,
And reachin' for his shootin' iron he started after me.

For he was batty for that babe and tried to fence her in.

And if a guy got in his way, say, he was set to kill;
So fortified with barbwire hooch and wickeder than sin;
"I'll plug that piker full of lead," exploded Windy Bill.

That night, a hundred smackers saved, with joy I started out
To seek my scented saviour in her cabin on the hill;
But barely had I paid my debt, when suddenly a shout .

.

.

I peered from out the window, and behold! 'twas Windy Bill.

He whooped and swooped and raved and waved his gun as he drew near.

Now he was kickin' in the door, no time was there to flee;
No place to hide: my doom was sealed .

.

.

then sotly in my ear:
"Quick! creep beneez my petticoat," said Montreal Maree.

So pale as death I held my breath below that billowed skirt,
And a she sat I wondered at her voice so calm and clear;
Serene and still she spoke to Bill like he was so much dirt:
"Espèce de skunk! You jus' beeeg drunk.

You see no man in here.

"
Then Bill began to cuss and ran wild shootin' down the hiss,
And all was hushed, and how I wished that bliss could ever be,
When up she rose in dainty pose beside the window sill:
"He spill hees gun, run Baby, run," cried Montreal Maree.

I've heard it said that she got wed and made a wonder wife.

I guess she did; that careless kid had mother in her heart.

But anyway I'll always say she saved my blasted life,
For other girls may come and go, and each may play their part:
But if I live a hundred years I'll not forget the thrill,
The rapture of that moment when I kissed a dimpled knee,
And safely mocked the murderous menace of Windy Bill,
Snug hid beneath the petticoat of Montreal Maree.

Moon Song Read Poem

A child saw in the morning skies
The dissipated-looking moon,
And opened wide her big blue eyes,
And cried: "Look, look, my lost balloon!"
And clapped her rosy hands with glee:
"Quick, mother! Bring it back to me.

"
A poet in a lilied pond
Espied the moon's reflected charms,
And ravished by that beauty blonde,
Leapt out to clasp her in his arms.

And as he'd never learnt to swim,
Poor fool! that was the end of him.

A rustic glimpsed amid the trees
The bluff moon caught as in a snare.

"They say it do be made of cheese,"
Said Giles, "and that a chap bides there.

.

.

.

That Blue Boar ale be strong, I vow —
The lad's a-winkin' at me now.

"
Two lovers watched the new moon hold
The old moon in her bright embrace.

Said she: "There's mother, pale and old,
And drawing near her resting place.

"
Said he: "Be mine, and with me wed,"
Moon-high she stared .

.

.

she shook her head.

A soldier saw with dying eyes
The bleared moon like a ball of blood,
And thought of how in other skies,
So pearly bright on leaf and bud
Like peace its soft white beams had lain;
Like Peace! .

.

.

He closed his eyes again.

Child, lover, poet, soldier, clown,
Ah yes, old Moon, what things you've seen!
I marvel now, as you look down,
How can your face be so serene?

And tranquil still you'll make your round,
Old Moon, when we are underground.

Moon-Lover Read Poem

I
The Moon is like a ping-pong ball;
I lean against the orchard wall,
And see it soar into the void,
A silky sphere of celluloid.

Then fairy fire enkindles it,
Like gossamer by taper lit,
Until it glows above the trees
As mellow as a Cheddar cheese.

And up and up I watch it press
Into appalling loneliness;
Like realms of ice without a stain,
A corpse Moon come to life again.

Ruthless it drowns a sturdy star
That seeks its regal way to bar;
Seeming with conscious power to grow,
And sweeter, purer, gladder glow.

Dreaming serenely up the sky
Until exultantly on high,
It shimmers with superb delight,
The silver navel of the night.

II
I have a compact to commune
A monthly midnight with the Moon;
Into its face I stare and stare,
And find sweet understanding there.

As quiet as a toad I sit
And tell my tale of days to it;
The tessellated yarn I've spun
In thirty spells of star and sun.

And the Moon listens pensively,
As placid as a lamb to me;
Until I think there's just us two
In silver world of mist and dew.

In all of spangled space, but I
To stare moon-struck into the sky;
Of billion beings I alone
To praise the Moon as still as stone.

And seal a bond between us two,
Closer than mortal ever knew;
For as mute masses I intone
The Moon is mine and mine alone.

III
To know the Moon as few men may,
One must be just a little fey;
And for our friendship's sake I'm glad
That I am just a trifle mad.

And one with all the wild, wise things,
The furtive folk of fur and wings,
That hold the Moon within their eyes,
And make it nightly sacrifice.

O I will watch the maiden Moon
Dance on the sea with silver shoon;
But with the Queen Moon I will keep
My tryst when all the world's asleep.

As I have kept by land and sea
That tryst for half a century;
Entranced in sibylline suspense
Beyond a world of common-sense.

Until one night the Moon alone
Will look upon a graven stone.

.

.

.

I wonder will it miss me then,
Its lover more than other men?

Or will my wistful ghost be there,
Down ages dim to stare and stare,
On silver nights without a stir—
The Moon's Eternal Worshipper?

Mud Read Poem

Mud is Beauty in the making,
Mud is melody awaking;
Laughter, leafy whisperings,
Butterflies with rainbow wings;
Baby babble, lover's sighs,
Bobolink in lucent skies;
Ardours of heroic blood
All stem back to Matrix Mud.

Mud is mankind in the moulding,
Heaven's mystery unfolding;
Miracles of mighty men,
Raphael's brush and Shakespear's pen;
Sculpture, music, all we owe
Mozart, Michael Angelo;
Wonder, worship, dreaming spire,
Issue out of primal mire.

In the raw, red womb of Time
Man evolved from cosmic slime;
And our thaumaturgic day
Had its source in ooze and clay .

.

.

But I have not power to see
Such stupendous alchemy:
And in star-bright lily bud
Lo! I worship Mother Mud.

Munition Maker Read Poem

I am the Cannon King, behold!
I perish on a throne of gold.

With forest far and turret high,
Renowned and rajah-rich am I.

My father was, and his before,
With wealth we owe to war on war;
But let no potentate be proud .

.

.

There are no pockets in a shroud.

By nature I am mild and kind,
To gentleness and ruth inclined;
And though the pheasants over-run
My woods I will not touch a gun.

Yet while each monster that I forge
Thunders destruction form its gorge.

Death's whisper is, I vow, more loud .

.

.

There are no pockets in a shroud.

My time is short, my ships at sea
Already seem like ghosts to me;
My millions mock me I am poor
As any beggar at my door.

My vast dominion I resign,
Six feet of earth to claim is mine,
Brooding with shoulders bitter-bowed .

.

.

There are no pockets in a shroud.

Dear God, let me purge my heart,
And be of heaven's hope a part!
Flinging my fortune's foul increase
To fight for pity, love and peace.

Oh that I could with healing fare,
And pledged to poverty and prayer
Cry high above the cringing crowd:
"Ye fools! Be not Mammon cowed .

.

.

There are no pockets in a shroud.

"

Murderers Read Poem

He was my best and oldest friend.

I'd known him all my life.

And yet I'm sure towards the end
He knew I loved his wife,
And wonder, wonder if it's why
He came so dreadfully to die.

He drove his car at racing speed
And crashed into a tree.

How could he have so little heed?

A skillful driver he.

I think he must have found that day
Some love-letters that went astray.

I looked into the woman's eyes
And there I saw she knew.

There was no shadow of surmise, -
For her himself he slew:
That he might leave her free to wed
The "me" she worshipped in his stead.

She whispered as she bade me go:
"I think he found us out.

"
And in her face the hate and woe
Was his revenge, no doubt.

Life cannot link us .

.

.

though glad-green
His grave - he stands between.

Music In The Bush Read Poem

O'er the dark pines she sees the silver moon,
And in the west, all tremulous, a star;
And soothing sweet she hears the mellow tune
Of cow-bells jangled in the fields afar.

Quite listless, for her daily stent is done,
She stands, sad exile, at her rose-wreathed door,
And sends her love eternal with the sun
That goes to gild the land she'll see no more.

The grave, gaunt pines imprison her sad gaze,
All still the sky and darkling drearily;
She feels the chilly breath of dear, dead days
Come sifting through the alders eerily.

Oh, how the roses riot in their bloom!
The curtains stir as with an ancient pain;
Her old piano gleams from out the gloom
And waits and waits her tender touch in vain.

But now her hands like moonlight brush the keys
With velvet grace — melodious delight;
And now a sad refrain from over seas
Goes sobbing on the bosom of the night;
And now she sings.

(O! singer in the gloom,
Voicing a sorrow we can ne'er express,
Here in the Farness where we few have room
Unshamed to show our love and tenderness,
Our hearts will echo, till they beat no more,
That song of sadness and of motherland;
And, stretched in deathless love to England's shore,
Some day she'll hearken and she'll understand.

)
A prima-donna in the shining past,
But now a mother growing old and gray,
She thinks of how she held a people fast
In thrall, and gleaned the triumphs of a day.

She sees a sea of faces like a dream;
She sees herself a queen of song once more;
She sees lips part in rapture, eyes agleam;
She sings as never once she sang before.

She sings a wild, sweet song that throbs with pain,
The added pain of life that transcends art —
A song of home, a deep, celestial strain,
The glorious swan-song of a dying heart.

A lame tramp comes along the railway track,
A grizzled dog whose day is nearly done;
He passes, pauses, then comes slowly back
And listens there — an audience of one.

She sings — her golden voice is passion-fraught,
As when she charmed a thousand eager ears;
He listens trembling, and she knows it not,
And down his hollow cheeks roll bitter tears.

She ceases and is still, as if to pray;
There is no sound, the stars are all alight —
Only a wretch who stumbles on his way,
Only a vagrant sobbing in the night.

My Ancestors Read Poem

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 bawbee.

We reft our living from the soil,
And I was shieling bred;
My father's hands were warped with toil,
And crooked with grace he said.

My mother made the kettle boil
As spinning wheel she fed.

My granny smoked a pipe of clay,
And yammered of her youth;
The hairs upon her chin were grey,
She had a single tooth;
Her mutch was grimed, I grieve to say,
For I would speak the truth.

You of your ancestry may boast,—
Well, here I brag of mine;
For if there is a heaven host
I hope they'll be in line:
My dad with collie at his heel
In plaid of tartan stripe;
My mammie with her spinning wheel,
My granny with her pipe.

My Bay'nit Read Poem

When first I left Blighty they gave me a bay'nit
And told me it 'ad to be smothered wiv gore;
But blimey! I 'aven't been able to stain it,
So far as I've gone wiv the vintage of war.

For ain't it a fraud! when a Boche and yours truly
Gits into a mix in the grit and the grime,
'E jerks up 'is 'ands wiv a yell and 'e's duly
Part of me outfit every time.

Left, right, Hans and Fritz!
Goose step, keep up yer mits!
Oh my, Ain't it a shyme!
Part of me outfit every time.

At toasting a biscuit me bay'nit's a dandy;
I've used it to open a bully beef can;
For pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy;
For any old thing but for stickin' a man.

'Ow often I've said: "'Ere, I'm goin' to press you
Into a 'Un till you're seasoned for prime,"
And fiercely I rushes to do it, but bless you!
Part of me outfit every time.

Lor, yus;
don't
they look glad?

Right O! 'Owl Kamerad!
Oh my, always the syme!
Part of me outfit every time.

I'm 'untin' for someone to christen me bay'nit,
Some nice juicy Chewton wot's fightin' in France;
I'm fairly down-'earted — 'ow
can
yer explain it?

I keeps gettin' prisoners every chance.

As soon as they sees me they ups and surrenders,
Extended like monkeys wot's tryin' to climb;
And I uses me bay'nit — to slit their suspenders —
Part of me outfit every time.

Four 'Uns; lor, wot a bag!
'Ere, Fritz, sample a fag!
Oh my, ain't it a gyme!
Part of me outfit every time.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

95-96.

My Bear Read Poem

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 tobasco 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-
- Ion 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 slake,
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!

My Book Read Poem

Before I drink myself to death,
God, let me finish up my Book!
At night, I fear, I fight for breath,
And wake up whiter than a spook;
And crawl off to a bistro near,
And drink until my brain is clear.

Rare Absinthe! Oh, it gives me strength
To write and write; and so I spend
Day after day, until at length
With joy and pain I'll write The End:
Then let this carcase rot; I give
The world my Book — my Book will live.

For every line is tense with truth,
There's hope and joy on every page;
A cheer, a clarion call to Youth,
A hymn, a comforter to Age:
All's there that I was meant to be,
My part divine, the God in me.

It's of my life the golden sum;
Ah! who that reads this Book of mine,
In stormy centuries to come,
Will dream I rooted with the swine?

Behold! I give mankind my best:
What does it matter, all the rest?

It's this that makes sublime my day;
It's this that makes me struggle on.

Oh, let them mock my mortal clay,
My spirit's deathless as the dawn;
Oh, let them shudder as they look .

.

.

I'll be immortal in my Book.

And so beside the sullen Seine
I fight with dogs for filthy food,
Yet know that from my sin and pain
Will soar serene a Something Good;
Exultantly from shame and wrong
A Right, a Glory and a Song.

My Boss Read Poem

My Boss keeps sporty girls, they say;
His belly's big with cheer.

He squanders in a single day
What I make in a year.

For I must toil with bloody sweat,
And body bent and scarred,
While my whole life-gain he could bet
Upon a single card.

By Boss is big and I am small;
I slave to keep him rich.

He'd look at me like scum and call
Me something of a bitch .

.

.

Ah no! he wouldn't use that phrase
To designate my mother:
Despite his high and mighty ways,
My Boss is my twin-brother.

Conceived were we in common joy
And born in common pain;
But while I was a brawny boy
My brother stole my brain.

As dumb was I as he was smart,
As blind as he could see;
And so it was, bang from the start
He got the best of me.

I'm one of many in his pay;
From him I draw my dough;
But he would fire me right away
If he should hap to know
A week ago he passed me by;
I heard his wheezing breath,
And in his pouched and blood-shot eye
I saw, stark-staring - Death.

He has his women, cards and wine;
I have my beans and bread.

But oh, the last laugh will be mine
The day I hear he's dead.

Aye, though we shared a common womb
(I gloat to think of it)
Some day I'll stand beside his tomb
And loose my glob and .

.

.

spit.

My Brothers Read Poem

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 song there is no sale.

My brother Tom a tailor shop
Is owner of, and ladies stop
To try the models he has planned,
And richly pay, I understand:
Yet not even a dingy dime
Can I make with my rhyme.

My brother Jim sells stuff to eat
Like trotters, tripe and sausage meat.

I dare not by his window stop,
Lest he should offer me a chop;
For though a starving bard I be,
To hell, say I, with charity!
My brothers all are proud of purse,
But though my poverty I curse,
I would not for a diadem
Exchange my lowly lot with them:
A garret and a crust for me,
And reams and dreams of Poetry.

My Calendar Read Poem

From off my calendar today
A leaf I tear;
So swiftly passes smiling May
Without a care.

And now the gentleness of June
Will fleetly fly
And I will greet the glamour moon
Of lush July.

Beloved months so soon to pass,
Alas, I see
The slim sand silvering the glass
Of Time for me;
As bodingly midwinter woe
I wait with rue,
Oh how I grudge the days to go!
They are so few.

A Calendar's a gayful thing
To grace a room;
And though with joy of life I sing,
With secret gloom
I add this merry month of May
To eighty past,
Thinking each page I tear away
May be my last.

My Cancer Cure Read Poem

"A year to live," the Doctor said;
"There is no cure," and shook his head.

Ah me! I felt as good as dead.

Yet quite resigned to fate was I,
Thinking: "Well, since I have to die
'Twill be beneath the open sky.

"
And so I sought a wildsome wood
Wherein a lonely cabin stood,
And doomed myself to solitude,
And there was no one I would see:
Each morn a farmer brought to me
My food and hung it on a tree.

Six eggs he brought, and milk a quart,
Enough for wretches of my sort
Whose life is fated to be short.

At night I laid me on the round,
In robe of buffalo wrapped round .

.

.

'Twas strange that I should sleep so sound.

The farmer man I seldom saw;
I pierced my eggs and sucked them raw;
Sweet mil refreshed my ravaged maw.

So slowly days and weeks went by,
And always I would wonder why
I did not die.

.

.

I did not die.

Thus brooding on my grievous lot
The world of men I fast forgot.

And in the wildwood friends I sought.

The brook bright melodies would sing,
The groves with feathered rapture ring,
And bring me strange, sweet comforting.

.

.

.

Then all at once I knew that I
Miraculously would not die:
When doctors fail let Nature try.

My Centenarian Read Poem

A hundred years is a lot of living
I've often thought; and I'll know, maybe,
Some day if the gods are good in giving,
And grant me to turn the century.

Yet in all my eighty years of being
I've never known but one ancient man
Who actively feeling, hearing, seeing,
Survived beyond the hundred span.

Thinking?

No, I don't guess he pondered;
He had the brains of a tiny tot,
And in his mind he so often wandered,
I doubted him capable of thought.

He hadn't much to think of anyway,
There in the village of his birth,
Painfully poor in a pinching penny-way,
And grimed with the soiling of Mother Earth.

Then one day motoring past his cottage,
The hovel in which he had been born,
I saw him supping a mess of pottage,
on the sill door, so fail forlorn.

Thinks I: I'll give him a joy that's thrilling,
A spin in my open Cadillac;
And so I asked him, and he was willing,
And I installed him there in the back.

When I put the big bus through its paces,
A hundred miles an hour or more;
And he clutched at me with queer grimaces,
(He's never been in a car before.

)
The motor roared and the road was level,
The old chap laughed like an impish boy,
And as I drove like the very devil,
Darn him! he peed his pants with joy.

And so I crowned his long existence
By showing him how our modern speed
Easily can annihilate distance,
And answer to all our modern need.

And I went on my way but little caring,
Until I heard to mild dismay,
His drive had thrilled him beyond all bearing .

.

.

The poor old devil! - He died next day.

My Chapel Read Poem

In idle dream with pipe in hand
I looked across the Square,
And saw the little chapel stand
In eloquent despair.

A ruin of the War it was,
A dreary, dingy mess:
It worried me a lot because
My hobby's happiness.

The shabby Priest said: 'You are kind.

Time leaves us on the lurch,
And there are very few who mind
Their duty to the Church.

But with this precious sum you give,
I'll make it like a gem;
Poor folks will come, our altar live
To comfort them.

'
So now my chapel of despair
Is full of joy and song;
I watch the humble go to prayer
Although I don't belong.

An artist and agnostic I
Possess but little pelf;
But oh what blessings it can buy
Them—and myself!

My Childhood God Read Poem

When I was small the Lord appeared
Unto my mental eye
A gentle giant with a beard
Who homed up in the sky.

But soon that vasty vision blurred,
And faded in the end,
Till God is just another word
I cannot comprehend.

I envy those of simple faith
Who bend the votive knee;
Who do not doubt divinely death
Will set their spirits free.

Oh could I be like you and you,
Sweet souls who scan this line,
And by dim altar worship too
A Deity Divine!
Alas! Mid passions that appal
I ask with bitter woe
Is God responsible for all
Our horror here below?

He made the hero and the saint,
But did He also make
The cannibal in battle paint,
The shark and rattlesnake?

If I believe in God I should
Believe in Satan too;
The one the source of all our good,
The other of our rue .

.

.

Oh could I second childhood gain!
For then it might be, I
Once more would see that vision plain,—
Fond Father in the sky.

My Coffin Read Poem

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 honest;
And sometimes in it I would sit,
And fancy I was non est.

I stored it on my cabin shelf
Forever to remind me,
When I was tickled with myself,
That Death was close behind me.

Let's be prepared, I used to say,
E're in the Dark we launch us:
And so with boding day by day
I kept me coffin-conscious.

Then came that winter dark as doom,
No firing wood had I;
My shack was icy as a tomb
And I was set to die.

But e'er the losing of my wits
I saw that coffin there,
S smashing the damned thing to bits
I made a gorgeous flare.

I never saw a flame so bright,
So goldenly divine,
As starred the blackness of the night
That boneyard box of mine.

And now I go forth coffin-shy,
With no more carnal fears,
For radiantly sure am I
I'll stack a hundred years.

My Consolation Read Poem

'Nay; I don't need a hearing aid'
I told Mama-in-law;
'For if I had I'd be afraid
Of your eternal jaw;
Although at me you often shout,
I'm undisturbed;
To tell the truth I can't make out
A single word.

'
And it's the same with others who
Attempt to gab at me;
I listen to their point of view
And solemnly agree.

To story stale and silly joke
Stone deaf's my ear;
Each day a dozen stupid folk
I fail to hear.

So silence that should be my grief
Is my escape and shield;
From spiteful speech and base relief
My aural sense is sealed.

And in my cosy cot of peace
I close the door.

Praising the gods for rich relief
From fool and bore.

My Cross Read Poem

I wrote a poem to the moon
But no one noticed it;
Although I hoped that late or soon
Someone would praise a bit
It's purity and grace forlorn,
It's beauty tulip-cool…
But as my poem died still-born,
I felt a fool.

I wrote a verse of vulgar trend
Spiced with an oath or two;
I tacked a snapper at the end
And called it Dan McGrew.

I spouted it to bar-room boys,
Full fifty years away;
Yet still with rude and ribald noise
It lives today.

'Tis bitter truth, but there you are-
That's how a name is made;
Write of a rose, a lark, a star,
You'll never make the grade.

But write of gutter and of grime,
Of pimp and prostitute,
The multitude will read your rhyme,
And pay to boot.

So what's the use to burn and bleed
And strive for beauty's sake?

No one your poetry will read,
Your heart will only break.

But set your song in vulgar pitch,
If rhyme you will not rue,
And make your heroine a bitch…
Like Lady Lou.

My Cuckoo Clock Read Poem

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 Dentist Read Poem

Sitting in the dentist's chair,
Wishing that I wasn't there,
To forget and pass the time
I have made this bit of rhyme.

I had a rendez-vous at ten;
I rushed to get in line,
But found a lot of dames and men
Had waited there since nine;
I stared at them, then in an hour
Was blandly ushered in;
But though my face was grim and sour
He met me with a grin.

He told me of his horse of blood,
And how it "also ran",
He plans to own a racing stud -
(He seems a wealthy man.

)
And then he left me there until
I growled: "At any rate,
I hope he'll not charge in his bill
For all the time I wait.

"
His wife has sables on her back,
With jewels she's ablaze;
She drives a stately Cadillac,
And I'm the mug who pays:
At least I'm one of those who peer
With pessimistic gloom
At magazines of yester-year
In his damn waiting room.

I am a Christian Scientist;
I don't believe in pain;
My dentist had a powerful wrist,
He tries and tries in vain
To make me grunt or groan or squeal
With probe or rasp or drill.

.

.

.

But oh, what agony I feel
When HE PRESENTS HIS BILL!
Sitting in the dental chair,
Don't you wish you weren't there:
Well, your cup of woe to fill,
Just think of his infernal bill.

My Dog Read Poem

'Twas in a pub just off the Strand
When I was in my cups,
There passed a bloke with in his hand
Two tiny puling pups;
And one was on me with a bound,
Seeking to lick my face,
And so I bought him for a pound
And took him to my place.

Three acres by the shore I own,
A hut, a pint wood;
And there for fifteen years alone
He shared my solitude.

It was his own, his only world,
And when with hunting spent,
Each night beside my bed he curled,
And slept in sheer content.

My dog is dead.

Though lone I be
I'll never have another;
For with his master-worship he
Was closer than a brother.

My foot is frail and I am old,
Yet how my heart can pity
Pups straining on a short leash-hold
And pent up in the city.

From all thought of self above,
And purged of sex emotion,
I know no form of living love
So deep as dogs devotion.

I have no hope at all of heaven,
I've lived in sin and strife;
But thank God! I at least have given
One dog a happy life.

My Dog's My Boss Read Poem

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 talk.

But since I lack his zip and zest
My old bones often tire;
And so I ventured to suggest
Today we hug the fire.

But with what wailing he expressed
The death of his desire!
He gazed at me with eyes of woe
As if to say: 'Old boy,
You mustn't lose your grip, you know,
Let us with laughing joy,
On heath and hill six miles or so
Our legs and lungs employ.

'
And then his bark was stilled to a sigh
He flopped upon the floor;
But such a soft old mug am I
I threw awide the door;
So gaily, though the wind was high
We hiked across the moor.

My Favoured Fare Read Poem

Some poets sing of scenery;
Some to fair maids make sonnets sweet.

A fig for love and greenery,
Be mine a song of things to eat.

Let brother bards divinely dream,
I'm just plain human, as you see;
And choose to carol such a theme
As ham and eggs and tea.

Just two fried eggs or maybe three,
With lacy rims and sunside up,
Pink coral ham and amber tea
Poured in a big, fat china cup.

I have no crave for finer fare;
That's just the chuck for chaps like me.

Aye, if I were a millionaire—
Just ham and eggs and tea.

When of life's fussiness I tire,
And on my skull I wear a cap,
As tartan-shawled beside the fire
I stroke the kitten on my lap:
Give me no broth and chicken breast;
My last repast shall hearty be .

.

.

Oh how I'll sup with chuckling zest
On ham and eggs and tea!

My Favourite Fan Read Poem

Being a writer I receive
Sweet screeds from folk of every land;
Some are so weird you'd scarce believe,
And some quite hard to understand:
But as a conscientious man
I type my thanks to all I can.

So when I got a foreign scrawl
That spider-webbed across the page,
Said I: "This is the worst of all;
No doubt a child of tender age
Has written it, so I'll be kind,
And send an answer to her mind.

Promptly I typed a nice reply
And thought that it would be the end,
But in due course confused was I
To get a letter signed: Your Friend;
And with it, full of girlish grace,
A snapshot of a winsome face.

"I am afraid," she wrote to me,
"That you must have bees sure surprised
At my poor penmanship .

.

.

You see,
My arms and legs are paralyzed:
With pen held in a sort of sheath
I do my writing with my teeth.

"
Though sadness followed my amaze,
And pity too, I must confess
The look that lit her laughing gaze
Was one of sunny happiness.

.

.

.

Oh spirit of a heroine!
Your smile so tender, so divine,
I pray, may never cease to shine.

My Feud Read Poem

I hate my neighbour Widow Green;
I'd like to claw her face;
But if I did she'd make a scene
And run me round the place:
For widows are in way of spleen
A most pugnacious race.

And yet I must do something quick
To keep the hag in line,
Since her red rooster chose to pick
Five lettuce heads of mine:
And so I fed it arsenic
Which it did not decline.

It disappeared, but on my mat
Before a week had sped
I found Mi-mi, my tabby cat
And it was stoney dead;
I diagnosed with weeping that
On strychnine it had fed.

And so I bought a hamburg steak,
Primed it with powdered glass,
And left it for her dog to take
With gulping from the grass:
Since then, although I lie awake
I have not seen it pass.

Well, that's the scoring up to date:
And as I read a text
From Job to justify my hate
I wonder who'll be next?

Somehow I feel that one must die,
Ma Green or I.

My Foe Read Poem

A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks:
Gurr! You cochon!
Stand and fight!
Show your mettle! Snarl and bite!
Spawn of an accursed race,
Turn and meet me face to face!
Here amid the wreck and rout
Let us grip and have it out!
Here where ruins rock and reel
Let us settle, steel to steel!
Look! Our houses, how they spit
Sparks from brands your friends have lit.

See! Our gutters running red,
Bright with blood your friends have shed.

Hark! Amid your drunken brawl
How our maidens shriek and call.

Why have you come here alone,
To this hearth's blood-spattered stone?

Come to ravish, come to loot,
Come to play the ghoulish brute.

Ah, indeed! We well are met,
Bayonet to bayonet.

God! I never killed a man:
Now I'll do the best I can.

Rip you to the evil heart,
Laugh to see the life-blood start.

Bah! You swine! I hate you so.

Show you mercy?

No! .

.

.

and no! .

.

.

There! I've done it.

See! He lies
Death a-staring from his eyes;
Glazing eyeballs, panting breath,
How it's horrible, is Death!
Plucking at his bloody lips
With his trembling finger-tips;
Choking in a dreadful way
As if he would something say
In that uncouth tongue of his.

.

.

.

Oh, how horrible Death is!
How I wish that he would die!
So unnerved, unmanned am I.

See! His twitching face is white!
See! His bubbling blood is bright.

Why do I not shout with glee?

What strange spell is over me?

There he lies; the fight was fair;
Let me toss my cap in air.

Why am I so silent?

Why
Do I pray for him to die?

Where is all my vengeful joy?

Ugh! My foe is but a boy.

I'd a brother of his age
Perished in the war's red rage;
Perished in the Ypres hell:
Oh, I loved my brother well.

And though I be hard and grim,
How it makes me think of him!
He had just such flaxen hair
As the lad that's lying there.

Just such frank blue eyes were his.

.

.

.

God! How horrible war is!
I have reason to be gay:
There is one less foe to slay.

I have reason to be glad:
Yet — my foe is such a lad.

So I watch in dull amaze,
See his dying eyes a-glaze,
See his face grow glorified,
See his hands outstretched and wide
To that bit of ruined wall
Where the flames have ceased to crawl,
Where amid the crumbling bricks
Hangs
a blackened crucifix.

Now, oh now I understand.

Quick I press it in his hand,
Close his feeble finger-tips,
Hold it to his faltering lips.

As I watch his welling blood
I would stem it if I could.

God of Pity, let him live!
God of Love, forgive, forgive.

* * * *
His face looked strangely, as he died,
Like that of One they crucified.

And in the pocket of his coat
I found a letter; thus he wrote:
The things I've seen! Oh, mother dear,
I'm wondering can God be here?

To-night amid the drunken brawl
I saw a Cross hung on a wall;
I'll seek it now, and there alone
Perhaps I may atone, atone.

.

.

.

Ah no! 'Tis I who must atone.

No other saw but God alone;
Yet how can I forget the sight
Of that face so woeful white!
Dead I kissed him as he lay,
Knelt by him and tried to pray;
Left him lying there at rest,
Crucifix upon his breast.

Not for him the pity be.

Ye who pity, pity me,
Crawling now the ways I trod,
Blood-guilty in sight of God.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, Robert W.

Service, published by Barses & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

166-170.

My Friends Read Poem

The man above was a murderer, the man below was a thief;
And I lay there in the bunk between, ailing beyond belief;
A weary armful of skin and bone, wasted with pain and grief.

My feet were froze, and the lifeless toes were purple and green and gray;
The little flesh that clung to my bones, you could punch it in holes like clay;
The skin on my gums was a sullen black, and slowly peeling away.

I was sure enough in a direful fix, and often I wondered why
They did not take the chance that was left and leave me alone to die,
Or finish me off with a dose of dope — so utterly lost was I.

But no; they brewed me the green-spruce tea, and nursed me there like a child;
And the homicide he was good to me, and bathed my sores and smiled;
And the thief he starved that I might be fed, and his eyes were kind and mild.

Yet they were woefully wicked men, and often at night in pain
I heard the murderer speak of his deed and dream it over again;
I heard the poor thief sorrowing for the dead self he had slain.

I'll never forget that bitter dawn, so evil, askew and gray,
When they wrapped me round in the skins of beasts and they bore me to a sleigh,
And we started out with the nearest post an hundred miles away.

I'll never forget the trail they broke, with its tense, unuttered woe;
And the crunch, crunch, crunch as their snowshoes sank through the crust of the hollow snow;
And my breath would fail, and every beat of my heart was like a blow.

And oftentimes I would die the death, yet wake up to life anew;
The sun would be all ablaze on the waste, and the sky a blighting blue,
And the tears would rise in my snow-blind eyes and furrow my cheeks like dew.

And the camps we made when their strength outplayed and the day was pinched and wan;
And oh, the joy of that blessed halt, and how I did dread the dawn;
And how I hated the weary men who rose and dragged me on.

And oh, how I begged to rest, to rest — the snow was so sweet a shroud;
And oh, how I cried when they urged me on, cried and cursed them aloud;
Yet on they strained, all racked and pained, and sorely their backs were bowed.

And then it was all like a lurid dream, and I prayed for a swift release
From the ruthless ones who would not leave me to die alone in peace;
Till I wakened up and I found myself at the post of the Mounted Police.

And there was my friend the murderer, and there was my friend the thief,
With bracelets of steel around their wrists, and wicked beyond belief:
But when they come to God's judgment seat — may I be allowed the brief.

My Future Read Poem

"Let's make him a sailor," said Father,
"And he will adventure the sea.

"
"A soldier," said Mother, "is rather
What I would prefer him to be.

"
"A lawyer," said Father, "would please me,
For then he could draw up my will.

"
"A doctor," said Mother, "would ease me;
Maybe he could give me a pill.

"
Said Father: "Let's make him a curate,
A Bishop in gaiters to be.

"
Said Mother: "I couldn't endure it
To have Willie preaching to me.

"
Said Father: ""Let him be a poet;
So often he's gathering wool.

"
Said Mother with temper: "Oh stow it!
You know it, a poet's a fool.

"
Said Father: "Your son is a duffer,
A stupid and mischievous elf.

"
Said Mother, who's rather a huffer:
"That's right - he takes after yourself.

"
Controlling parental emotion
They turned to me, seeking a cue,
And sudden conceived the bright notion
To ask what I wanted to do.

Said I: "my ambition is modest:
A clown in a circus I'd be,
And turn somersaults in the sawdust
With audience laughing at me.

"
.

.

.

Poor parents! they're dead and decaying,
But I am a clown as you see;
And though in no circus I'm playing,
How people are laughing at me!

My Garden Read Poem

The world is sadly sick, they say,
And plagued by woe and pain.

But look! How looms my garden gay,
With blooms in golden reign!
With lyric music in the air,
Of joy fulfilled in song,
I can't believe that anywhere
Is hate and harm and wrong.

A paradise my garden is,
And there my day is spent;
A steep myself in sunny bliss,
Incredibly content.

Feeling that I am truly part
Of peace so rapt and still,
There's not a care within my heart .

.

.

How can the world be ill?

Aye, though the land be sick they say,
And named unto pain,
My garden never was so gay,
So innocent, so sane.

My roses mock at misery,
My thrushes vie in song .

.

.

When only beauty I can see,
How can the world be wrong?

My Garret Read Poem

Here is my Garret up five flights of stairs;
Here's where I deal in dreams and ply in fancies,
Here is the wonder-shop of all my wares,
My sounding sonnets and my red romances.

Here's where I challenge Fate and ring my rhymes,
And grope at glory — aye, and starve at times.

Here is my Stronghold: stout of heart am I,
Greeting each dawn as songful as a linnet;
And when at night on yon poor bed I lie
(Blessing the world and every soul that's in it),
Here's where I thank the Lord no shadow bars
My skylight's vision of the valiant stars.

Here is my Palace tapestried with dreams.

Ah! though to-night ten sous are all my treasure,
While in my gaze immortal beauty gleams,
Am I not dowered with wealth beyond all measure?

Though in my ragged coat my songs I sing,
King of my soul, I envy not the king.

Here is my Haven: it's so quiet here;
Only the scratch of pen, the candle's flutter;
Shabby and bare and small, but O how dear!
Mark you — my table with my work a-clutter,
My shelf of tattered books along the wall,
My bed, my broken chair — that's nearly all.

Only four faded walls, yet mine, all mine.

Oh, you fine folks, a pauper scorns your pity.

Look, where above me stars of rapture shine;
See, where below me gleams the siren city .

.

.

Am I not rich?

— a millionaire no less,
If wealth be told in terms of Happiness.

My Guardian Angel Read Poem

When looking back I dimly see
The trails my feet have trod,
Some hand divine, it seems to me,
Has pulled the strings with God;
Some angel form has lifeward leaned
When hope for me was past;
Some love sublime has intervened
To save me at the last.

For look you! I was born a fool,
Damnation was my fate;
My lot to drivel and to drool,
Egregious and frutrate.

But in the deep of my despair,
When dark my doom was writ,
Some saving hand was always there
to pull me from the Pit.

A Guardian Angel - how absurd!
I scoff at Power Divine.

And yet .

.

.

a someone spoke the word
That willed me from the swine.

And yet, despite my scorn of prayer,
My lack of love or friend,
I know a Presence will be there,
To save me at the end.

My Hero Read Poem

Of all the boys with whom I fought
In Africa and Sicily,
Bill was the bravest of the lot
In our dare-devil Company.

That lad would rather die than yield;
His gore he glorified to spill,
And so in every battlefield
A hero in my eyes was Bill.

Then when the bloody war was done,
He moseyed back to our home town,
And there, a loving mother's son,
Like other kids he settled down.

His old girl seemed a shade straight-laced,
For when I called my buddy "Bill,"
She looked at me with some distaste,
Suggesting that his name was "Will.

"
And then he had to get engaged,
And took unto himself a wife;
And so inevitably caged,
He settled down to wedded life.

He introduced me to his Missis,
But oh I thought her rather silly,
For in between their frequent kisses
She called my hard-boiled here: "Willie.

"
Now he has long forgot the War,
The which he did a lot to win,
And feeling full of ginger for
He's happy Pop of cherubs twin.

Yet with his air: "Don't care a damn,"
On Main Street he's my hero still .

.

.

As proud he wheels a double pram
What guy has got the guts of Bill!

My Holiday Read Poem

I love the cheery bustle
Of children round the house,
The tidy maids a-hustle,
The chatter of my spouse;
The laughter and the singing,
The joy on every face:
With frequent laughter ringing,
O, Home's a happy place!
Aye, Home's a bit of heaven;
I love it every day;
My line-up of eleven
Combine to make it gay;
Yet when in June they're leaving
For Sandport by the sea,
By rights I should be grieving,
But gosh! I just fell free.

I'm left with parting kisses,
The guardian of the house;
The romp, it's true, one misses,
I'm quiet as a mouse.

In carpet slippers stealing
From room to room alone
I get the strangest feeling
The place is all my own.

It seems to nestle near me,
It whispers in my ear;
My books and pictures cheer me,
Hearth never was so dear.

In peace profound I lap me,
I take no stock of time,
And from the dreams that hap me,
I make (like this) a rhyme.

Oh, I'm ashamed of saying
(And think it's mean of me),
That when the kids are staying
At Sandspot on the sea,
And I evoke them clearly
Disporting in the spray,
I love them still more dearly
Because .

.

.

they're far away.

My Hour Read Poem

Day after day behold me plying
My pen within an office drear;
The dullest dog, till homeward hieing,
Then lo! I reign a king of cheer.

A throne have I of padded leather,
A little court of kiddies three,
A wife who smiles whate'er the weather,
A feast of muffins, jam and tea.

The table cleared, a romping battle,
A fairy tale, a "Children, bed,"
A kiss, a hug, a hush of prattle
(God save each little drowsy head!)
A cozy chat with wife a-sewing,
A silver lining clouds that low'r,
Then she too goes, and with her going,
I come again into my Hour.

I poke the fire, I snugly settle,
My pipe I prime with proper care;
The water's purring in the kettle,
Rum, lemon, sugar, all are there.

And now the honest grog is steaming,
And now the trusty briar's aglow:
Alas! in smoking, drinking, dreaming,
How sadly swift the moments go!
Oh, golden hour! 'twixt love and duty,
All others I to others give;
But you are mine to yield to Beauty,
To glean Romance, to greatly live.

For in my easy-chair reclining .

.

.

I feel the sting of ocean spray;
And yonder wondrously are shining
The Magic Isles of Far Away.

Beyond the comber's crashing thunder
Strange beaches flash into my ken;
On jetties heaped head-high with plunder
I dance and dice with sailor-men.

Strange stars swarm down to burn above me,
Strange shadows haunt, strange voices greet;
Strange women lure and laugh and love me,
And fling their bastards at my feet.

Oh, I would wish the wide world over,
In ports of passion and unrest,
To drink and drain, a tarry rover
With dragons tattooed on my chest,
With haunted eyes that hold red glories
Of foaming seas and crashing shores,
With lips that tell the strangest stories
Of sunken ships and gold moidores;
Till sick of storm and strife and slaughter,
Some ghostly night when hides the moon,
I slip into the milk-warm water
And softly swim the stale lagoon.

Then through some jungle python-haunted,
Or plumed morass, or woodland wild,
I win my way with heart undaunted,
And all the wonder of a child.

The pathless plains shall swoon around me,
The forests frown, the floods appall;
The mountains tiptoe to confound me,
The rivers roar to speed my fall.

Wild dooms shall daunt, and dawns be gory,
And Death shall sit beside my knee;
Till after terror, torment, glory,
I win again the sea, the sea.

.

.

.

Oh, anguish sweet! Oh, triumph splendid!
Oh, dreams adieu! my pipe is dead.

My glass is dry, my Hour is ended,
It's time indeed I stole to bed.

How peacefully the house is sleeping!
Ah! why should I strange fortunes plan?

To guard the dear ones in my keeping —
That's task enough for any man.

So through dim seas I'll ne'er go spoiling;
The red Tortugas never roam;
Please God! I'll keep the pot a-boiling,
And make at least a happy home.

My children's path shall gleam with roses,
Their grace abound, their joy increase.

And so my Hour divinely closes
With tender thoughts of praise and peace.

My House Read Poem

I have a house I've lived in long:
I can't recall my going in.

'Twere better bartered for a song
Ere ruin, rot and rust begin.

When it was fresh and fine and fair,
I used it with neglect, I fear;
But now I husband it with care
And cherish it form year to year.

Oh do not put it to the flame
When I have gone, but let the dust,
The honest earth from which it came,
Reclaim it as is only juts.

For when at last I close the door,
And turn the key and go away,
I deed my house forever more
To silence, sleep and slow decay.

My house is old beyond repair,
And soon I must abandon it,
A poor ghost, seeking everywhere
To find a home as fine and fit;
But if I win domain divine
Wherein eternally to dwell,
I'll not forget, O Body Mine!
Life home of Me, I've loved you well.

My Hundred Books Read Poem

A thousand books my library
Contains;
And all are primed, it seems to me
With brains.

Mine are so few I scratch in thought
My head;
For just a hundred of the lot
I've read.

A hundred books, but of the best,
I can
With wisdom savour and digest
And scan.

Yet when afar from kin and kith
In nooks
Of quietness I'm happy with
Sweet books.

So as nine hundred at me stare
In vain,
My lack I'm wistfully aware
Of brain;
Yet as my leave of living ends,
With looks
Of love I view a hundred friends,
My books.

My Husbands Read Poem

My first I wed when just sixteen
And he was sixty-five.

He treated me like any queen
The years he was alive.

Oh I betrayed him on the sly,
Like any other bitch,
and how I longed for him to die
And leave me young and rich!
My second is a gigolo
I took when I was old;
That he deceives me well I know,
And hungers for my gold.

When I adore each silken hair
That crowns his handsome head,
I'm everlastingly aware
He wishes I were dead.

How I would love my vieux if he
Today were by my side;
My gig would have been daft for me
When I was first a bride.

But for his mother I can pass,
Although I am his wife;
Like father was my first - alas!
The irony of life.

My Husky Team Read Poem

I met an ancient man who mushed
With Peary to the Pole.

Said I, "In all that land so hushed
What most inspired your soul?

"
He looked at me with bleary eye,
He scratched a hoary head:
"You know that Sourdoughs jest cain't lie
So here's the dope," he said.

"That hike was like a devil's dream,
Just blizzards, gales and fogs,
But I was leadin' wi' my team
O' seven husky dogs.

Day after day I steered my sleigh,
Yet spry o' heart was I,
And every night the Northern Light
Danced ballys in the sky.

"Them dogs o' mine seemed to divine
Their mighty destiny.

They howled with joy, and like a boy
I jined them in their glee.

While like a spark from out the dark
Fame spurred us to our goal,
On, on we sped, the winnin' sled
To gain the Pole, the POLE.

"I saw it clear, I raised a cheer,
I knowed the prize was won:
The huskies too, like wind they flew -
Them critters sure could run.

The light was dim, the site was grim,
But sunshine swept my soul,
To see - each husky lift a limb
And…irrigate the Pole.

"

My Indian Summer Read Poem

Here in the Autumn of my days
My life is mellowed in a haze.

Unpleasant sights are none to clear,
Discordant sounds I hardly hear.

Infirmities like buffers soft
Sustain me tranquilly aloft.

I'm deaf to duffers, blind to bores,
Peace seems to percolate my pores.

I fold my hands, keep quiet mind,
In dogs and children joy I find.

With temper tolerant and mild,
Myself you'd almost think a child.

Yea, I have come on pleasant ways
Here in the Autumn of my days.

Here in the Autumn of my days
I can allow myself to laze,
To rest and give myself to dreams:
Life never was so sweet, it seems.

I haven't lost my sense of smell,
My taste-buds never served so well.

I love to eat - delicious food
Has never seemed one half so good.

In tea and coffee I delight,
I smoke and sip my grog at night.

I have a softer sense of touch,
For comfort I enjoy so much.

My skis are far more blues than greys,
Here in the Autumn of my days.

Here in the Autumn of my days
My heart is full of peace and praise.

Yet though I know that Winter's near,
I'll meet and greet it with a cheer.

With friendly books, with cosy fires,
And few but favourite desires,
I'll live from strife and woe apart,
And make a Heaven in my heart.

For Goodness, I have learned, is best,
And should by Kindness be expressed.

And so December with a smile
I'll wait and welcome, but meanwhile,
Blest interlude! The Gods I praise,
For this, the Autumn of my days.

My Inner Life Read Poem

'Tis true my garments threadbare are,
And sorry poor I seem;
But inly I am richer far
Than any poet's dream.

For I've a hidden life no one
Can ever hope to see;
A sacred sanctuary none
May share with me.

Aloof I stand from out the strife,
Within my heart a song;
By virtue of my inner life
I to myself belong.

Against man-ruling I rebel,
Yet do not fear defeat,
For to my secret citadel
I may retreat.

Oh you who have an inner life
Beyond this dismal day
With wars and evil rumours rife,
Go blessedly your way.

Your refuge hold inviolate;
Unto yourself be true,
And shield serene from sordid fate
The Real You.

My Job Read Poem

I've got a little job on 'and, the time is drawin' nigh;
At seven by the Captain's watch I'm due to go and do it;
I wants to 'ave it nice and neat, and pleasin' to the eye,
And I 'opes the God of soldier men will see me safely through it.

Because, you see, it's somethin' I 'ave never done before;
And till you 'as experience noo stunts is always tryin';
The chances is I'll never 'ave to do it any more:
At seven by the Captain's watch my little job is .

.

.

dyin'
.

I've got a little note to write; I'd best begin it now.

I ain't much good at writin' notes, but here goes: "Dearest Mother,
I've been in many 'ot old `do's'; I've scraped through safe some'ow,
But now I'm on the very point of tacklin' another.

A little job of hand-grenades; they called for volunteers.

They picked me out; I'm proud of it; it seems a trifle dicky.

If anythin' should 'appen, well, there ain't no call for tears,
And so .

.

.

I 'opes this finds you well.

— Your werry lovin' Micky.

"
I've got a little score to settle wiv them swine out there.

I've 'ad so many of me pals done in it's quite upset me.

I've seen so much of bloody death I don't seem for to care,
If I can only even up, how soon the blighters get me.

I'm sorry for them perishers that corpses in a bed;
I only 'opes mine's short and sweet, no linger-longer-lyin';
I've made a mess of life, but now I'll try to make instead .

.

.

It's seven sharp.

Good-bye, old pals! .

.

.

a decent job in dyin'
.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

171-172.

My Library Read Poem

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 away,
With dolls or painted bricks to play.

They glour at me, my tomes of learning.

"You dolt!" they jibe; "you undiscerning
Moronic oaf, you make a fuss,
With highbrow swank selecting us;
Saying: "I'll read you all some day' -
And now you yawn and turn away.

"Unwanted wait we with our store
Of facts and philosophic lore;
The scholarship of all the ages
Snug packed within our uncut pages;
The mystery of all mankind
In part revealed - but you are blind.

"You have no time to read, you tell us;
Oh, do not think that we are jealous
Of all the trash that wins your favour,
The flimsy fiction that you savour:
We only beg that sometimes you
Will spare us just an hour or two.

"For all the minds that went to make us
Are dust if folk like you forsake us,
And they can only live again
By virtue of your kindling brain;
In magice print they packed their best:
Come - try their wisdom to digest.

.

.

.

"
Said I: "Alas! I am not able;
I lay my cards upon the table,
And with deep shame and blame avow
I am too old to read you now;
So I will lock you in glass cases
And shun your sad, reproachful faces.

"
*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *
My library is noble planned,
Yet in it desolate I stand;
And though my thousand books I prize,
Feeling a witling in their eyes,
I turn from them in weariness
To wallow in the Daily Press.

For, oh, I never, never will
The noble field of knowledge till:
I pattern words with artful tricks,
As children play with painted bricks,
And realize with futile woe,
Nothing I know - nor want to know.

My library has windowed nooks;
And so I turn from arid books
To  vastitude of sea and sky,
And like a child content am I
With peak and plain and brook and tree,
Crying: "Behold! the books for me:
Nature, be thou my Library!"

My Madonna Read Poem

I haled me a woman from the street,
Shameless, but, oh, so fair!
I bade her sit in the model’s seat
And I painted her sitting there.

I hid all trace of her heart unclean;
I painted a babe at her breast;
I painted her as she might have been
If the Worst had been the Best.

She laughed at my picture and went away.

Then came, with a knowing nod,
A connoisseur, and I heard him say;
“’Tis Mary, the Mother of God.

”

So I painted a halo round her hair,
And I sold her and took my fee,
And she hangs in the church of Saint Hillaire,
Where you and all may see.

My Masterpiece Read Poem

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;
Its pathos clutches at my throat:
Oh, how I love each line of it!
That Little Book I Never Wrote.

In dreams I see it praised and prized
By all, from plowman unto peer;
It's pencil-marked and memorized,
It's loaned (and not returned, I fear);
It's worn and torn and travel-tossed,
And even dusky natives quote
That classic that the world has lost,
The Little Book I Never Wrote.

Poor ghost! For homes you've failed to cheer,
For grieving hearts uncomforted,
Don't haunt me now.

.

.

.

Alas! I fear
The fire of Inspiration's dead.

A humdrum way I go to-night,
From all I hoped and dreamed remote:
Too late .

.

.

a better man must write
That Little Book I Never Wrote.

My Masters Read Poem

Of Poetry I've been accused,
But much more often I have not;
Oh, I have been so much amused
By those who've put me on the spot,
And measured me by rules above
Those I observe with equal love.

An artisan of verse am I,
Of simple sense and humble tone;
My Thesaurus is handy by,
A rhyming lexicon I own;
Without them I am ill at ease -
What bards would use such aids as these?

Bad poets make good verse, they say;
The Great have not distained to woo
The modest muse of every day;
Read Longfellow and Byron through,
The fabric test - much verse you'll see
Compared with what is poetry.

Small blame; one cannot always soar
To heights of hyaline sublime;
Melodious prose one must deplore,
And fetters of rebellious rhyme:
Keats, Browning - that's another tale,
But even Giants fail and fail.

I've worshipped Ryley, Harte and Field,
And though their minstrelsy I lack,
To them heart-homage here I yield,
And follow with my verseman's pack:
To them with gratitude I look,
For briefing me to make this book.

My Mate Read Poem

I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots,
And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im.

(Look out there, lad! That sniper — 'e's a dysey when 'e shoots;
'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.

)
Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead,
To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud;
And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red,
Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot — but it's blood.

And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals.

'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me;
And sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals,
And even there we 'ad no disagree.

For when 'e copped Mariar Jones, the one I liked the best,
I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid;
I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elped 'im make 'is nest,
I even stood god-farther to the kid.

So when the war broke out, sez 'e: "Well, wot abaht it, Joe?

"
"Well, wot abaht it, lad?

" sez I to 'im.

'Is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad to go,
('E always was 'igh-sperrited was Jim).

Well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most of it's been 'ell,
But we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved our bread.

We'd all the luck at Wipers, and we shaved through Noove Chapelle,
And .

.

.

that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 'ead.

Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn't me was took?

I've only got meself, 'e stands for three.

I'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'andsome as a dook;
'E always
was
a better man than me.

'E was goin' 'ome next Toosday; 'e was 'appy as a lark,
And 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid;
And 'e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark,
When .

.

.

that bleedin' bullet got 'im on the lid.

'E was killed so awful sudden that 'e 'adn't time to die.

'E sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud.

Them corpsy-lookin' star-shells kept a-streamin' in the sky,
And there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud.

And there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 'is 'ead,
And I'm sick, and blamed if I can understand:
The pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, and
zip!
like that — 'e's dead,
Wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and.

There's some as fights for freedom and there's some as fights for fun,
But me, my lad, I fights for bleedin' 'ate.

You can blame the war and blast it, but I 'opes it won't be done
Till I gets the bloomin' blood-price for me mate.

It'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for Jim;
Then if I'm spared I think I'll 'ave a bid,
Wiv 'er that was Mariar Jones to take the place of 'im,
To sorter be a farther to 'is kid.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, Robert W.

Service, published by Barses & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

59-62.

Written while the poet was working with the Red Cross in World War 1.

My Neighbors Read Poem

To rest my fagged brain now and then,
When wearied of my proper labors,
I lay aside my lagging pen
And get to thinking on my neighbors;
For, oh, around my garret den
There's woe and poverty a-plenty,
And life's so interesting when
A lad is only two-and-twenty.

Now, there's that artist gaunt and wan,
A little card his door adorning;
It reads: "Je ne suis pour personne",
A very frank and fitting warning.

I fear he's in a sorry plight;
He starves, I think, too proud to borrow,
I hear him moaning every night:
Maybe they'll find him dead to-morrow.

My Picture Read Poem

I made a picture; all my heart
I put in it, and all I knew
Of canvas-cunning and of Art,
Of tenderness and passion true.

A worshipped Master came to see;
Oh he was kind and gentle, too.

He studied it with sympathy,
And sensed what I had sought to do.

Said he: "Your paint is fresh and fair,
And I can praise it without cease;
And yet a touch just here and there
Would make of it a masterpiece.

"
He took the brush from out my hand;
He touched it here, he touched it there.

So well he seemed to understand,
And momently it grew more fair.

Oh there was nothing I could say,
And there was nothing I could do.

I thanked him, and he went his way,
And then - I slashed my picture through.

For though his brush with soft caress
Had made my daub a thing divine,
Oh God! I wept with bitterness,
.

.

.

It wasn't mine, it wasn't mine.

My Piney Wood Read Poem

I have a tiny piney wood;
my trees are only fifty,
Yet give me shade and solitude
For they are thick and thrifty.

And every day to me they fling
With largess undenying,
Fat cones to make my kettle sing
And keep my pan a-frying.

Go buy yourself a piney wood
If you have gold for spending,
Where you can dream in mellow mood
With peace and joy unending;
Where you can cheerfully retreat
Beyond all churchly chiding,
And make yourself a temple sweet
Of rapturous abiding.

Oh silence has a secret voice
That claims the soul for portal,
And those who hear it may rejoice
Since they are more than mortal.

So sitting in my piney wood
When soft the owl is winging,
As still as Druid stone I brood .

.

.

For hark! the stars are singing.

My Prisoner Read Poem

We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me;
Fightin' wiv our bayonets was we;
Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was,
Fightin' fierce as fire because
It was 'im or me as must be downed;
'E was twice as big as me;
I was 'arf the weight of 'e;
We was like a terryer and a 'ound.

'Struth! But 'e was sich a 'andsome bloke.

Me, I'm 'andsome as a chunk o' coke.

Did I give it 'im?

Not 'arf!
Why, it fairly made me laugh,
'Cos 'is bloomin' bellows wasn't sound.

Couldn't fight for monkey nuts.

Soon I gets 'im in the guts,
There 'e lies a-floppin' on the ground.

In I goes to finish up the job.

Quick 'e throws 'is 'ands above 'is nob;
Speakin' English good as me:
"'Tain't no use to kill," says 'e;
"Can't yer tyke me prisoner instead?

"
"Why, I'd like to, sir," says I;
"But — yer knows the reason why:
If we pokes our noses out we're dead.

"Sorry, sir.

Then on the other 'and
(As a gent like you must understand),
If I 'olds you longer 'ere,
Wiv yer pals so werry near,
It's me 'oo'll 'ave a free trip to Berlin;
If I lets yer go away,
Why, you'll fight another day:
See the sitooation I am in.

"Anyway I'll tell you wot I'll do,
Bein' kind and seein' as it's you,
Knowin' 'ow it's cold, the feel
Of a 'alf a yard o' steel,
I'll let yer 'ave a rifle ball instead;
Now, jist think yerself in luck.

.

.

.

'Ere, ol' man! You keep 'em stuck,
Them saucy dooks o' yours, above yer 'ead.

"
'Ow 'is mits shot up it made me smile!
'Ow 'e seemed to ponder for a while!
Then 'e says: "It seems a shyme,
Me, a man wot's known ter Fyme:
Give me blocks of stone, I'll give yer gods.

Whereas, pardon me, I'm sure
You, my friend, are still obscure.

.

.

.

"
"In war," says I, "that makes no blurry odds.

"
Then says 'e: "I've painted picters too.

.

.

.

Oh, dear God! The work I planned to do,
And to think this is the end!"
"'Ere," says I, "my hartist friend,
Don't you give yerself no friskin' airs.

Picters, statoos, is that why
You should be let off to die?

That the best ye done?

Just say yer prayers.

"
Once again 'e seems ter think awhile.

Then 'e smiles a werry 'aughty smile:
"Why, no, sir, it's not the best;
There's a locket next me breast,
Picter of a gel 'oo's eyes are blue.

That's the best I've done," says 'e.

"That's me darter, aged three.

.

.

.

"
"Blimy!" says I, "I've a nipper, too.

"
Straight I chucks my rifle to one side;
Shows 'im wiv a lovin' farther's pride
Me own little Mary Jane.

Proud 'e shows me 'is Elaine,
And we talks as friendly as can be;
Then I 'elps 'im on 'is way,
'Opes 'e's sife at 'ome to-day,
Wonders —
'ow would 'e 'ave treated me?

From RHYMES OF THE RED CROSS MAN, by Robert Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

116-119.

My Rival Read Poem

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 sic 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.

My Rocking-Chair Read Poem

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,
A shady street where people pass;
And some who come with time to spare,
To yarn beside my rocking-chair.

Then I will light my corn-cob pipe
And dose and dream and rarely gripe.

My morning paper on my knee
I won't allow to worry me.

For if I know the latest news
Is bad,—to read it I'll refuse,
Since I have always tried to see
The side of life that clicks with glee.

And looking back with days nigh done,
I feel I've had a heap of fun.

Of course I guess that more or less
It's you yourself make happiness
And if your needs are small and few,
Like me you may be happy too:
And end up with a hope, a prayer,
A chuckle in a rocking-chair.

My Room Read Poem

I think the things I own and love
Acquire a sense of me,
That gives them value far above
The worth that others see.

My chattels are of me a part:
This chair on which I sit
Would break its overstuffed old heart
If I made junk of it.

To humble needs with which I live,
My books, my desk, my bed,
A personality I give
They'll lose when I am dead.

Sometimes on entering my room
They look at me with fear,
As if they had a sense of doom
Inevitably near.

Yet haply, since they do not die,
In them will linger on
Some of the spirit that was I,
When I am gone.

And maybe some sweet soul will sigh,
And stroke with tender touch
The things I loved, and even cry
A little,—not too much.

My Son Read Poem

I must not let my boy Dick down,
Knight of the air.

With wings of light he won renown
Then crashed somewhere.

To fly to France from London town
I do not dare.

Oh he was such a simple lad
Who loved the sky;
A modern day Sir Galahad,
No need to die:
Earthbound he might have been so glad,
Yet chose to fly.

I ask from where his courage stemmed?

I've never flown;
Air-travel I have oft condemned,—
Now I'm alone,
Yet somehow hold the bright belief
God gave his brief.

So now I must live up to him
Who won on high
A lustre time will never dim;
Though coward I,
Let me revere till life be done
My hero son.

My Suicide Read Poem

I've often wondered why
Old chaps who choose to die
In evil passes,
Before themselves they slay,
Invariably they
Take off their glasses?

As I strolled by the Castle cliff
An oldish chap I set my eyes on,
Who stood so singularly stiff
And stark against the blue horizon;
A poet fashioning a sonnet,
I thought - how rapt he labours on it!
And then I blinked and stood astare,
And questioned at my sight condition,
For I was seeing empty air -
He must have been an apparition.

Amazed I gazed .

.

.

no one was there:
My sanity roused my suspicion.

I strode to where I saw him stand
So solitary in the sun -
Nothing! just empty sew and land,
no smallest sign of anyone.

While down below I heard the roar
Of waves, five hundred feet or more.

I had been drinking, I confess;
There was confusion in my brain,
And I was feeling more or less
The fumes of overnight champagne.

So standing on that dizzy shelf:
"You saw no one," I told myself.

"No need to call the local law,
For after all its not your business.

You just imagined what you saw .

.

.

"
Then I was seized with sudden dizziness:
For at my feet, beyond denying,
A pair of spectacles were lying.

And so I simply let them lie,
And sped from that accursed spot.

No lover of the police am I,
And sooner would be drunk than not.

"I'll scram," said I, "and leave the locals
To find and trace them dam bi-focals.

"

My Tails Read Poem

I haven't worn my evening dress
For nearly twenty years;
Oh I'm unsocial, I confess,
A hermit, it appears.

So much moth-balled it's but away,
And though wee wifie wails,
Never unto my dimmest day
I'll don my tails.

How slim and trim I looked in them,
Though I was sixty old;
And now their sleekness I condemn
To lie in rigid fold.

I have a portrait of myself
Proud-printed in the Press,
In garb now doomed to wardrobe shelf,—
My evening dress.

So let this be my last request,
That when I come to die,
In tails I may be deftly drest,
With white waistcoat and tie.

No, not for me a vulgar shroud
My carcass to caress;—
Oh let me do my coffin proud
In evening dress!

My Trinity Read Poem

For all good friends who care to read,
here let me lyre my living creed .

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One: you may deem me Pacifist,
For I've no sympathy with strife.

Like hell I hate the iron fist,
And shun the battle-ground of life.

The hope of peace is dear to me,
And I to Christian faith belong,
Holding that breath should sacred be,
And War is always wrong.

Two: Universalist am I
And dream a world that's frontier free,
With common tongue and common tie,
Uncurst by nationality;
Where colour, creed and class are one,
And lowly folk are lifted high;
Where every breed beneath the sun
Is equal in God's eye.

Three: you may call me Naturist,
For green glade is my quiet quest;
The path of progress I have missed,
And shun the city's sore unrest.

A world that's super-civilized
Is one of worry, want and woe;
In leafy lore let me be wised
And back to Nature go.

Well, though you may but half agree,
Behold my trusty Trinity

My Twins Read Poem

Of twin daughters I'm the mother -
Lord! how I was proud of them;
Each the image of the other,
Like two lilies on one stem;
But while May, my first-born daughter,
Was angelic from the first,
Different as wine and water,
Maude, my second, seemed accurst.

I'm a tender-hearted dame,
Military is my bent;
Thus my pretty dears can claim
For their Pa the Regiment.

As they say: to err is human;
But though lots of love I've had,
I'm an ordinary women,
Just as good as I am bad.

Good and bad should find their level,
So I often wonder why
May was angel, Maude was devil,
Yet between the two was I.

May, they say, has taken vows -
Sister Mary, pure and sweet;
Maudie's in a bawdy house,
Down in Mariposa Street.

It's not natural I'm thinking,
One should pray, the other curse;
I'm so worried I am drinking,
Which is making matters worse.

Yet my daughters love each other,
And I love them equal well;
Saint and sinner call me mother .

.

.

Ain't heredity just hell?

My Typewriter Read Poem

I used to think a pot of ink
Held magic in its fluid,
And I would ply a pen when I
Was hoary a a Druid;
But as I scratch my silver thatch
My battered old Corona
Calls out to me as plaintively
As dying Desdemona.

"For old time's sake give me a break:
To you I've been as loyal
As ever could an Underwood,
Or Remington or Royal.

The globe we've spanned together and
Two million words, maybe,
For you I've tapped - it's time you rapped
A rhyme or two for me.

"I've seen you sit and smoke and spit
With expletives profane,
Then tear with rage the virgin page
I tendered you in vain.

I've watched you glare in dull despair
Through hours of brooding thought,
Then with a shout bang gaily out
The 'word unique' you sought.

"I've heard you groan and grunt and moan
That rhyme's a wretched fetter;
That after all you're just a small
Fat-headed verse-begetter;
You'd balance me upon your knee
Like any lady friend,
Then with a sigh you'd lay me by
For weeks and weeks on end.

"I've known when you were mighty blue
And hammered me till dawn,
Dire poverty! But I would be
The last thing you would pawn.

Days debt-accurst! Then at its worst
The sky, behold, would clear;
A poem sold, the garret cold
Would leap to light and cheer.

"You've toted me by shore and sea
From Mexico to Maine;
From Old Cathay to Mandalay,
From Samarkand to Spain.

You've thumped me in the battle's din
And pounded me in peace;
By air and land you've lugged me and
Your shabby old valise.

"But now my keys no more with ease
To your two fingers yield;
With years of use my joints are loose,
With wear of flood and field.

And even you are slipping too:
You're puffy, stiff and grey:
Old Sport, we're done, our race is run -
Why not call it a day?

"
Why not?

You've been, poor old machine!
My tried and faithful friend.

With fingertip your keys I'll flip
Serenely to the end.

For even though you're stiff and slow,
No other will I buy.

And though each word be wan and blurred
I'll tap you till I die.

My Vineyard Read Poem

To me at night the stars are vocal.

They say: 'Your planet's oh so local!
A speck of dust in heaven's ceiling;
Your faith divine a foolish feeling.

What odds if you are chaos hurled,
Yours is a silly little world.

'
For their derision, haply true,
I hate the stars, as wouldn't you?

But whether earth be great or little,
I do not care a fishwife's spittle;
I do not fret its where or why,—
Today's a day and I am I.

Serene, afar from woe and worry
I tend my vines and do not hurry.

I buss the lass and tip the bottle,
Fill up the glass and rinse my throttle.

Tomorrow though the earth should perish,
The lust of life today I cherish.

Ah no, the stars I will not curse:
Though things are bad they might be worse.

So when vast constellations shine
I drink to them in ruby wine;
For they themselves,—although it odd is,
Somehow give me a sense that God is.

Because we trust and realise
His love he steers us in the skies.

For faith however foolish can
Be mighty helpful to a man:
And as I tend my vines so He
With tenderness looks after me.

My White Mouse Read Poem

At dusk I saw a craintive mouse
That sneaked and stole around the house;
At first I took it for a ghost,
For it was snowy white - almost.

I've seen them in captivity,
But this white mouse was wild and free,
And every eye with stealth it stole
And foraged in the garbage hole.

I told the folks, yet wondered why
No one could see the mouse but I;
For it was really, truly white,
And not just silvered by moonlight.

And then there came a big black cat,
And thought I said: "Get out of that!"
It stared at me with savage eyes,
As big and yellow as moonrise.

And often times I wonder whether
They didn't just go off together,
In the bright moonlight, paw in paw,
For never more my mouse I saw.

My Will Read Poem

I've made my Will.

I don't believe
In luxury and wealth;
And to those loving ones who grieve
My age and frailing health
I give the meed to soothe their ways
That they may happy be,
And pass serenely all their days
In snug security.

That duty done, I leave behind
The all I have to give
To crippled children and the blind
Who lamentably live;
Hoping my withered hand may freight
To happiness a few
Poor innocents whom cruel fate
Has cheated of their due.

A am no grey philanthropist,
Too humble is my lot
Yet how I'm glad to give the grist
My singing mill has brought.

For I have had such lyric days,
So rich, so full, so sweet,
That I with gratitude and praise
Would make my life complete.

I'VE MADE MY WILL: now near the end,
At peace with all mankind,
To children lame I would be friend,
And brother to the blind .

.

.

And if there be a God, I pray
He bless my last bequest,
And in His love and pity say:
"Good servant,—rest!"

Nature's Touch Read Poem

In kindergarten classed
Dislike they knew;
And as the years went past
It grew and grew;
Until in maidenhood
Each sought a mate,
Then venom in their mood
Was almost hate.

The lure of love they learned
And they were wed;
Yet when they met each turned
Away a head;
Each went her waspish way
With muted damns—
Until they met one day
With baby prams.

Then lo! Away was swept
The scorn of years;
Hands clasped they almost wept
With gentle tears.

Forgetting hateful days,
All mother mild,
Each took with tender praise
The other's child.

And now they talk of milk,
Of diapers and such;
Of baby bosoms silk
And tender to the touch.

A gemlike girl and boy,—
With hope unsaid,
Each thinks with mother joy:
'May these two wed!'

Nature's Way Read Poem

To tribulations of mankind
Dame Nature is indifferent;
To human sorrow she is blind,
And deaf to human discontent.

Mid fear and fratricidal fray,
Mid woe and tyranny of toil,
She goes her unregarding way
Of sky and sun and soil.

In leaf and blade, in bud and bloom
Exultantly her gladness glows,
And careless of Man's dreary doom
Around the palm she wreathes the rose;
Creating beauty everywhere,
With happy bird in holy song .

.

.

Please God, let us be unaware
Like her of wrath and wrong.

Let us too be indifferent,
And in her hands our fate resign;
Aye, though the world with rage is rent
Let us be placid as the pine.

For if we turn from greed and guile
Maybe Dame Nature will relent,
And bless us with her lovely smile
Of comfort and content.

Navels Read Poem

Men have navels more or less;
Some are neat, some not
Being fat I must confess
Mine is far from hot.

Woman's is a pearly ring,
Lovely to my mind;
So of it to shyly sing
I am inclined.

I believe in nudity.

Female forms divine
Should be bared for all to see
In colour and in line.

So dear ladies, recognise
The dimpling of your waist
Has approval in my eyes,
Favour in my taste.

Darlings, please you, paint them gold,
Or some pastel hue;
Make them starry to behold,
Witching to the view.

Though I know I never should
Say such things as this:
How a rosebud navel would
Be sweet to kiss!

Negress In Notre Dame Read Poem

When I attended Mass today
A coloured maid sat down by me,
And as I watched her kneel and pray,
Her reverence was good to see.

For whether there may be or no'
A merciful and mighty God,
The love for Him is like a glow
That glorifies the meanest clod.

And then a starched and snotty dame
Who sat the other side of me
Said: "Monsieur, is it not a shame
Such things should be allowed to be?

In my homeland, I'm proud to say,
We know to handle niggers right,
And wouldn't let a black wench pray
And worship God beside a white.

"
Her tone so tart bewilderd me,
For I am just a simple man.

A friend in every one I see,
Though yellow, brown or black and tan.

For I would father children five
With any comely coloured maid,
And lush with any man alive,
Of any race, of any shade.

Religion may be false or true,
The Churches may be wrong or right,
But if there be the Faith in you
It can be like a shining light.

And though I lack not piety
And pray my best, I'm sure that God
To that black wench and not to me
Would give his most approving nod.

Aye, you may scrub him day and night,
You'll never change a nigger's hide;
But maybe he is just as white,
(Or even more) than you…inside.

Neighbours Read Poem

My neighbour has a field of wheat
And I a rood of vine;
And he will give me bread to eat,
And I will give him wine.

And so we are a jolly pair,
Contentedly unwed,
Singing with supper as we share
Red wine and crusty bread.

Now venison is mighty meat
And so is trout and hare;
A mallard duck is sweat to eat
And quail is dainty fare.

But such are foods for festal day,
And we will not repine
While on the table we can lay
Crisp bread and rosy wine.

A will to till one's own of soil
Is worth a kingly crown,
With bread to feed the belly need,
And wine to wash it down.

So with my neighbour I rejoice
That we are fit and free,
Content to praise with lusty voice
Bread, Wine and Liberty.

New Year's Eve Read Poem

It's cruel cold on the water-front, silent and dark and drear;
Only the black tide weltering, only the hissing snow;
And I, alone, like a storm-tossed wreck, on this night of the glad New Year,
Shuffling along in the icy wind, ghastly and gaunt and slow.

They're playing a tune in McGuffy's saloon, and it's cheery and bright in there
(God! but I'm weak — since the bitter dawn, and never a bite of food);
I'll just go over and slip inside — I mustn't give way to despair —
Perhaps I can bum a little booze if the boys are feeling good.

They'll jeer at me, and they'll sneer at me, and they'll call me a whiskey soak;
("Have a drink?

Well, thankee kindly, sir, I don't mind if I do.

")
A drivelling, dirty, gin-joint fiend, the butt of the bar-room joke;
Sunk and sodden and hopeless — "Another?

Well, here's to you!"
McGuffy is showing a bunch of the boys how Bob Fitzsimmons hit;
The barman is talking of Tammany Hall, and why the ward boss got fired.

I'll just sneak into a corner and they'll let me alone a bit;
The room is reeling round and round .

.

.

O God! but I'm tired, I'm tired.

.

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* * * * *
Roses she wore on her breast that night.

Oh, but their scent was sweet!
Alone we sat on the balcony, and the fan-palms arched above;
The witching strain of a waltz by Strauss came up to our cool retreat,
And I prisoned her little hand in mine, and I whispered my plea of love.

Then sudden the laughter died on her lips, and lowly she bent her head;
And oh, there came in the deep, dark eyes a look that was heaven to see;
And the moments went, and I waited there, and never a word was said,
And she plucked from her bosom a rose of red and shyly gave it to me.

Then the music swelled to a crash of joy, and the lights blazed up like day,
And I held her fast to my throbbing heart, and I kissed her bonny brow.

"She is mine, she is mine for evermore!" the violins seemed to say,
And the bells were ringing the New Year in — O God! I can hear them now.

Don't you remember that long, last waltz, with its sobbing, sad refrain?

Don't you remember that last good-by, and the dear eyes dim with tears?

Don't you remember that golden dream, with never a hint of pain,
Of lives that would blend like an angel-song in the bliss of the coming years?

Oh, what have I lost! What have I lost! Ethel, forgive, forgive!
The red, red rose is faded now, and it's fifty years ago.

'Twere better to die a thousand deaths than live each day as I live!
I have sinned, I have sunk to the lowest depths — but oh, I have suffered so!
Hark! Oh, hark! I can hear the bells! .

.

.

Look! I can see her there,
Fair as a dream .

.

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but it fades .

.

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And now — I can hear the dreadful hum
Of the crowded court .

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See! the Judge looks down .

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NOT GUILTY, my Lord, I swear .

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The bells — I can hear the bells again! .

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Ethel, I come, I come! .

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* * * * *
"Rouse up, old man, it's twelve o'clock.

You can't sleep here, you know.

Say! ain't you got no sentiment?

Lift up your muddled head;
Have a drink to the glad New Year, a drop before you go —
You darned old dirty hobo .

.

.

My God! Here, boys! He's DEAD!"

No Lilies For Lisette Read Poem

Said the Door: "She came in
With no shadow of sin;
Turned the key in the lock,
Slipped out of her frock,
The robe she liked best
When for supper she dressed.

Then a letter she tore .

.

.

What a wan look she wore!"
Said the Door.

Said the Chair: "She sat down
With a pitiful frown,
And then (oh, it's queer)
Just one lonely tear
Rolled down her pale cheek.

How I hoped she would speak
As she let down her hair,"
Said the Chair.

Said the Glass: "Then she gazed
Into me like one dazed;
As with delicate grace
She made up her face,
Her cheeks and her lips
With rose finger-tips,
So lovely - alas!
Then she turned on the gas.

"
Said the Glass.

Said the Bed: "Down she lay
In a weariful way,
Like an innocent child,
To her fate reconciled;
Hands clasped to her breast,
In prayer or in rest:
'Dear Mother,' she said,
Then pillowed her head,"
Said the Bed.

Said the Room: "Then the gleam
Of the moon like a dream,
Soft silvered my space,
And it fell on her face
That was never so sweet
As her heart ceased to beat .

.

.

Then the moon fled and gloom
Fell like funeral plume,"
Said the Room.

"Just a whore,"
Said the Door;
"Yet so fair,"
Said the Chair;
"Frail, alas!"
Said the Glass;
"Now she's dead,"
Said the Bed;
"Sorry doom,"
Said the Room.

.

.

.

Then they all,
Floor and wall,
Quiet grew,
Ceiling too;
Like a tomb
Was the room;
With hushed breath
Hailing Death:
Soul's release,
Silence, Peace.

No More Music Read Poem

The Porch was blazoned with geranium bloom;
Myrtle and jasmine meadows lit the lea;
With rose and violet the vale's perfume
Languished to where the hyacinthine sea
Dreamed tenderly .

.

.

"And I must go," said he.

He spoke in that dim, ghostly voice of his:
"I was a singer; then the Was .

.

.

and GAS.

"
(I had to lean to him, no word to miss.

)
"We bought this little café nigh to Grasse;
With sun and flowers my last few days will pass.

"And music too.

I have my mandolin:
Say! Maybe you can strum on your guitar .

.

.

Come on - we two will make melodious din,
While Madame sings to us behind the bar:
You'll see how sweet Italian folk-songs are.

"
So he would play and I would thrum the while;
I used to there every lovely day;
His wife would listen with a sunny smile,
And when I left: "Please come again," she'd say.

"He seems quite sad when you have one away.

"
Alas! I had to leave without good-bye,
And lived in sooty cities for ayear.

Oh, how my heart ached for that happy sky!
Then, then one day my café I drew near -
God! it was strange how I was gripped with fear.

So still it was; I saw no mandolin,
No gay guitar with ribbons blue and red;
Then all in black, stone-faced the wife came in .

.

.

I did not ask; I looked, she shook her head:
"La musique est fini," was all she said.

No Neck-Tie Party Read Poem

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 know
In fifteen years they'll let me go;
For I'll be pious in my prison,
Sing with gusto: Christ Is Risen;
Serve the hymn-books out on Sunday,
Sweep the chapel clean on Monday:
Such a model lag I'll be
In fifteen years they'll set me free.

Majority of twenty three,
You've helped me cheat the gallows tree.

I'm twenty now, at thirty-five
How I will laugh to be alive!
To leap into the world again
And bless the fools miscalled "humane,"
Who say the gibbet's wrong and so
At thirty-five they let me go,
Tat I may sail the across the sea
A killer unsuspect and free,
To change my name, to darkly thrive
By hook or crook at thirty-five.

O silent dark and beastly wood
Where with my bloodied hands I stood!
O piteous child I raped and slew!
Had she been yours, would you and you
Have pardoned me and set me free,
Majority of twenty-three?

Yet by your solemn vote you willed
I shall not die though I have killed;
Although I did no mercy show,
In mercy you will let me go.

.

.

.

That he who kills and does not pay
May live to kill another day.

*By a majority of twenty-three the House of Commons
voted the abolition of the death penalty.

No Sourdough Read Poem

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 .

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I've never killed a moose.

No Sunday Chicken Read Poem

I could have sold him up because
His rent was long past due;
And Grimes, my lawyer, said it was
The proper thing to do:
But how could I be so inhuman?

And me a gentle-woman.

Yet I am poor as chapel mouse,
Pinching to make ends meet,
And have to let my little house
To buy enough to eat:
Why, even now to keep agoing
I have to take in sewing.

Sylvester is a widowed man,
Clerk in a hardware store;
I guess he does the best he can
To feed his kiddies four:
It sure is hard,—don't think it funny,
I've lately loaned him money.

I want to wipe away a tear
Even to just suppose
Some monster of an auctioneer
Might sell his sticks and clothes:
I'd rather want for bread and butter
Than see them in the gutter.

A silly, soft old thing am I,
But oh them kiddies four!
I guess I'll make a raisin pie
And leave it at their door .

.

.

Some Sunday, dears, you'll share my dream,—
Fried chicken and ice-cream.

Noctambule Read Poem

Zut! it's two o'clock.

See! the lights are jumping.

Finish up your bock,
Time we all were humping.

Waiters stack the chairs,
Pile them on the tables;
Let us to our lairs
Underneath the gables.

Up the old Boul' Mich'
Climb with steps erratic.

Steady .

.

.

how I wish
I was in my attic!
Full am I with cheer;
In my heart the joy stirs;
Couldn't be the beer,
Must have been the oysters.

In obscene array
Garbage cans spill over;
How I wish that they
Smelled as sweet as clover!
Charing women wait;
Cafes drop their shutters;
Rats perambulate
Up and down the gutters.

Down the darkened street
Market carts are creeping;
Horse with wary feet,
Red-faced driver sleeping.

Loads of vivid greens,
Carrots, leeks, potatoes,
Cabbages and beans,
Turnips and tomatoes.

Pair of dapper chaps,
Cigarettes and sashes,
Stare at me, perhaps
Desperate Apachès.

"Needn't bother me,
Jolly well you know it;
Parceque je suis
Quartier Latin poet.

"Give you villanelles,
Madrigals and lyrics;
Ballades and rondels,
Odes and panegyrics.

Poet pinched and poor,
Pricked by cold and hunger;
Trouble's troubadour,
Misery's balladmonger.

"
Think how queer it is!
Every move I'm making,
Cosmic gravity's
Center I am shaking;
Oh, how droll to feel
(As I now am feeling),
Even as I reel,
All the world is reeling.

Reeling too the stars,
Neptune and Uranus,
Jupiter and Mars,
Mercury and Venus;
Suns and moons with me,
As I'm homeward straying,
All in sympathy
Swaying, swaying, swaying.

Lord! I've got a head.

Well, it's not surprising.

I must gain my bed
Ere the sun be rising;
When the merry lark
In the sky is soaring,
I'll refuse to hark,
I'll be snoring, snoring.

Strike a sulphur match .

.

.

Ha! at last my garret.

Fumble at the latch,
Close the door and bar it.

Bed, you graciously
Wait, despite my scorning .

.

.

So, bibaciously
Mad old world, good morning.

O Lovely Lie Read Poem

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 I swung crusading sword
I heard the devil laugh.

I framed a lie, a rainbow lie
To glorify a thought;
And none was so surprised as I
When fast as fire it caught.

Like honey people lapped my lie
And peddled it abroad,
Till in a lift of sunny sky
I saw the smile of God.

If falsehood may be best, I thought,
To hell with verity;
Dark truth may be a cancer spot
'Twere better not to see.

Aye, let a lie be big and bold
Yet ripe with hope and ruth,
Beshrew me! but its heart may hold
More virtue than the truth.

Obesity Read Poem

With belly like a poisoned pup
Said I: 'I must give bacon up:
And also, I profanely fear,
I must abandon bread and beer
That make for portliness they say;
Yet of them copiously today
I ate with an increasingly sense
Of grievous corpulence.

I like a lot of thinks I like.

Too bad that I must go on strike
Against pork sausages and mash,
Spaghetti and fried corn-beef hash.

I deem he is a lucky soul
Who has no need of girth control;
For in the old of age: 'Il faut
Souffrir pour etre bean.

'
Yet let me not be unconsoled:
So many greybeards I behold,
Distinguished in affairs of state,
In culture counted with the Great,
Have tummies with a shameless bulge,
And so I think I'll still indulge
In eats I like without a qualm,
And damn my diaphragm!'

Oh, It Is Good Read Poem

Oh, it is good to drink and sup,
And then beside the kindly fire
To smoke and heap the faggots up,
And rest and dream to heart's desire.

Oh, it is good to ride and run,
To roam the greenwood wild and free;
To hunt, to idle in the sun,
To leap into the laughing sea.

Oh, it is good with hand and brain
To gladly till the chosen soil,
And after honest sweat and strain
To see the harvest of one's toil.

Oh, it is good afar to roam,
And seek adventure in strange lands;
Yet oh, so good the coming home,
The velvet love of little hands.

So much is good.

.

.

.

We thank Thee, God,
For all the tokens Thou hast given,
That here on earth our feet have trod
Thy little shining trails of Heaven.

Old Bob Read Poem

I guess folks think I'm mighty dumb
Since Jack and Jim and Joe
Have hit the trail to Kingdom Come
And left me here below:
Since Death, the bastard, bowled them out,
And left me faced with—Doubt.

My pals have all passed out on me
And I am by my lone;
Old Bill was last, and now I see
His name cut on a stone;
A marble slab, but not as fine
As I have picked for mine.

I nurse and curse rheumatic pain
As on the porch I sit;
With nothing special in my brain
I rock and smoke and spit:
When one is nearing to the end
One sorely needs a friend.

My Pals have gone,—in God's good earth
I guess they're packed up snug,
And since I have no guts for mirth
I zipper to my mug:
The question that I ponder on
Is—where the heck they've gone?

Old Boy Scout Read Poem

A bonny bird I found today
Mired in a melt of tar;
Its silky breast was silver-grey,
Its wings were cinnabar.

So still it lay right in the way
Of every passing car.

Yet as I gently sought to pry
It loose, it glared at me;
You would have thought its foe was I,
It pecked so viciously;
So fiercely fought, as soft I sought
From death to set it free.

Its pinions pitifully frail
I wrested from the muck;
I feared the feathers of its tail
Would never come unstuck.

.

.

.

The jewel-bright it flashed in flight -
Oh how I wished it luck!
With happiness my heart was light,
To see how fair it flew;
To do my good deed I delight,
As grey-haired scouts should do;
Yet oh my bright reward's to write
This simple rhyme for you!

Old Codger Read Poem

Of garden truck he made his fare,
As his bright eyes bore witness;
Health was his habit and his care,
His hobby human fitness.

He sang the praise of open sky,
The gladth of Nature's giving;
And when at last he came to die
It was of too long living.

He held aloof from hate and strife,
Drank peace in dreamful doses;
He never voted in his life,
Loved children, dogs and roses.

Let tyrants romp in gory glee,
And revolutions roister,
He passed his days as peacefully
As friar in a cloister.

So fellow sinners, should you choose
Of doom to be a dodger,
At eighty be a bland recluse
Like this serene old codger,
Who turned his back on fear and fret,
And died nigh eighty-seven .

.

.

His name was—Robert Service: let
Us hope he went to Heaven

Old Crony Read Poem

I had a friend, a breezy friend
I liked an awful lot;
And in his company no end
Of happiness I got.

We clicked in temper, taste and mood,
We gypsied side by side,—
And then, as no pal ever should,
He upped and died.

A score of years have since gone by,
Yet I bemoan him still;
He used to call me Bob and I
Was wont to call him Bill.

Oh how I wish that he were here,
How we would bravely walk
On heather hills to tavern cheer,
And talk and talk!
If as he always used to do,
He'd just drop in to tea,
To rest awhile and jest awhile,
How chirpy I would be!
Then he would puff his pipe of briar
And I my cigarette,
And we would yarn beside the fire,
And time forget.

Old Pal, come back a little while,
If just to let me say
How much I miss your jolly smile
Now you have gone away.

Ah, when in life's allotted span
We near our journey's end,
What greater treasure is there than
A Golden Friend!

Old David Smail Read Poem

He dreamed away his hours in school;
He sat with such an absent air,
The master reckoned him a fool,
And gave him up in dull despair.

When other lads were making hay
You'd find him loafing by the stream;
He'd take a book and slip away,
And just pretend to fish .

.

.

and dream.

His brothers passed him in the race;
They climbed the hill and clutched the prize.

He did not seem to heed, his face
Was tranquil as the evening skies.

He lived apart, he spoke with few;
Abstractedly through life he went;
Oh, what he dreamed of no one knew,
And yet he seemed to be content.

I see him now, so old and gray,
His eyes with inward vision dim;
And though he faltered on the way,
Somehow I almost envied him.

At last beside his bed I stood:
"And is Life done so soon?

" he sighed;
"It's been so rich, so full, so good,
I've loved it all .

.

.

" — and so he died.

Old Ed Read Poem

Our cowman, old Ed, hadn't much in his head,
And lots of folks thought him a witling;
But he wasn't a fool, for he always kept cool,
And his sole recreation was whittling.

When I'd spill him my woes (infantile, I suppose),
He'd harken and whittle and whittle;
then when I had done, turn his quid and say: "Son,
Ye're a-drownin' yerself in yer spittle.

"
He's gone to his grave, but the counsel he gave
I've proved in predicaments trying;
When I got in a stew, feeling ever so blue,
My failures and faults magnifying,
I'd think of old Ed as he sniffed and he said:
"Shaw! them things don't mater a tittle.

Ye darned little cuss, why make such a full?

Ye're a-drownin' yerself in yer spittle.

"
When you're tangled with care till you're up in the air,
And worry and fear have you quaking,
When each tiny trouble seems bigger than double,
Till mountains of mole-hills you're making:
Go easy, my friend, things click in the end,
But maybe 'twill help you a little,
If you take Ed's advise (though it may not sound nice):
Ye're a-drownin' yerself in yer spittle.

"

Old Engine Driver Read Poem

For five and twenty years I've run
A famous train;
But now my spell of speed is done,
No more I'll strain
My sight along the treadless tracks,
The gleamy rails:
My hand upon the throttle slacks,
My vision fails.

No more I'll urge my steed of steel
Through hostile nights;
No more the mastery I'll feel
Of monster might.

I'll miss the hiss of giant steam,
The clank, the roar;
The agony of brakes that scream
I'll hear no more.

Oh I have held within my hand
A million lives;
And now my son takes command
And proudly drives;
While from my cottage wistfully
I watch his train,
And wave and wave and seem to see
Myself again.

Old Scout Read Poem

Is it because I'm bent and grey,
Though wearing rather well,
That I can slickly get away
With all the yarns I tell?

Is it because my bleary eye
No longer beams with youth
That I can plant a whopping lie,
And flout the truth?

I wonder why folks hark to me
Where once they would have laughed?

They treat my yarns respectfully,
No matter how they're daft.

They count the notches on my gun
And stroke its polished butt,
Wanting to know why every one
Of them was cut.

Indeed were I to stick to fact
Their interest would flag;
Dramatically I must act
The rôle of scalliwag;
A battle veteran to be,
A frozen argonaut,
A castaway in coral sea,—
Such a tommyrot!
And so with unction I conceive
Invention wild and new,
Until I'm coming to believe
My taradiddles true .

.

.

Is it because I'm old and sage,
I draw a bow that's risky?

Or can it be—that lies with age
Improve like whisky?

Old Sweethearts Read Poem

Oh Maggie, do you mind the day
We went to school together,
And as we stoppit by the way
I rolled you in the heather?

My! but you were the bonny lass
And we were awfu' late for class.

Your locks are now as white as snow,
And you are ripe and wrinkled,
A grandmother ten times or so,
Yet how your blue eyes twinkled
At me above your spectacles,
Recalling naughty neck-tickles!
It must be fifty years today
I left you for the Yukon;
You haven't changed - your just as gay
And just as sweet to look on.

But can you see in this old fool
The lad who made you late for school?

Oh Maggie, ask me in to tea
And we can talk things over,
And contemplate the nuptial state,
For I am still your lover:
And though the bell be slow to chime
We'll no be grudgin' o' the time.

Old Tom Read Poem

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 like snow,
She was the lass so fresh and pink
I courted long ago.

I wronged her, yet it's sadly true
She wanted to be wronged:
They mostly do, although 'tis you,
The male bloke who is thonged.

Well, anyway I left her then
To sail across the sea,
And no doubt she had other men,
And soon lost sight of me.

So now she is a paunchy dame
And mistress of the inn,
With temper tart and tounge to blame,
Moustache and triple chin.

And though I have no proper home
Contentedly I purr,
And from my whiskers wipe the foam,
—Glad I did not wed her.

Yet it's so funny sitting here
To stare into her face;
And as I raise my mug of beer
I dream of our disgrace.

And so I come and come each day
To more and more enjoy
The joke—that fifty years away
I was her honey boy.

Old Trouper Read Poem

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 Hears,
Where one wins as a thousand fail,
I play a score of scurvy parts
Till Time  writes Finis to my tale.

My wife is dead, my daughter wed,
With heaps of trouble of their own;
And though I hold aloft my head
I'm humble, scared and all alone .

.

.

To-night I burn each photograph,
Each record of my former fame,
And oh, how bitterly I laugh
And feed them to the hungry flame!
Behold how handsome I was then -
What glowing eye, what noble mien;
I towered above my fellow men,
And proudly strode the painted scene.

Ah, Vanity! What fools are we,
With empty ends and foolish aims .

.

.

There now, I fling with savage glee
My David Garrick to the flames.

"Is this a dagger that I see":
Oh, how I used to love that speech;
We were old-fashioned - "hams" maybe,
Yet we Young Arrogance could teach.

"Out, out brief candle!" There are gone
My Lear, my Hamlet and MacBeth;
And now by ashes cold and wan
I wait my cue, my prompter Death.

This life of ours is just a play;
Its end is fashioned from the start;
Fate writes each word we have to say,
And puppet-like we strut our part.

Once I wore laurels on my brow,
But now I wait, a sorry clown,
To make my furtive, farewell bow .

.

.

Haste Time! Oh, ring the Curtain down.

Ommission Read Poem

What man has not betrayed
Some sacred trust?

If haply you are made
Of honest dust,
Vaunt not of glory due,
Of triumph won:
Think, think of duties you
Have left undone.

But if in mercy hope,
Despite your sin,
The gates of Heaven ope'
To let you in:
Pray, pray that when God reads
Your judgement due,
He may forget good deeds
You did not do.

Ommission sins may be
The bitterest,
And wring in memory
A heart opprest;
So when sweet pity pleads,
Let us not rue
Too late, too late Kind Deeds
We did not do.

On The Boulevard Read Poem

Oh, it's pleasant sitting here,
Seeing all the people pass;
You beside your bock of beer,
I behind my demi-tasse.

Chatting of no matter what.

You the Mummer, I the Bard;
Oh, it's jolly, is it not?

—
Sitting on the Boulevard.

More amusing than a book,
If a chap has eyes to see;
For, no matter where I look,
Stories, stories jump at me.

Moving tales my pen might write;
Poems plain on every face;
Monologues you could recite
With inimitable grace.

(Ah! Imagination's power)
See yon demi-mondaine there,
Idly toying with a flower,
Smiling with a pensive air .

.

.

Well, her smile is but a mask,
For I saw within her muff
Such a wicked little flask:
Vitriol — ugh! the beastly stuff.

Now look back beside the bar.

See yon curled and scented beau,
Puffing at a fine cigar —
Sale espèce de maquereau.

Well (of course, it's all surmise),
It's for him she holds her place;
When he passes she will rise,
Dash the vitriol in his face.

Quick they'll carry him away,
Pack him in a Red Cross car;
Her they'll hurry, so they say,
To the cells of St.

Lazare.

What will happen then, you ask?

What will all the sequel be?

Ah! Imagination's task
Isn't easy .

.

.

let me see .

.

.

She will go to jail, no doubt,
For a year, or maybe two;
Then as soon as she gets out
Start her bawdy life anew.

He will lie within a ward,
Harmless as a man can be,
With his face grotesquely scarred,
And his eyes that cannot see.

Then amid the city's din
He will stand against a wall,
With around his neck a tin
Into which the pennies fall.

She will pass (I see it plain,
Like a cinematograph),
She will halt and turn again,
Look and look, and maybe laugh.

Well, I'm not so sure of that —
Whether she will laugh or cry.

He will hold a battered hat
To the lady passing by.

He will smile a cringing smile,
And into his grimy hold,
With a laugh (or sob) the while,
She will drop a piece of gold.

"Bless you, lady," he will say,
And get grandly drunk that night.

She will come and come each day,
Fascinated by the sight.

Then somehow he'll get to know
(Maybe by some kindly friend)
Who she is, and so .

.

.

and so
Bring my story to an end.

How his heart will burst with hate!
He will curse and he will cry.

He will wait and wait and wait,
Till again she passes by.

Then like tiger from its lair
He will leap from out his place,
Down her, clutch her by the hair,
Smear the vitriol on her face.

(Ah! Imagination rare)
See .

.

.

he takes his hat to go;
Now he's level with her chair;
Now she rises up to throw.

.

.

.

God! and she has done it too .

.

.

Oh, those screams; those hideous screams!
I imagined and .

.

.

it's true:
How his face will haunt my dreams!
What a sight! It makes me sick.

Seems I am to blame somehow.

Garcon, fetch a brandy quick .

.

.

There! I'm feeling better now.

Let's collaborate, we two,
You the Mummer, I the Bard;
Oh, what ripping stuff we'll do,
Sitting on the Boulevard!

On The Wire Read Poem

O God, take the sun from the sky!
It's burning me, scorching me up.

God, can't You hear my cry?

Water! A poor, little cup!
It's laughing, the cursed sun!
See how it swells and swells
Fierce as a hundred hells!
God, will it never have done?

It's searing the flesh on my bones;
It's beating with hammers red
My eyeballs into my head;
It's parching my very moans.

See! It's the size of the sky,
And the sky is a torrent of fire,
Foaming on me as I lie
Here on the wire .

.

.

the wire.

.

.

.

Of the thousands that wheeze and hum
Heedlessly over my head,
Why can't a bullet come,
Pierce to my brain instead,
Blacken forever my brain,
Finish forever my pain?

Here in the hellish glare
Why must I suffer so?

Is it God doesn't care?

Is it God doesn't know?

Oh, to be killed outright,
Clean in the clash of the fight!
That is a golden death,
That is a boon; but this .

.

.

Drawing an anguished breath
Under a hot abyss,
Under a stooping sky
Of seething, sulphurous fire,
Scorching me up as I lie
Here on the wire .

.

.

the wire.

.

.

.

Hasten, O God, Thy night!
Hide from my eyes the sight
Of the body I stare and see
Shattered so hideously.

I can't believe that it's mine.

My body was white and sweet,
Flawless and fair and fine,
Shapely from head to feet;
Oh no, I can never be
The thing of horror I see
Under the rifle fire,
Trussed on the wire .

.

.

the wire.

.

.

.

Of night and of death I dream;
Night that will bring me peace,
Coolness and starry gleam,
Stillness and death's release:
Ages and ages have passed, —
Lo! it is night at last.

Night! but the guns roar out.

Night! but the hosts attack.

Red and yellow and black
Geysers of doom upspout.

Silver and green and red
Star-shells hover and spread.

Yonder off to the right
Fiercely kindles the fight;
Roaring near and more near,
Thundering now in my ear;
Close to me, close .

.

.

Oh, hark!
Someone moans in the dark.

I hear, but I cannot see,
I hear as the rest retire,
Someone is caught like me,
Caught on the wire .

.

.

the wire.

.

.

.

Again the shuddering dawn,
Weird and wicked and wan;
Again, and I've not yet gone.

The man whom I heard is dead.

Now I can understand:
A bullet hole in his head,
A pistol gripped in his hand.

Well, he knew what to do, —
Yes, and now I know too.

.

.

.

Hark the resentful guns!
Oh, how thankful am I
To think my beloved ones
Will never know how I die!
I've suffered more than my share;
I'm shattered beyond repair;
I've fought like a man the fight,
And now I demand the right
(God! how his fingers cling!)
To do without shame this thing.

Good! there's a bullet still;
Now I'm ready to fire;
Blame me, God, if You will,
Here on the wire .

.

.

the wire.

.

.

.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, edited by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

74-77.

The header graphic is of a Russian soldier dead on the wire in World War 1.

Charley Noble

Only A Boche Read Poem

We brought him in from between the lines: we'd better have let him lie;
For what's the use of risking one's skin for a
tyke
that's going to die?

What's the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire,
When he's shot in the head, and worse than dead, and all messed up on the wire?

However, I say, we brought him in.

Diable!
The mud was bad;
The trench was crooked and greasy and high, and oh, what a time we had!
And often we slipped, and often we tripped, but never he made a moan;
And how we were wet with blood and with sweat! but we carried him in like our own.

Now there he lies in the dug-out dim, awaiting the ambulance,
And the doctor shrugs his shoulders at him, and remarks, "He hasn't a chance.

"
And we squat and smoke at our game of bridge on the glistening, straw-packed floor,
And above our oaths we can hear his breath deep-drawn in a kind of snore.

For the dressing station is long and low, and the candles gutter dim,
And the mean light falls on the cold clay walls and our faces bristly and grim;
And we flap our cards on the lousy straw, and we laugh and jibe as we play,
And you'd never know that the cursed foe was less than a mile away.

As we con our cards in the rancid gloom, oppressed by that snoring breath,
You'd never dream that our broad roof-beam was swept by the broom of death.

Heigh-ho! My turn for the dummy hand; I rise and I stretch a bit;
The fetid air is making me yawn, and my cigarette's unlit,
So I go to the nearest candle flame, and the man we brought is there,
And his face is white in the shabby light, and I stand at his feet and stare.

Stand for a while, and quietly stare: for strange though it seems to be,
The dying Boche on the stretcher there has a queer resemblance to me.

It gives one a kind of a turn, you know, to come on a thing like that.

It's just as if I were lying there, with a turban of blood for a hat,
Lying there in a coat grey-green instead of a coat grey-blue,
With one of my eyes all shot away, and my brain half tumbling through;
Lying there with a chest that heaves like a bellows up and down,
And a cheek as white as snow on a grave, and lips that are coffee brown.

And confound him, too! He wears, like me, on his finger a wedding ring,
And around his neck, as around my own, by a greasy bit of string,
A locket hangs with a woman's face, and I turn it about to see:
Just as I thought .

.

.

on the other side the faces of children three;
Clustered together cherub-like, three little laughing girls,
With the usual tiny rosebud mouths and the usual silken curls.

"Zut!" I say.

"He has beaten me; for me, I have only two,"
And I push the locket beneath his shirt, feeling a little blue.

Oh, it isn't cheerful to see a man, the marvellous work of God,
Crushed in the mutilation mill, crushed to a smeary clod;
Oh, it isn't cheerful to hear him moan; but it isn't that I mind,
It isn't the anguish that goes with him, it's the anguish he leaves behind.

For his going opens a tragic door that gives on a world of pain,
And the death he dies, those who live and love, will die again and again.

So here I am at my cards once more, but it's kind of spoiling my play,
Thinking of those three brats of his so many a mile away.

War is war, and he's only a Boche, and we all of us take our chance;
But all the same I'll be mighty glad when I'm hearing the ambulance.

One foe the less, but all the same I'm heartily glad I'm not
The man who gave him his broken head, the sniper who fired the shot.

No trumps you make it, I think you said?

You'll pardon me if I err;
For a moment I thought of other things .

.

.

Mon Dieu! Quelle vache de gueerre.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

109-113.

Orphan School Read Poem

Full fifty merry maids I heard
One summer morn a-singing;
And each was like a joyous bird
With spring-clear not a-ringing.

It was an old-time soldier song
That held their happy voices:
Oh how it's good to swing along
When youth rejoices!
Then lo! I dreamed long years had gone,
They passed again ungladly.

Their backs were bent, their cheeks were wan,
Their eyes were staring sadly.

Their ranks were thinned by full a score
From death's remorseless reaping
Their steps were slow, they sang no more,—
Nay, some were weeping.

Dark dream! I saw my maids today
Singing so innocently;
Their eyes with happiness were gay,
They looked at me so gently.

Thought I: Be merry in your youth
With hearts unrueing:
Thank God you do not know the truth
Of Life's Undoing!

Our Daily Bread Read Poem

"Give me my daily bread.

It seems so odd,
When all is done and said,
This plea to God.

To pray for cake might be
The thing to do;
But bread, it seems to me,
Is just our due.

"Give me my daily toil,"
I ought to say -
(If from life's cursed coil
I'd time to pray.

)
Give me my daily sweat,
My body sore,
So that bread I may get
To toil for more.

"Give me my daily breath,"
Through half a sob,
Until untimely death
Shall end my job.

A crust for my award,
I cry in dread:
"Grant unto me.

Oh Lord,
My daily bread!"

Our Hero Read Poem

"Flowers, only flowers — bring me dainty posies,
Blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he said;
So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses,
Lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed.

Soft his pale hands touched them, tenderly caressing;
Soft into his tired eyes came a little light;
Such a wistful love-look, gentle as a blessing;
There amid the flowers waited he the night.

"I would have you raise me; I can see the West then:
I would see the sun set once before I go.

"
So he lay a-gazing, seemed to be at rest then,
Quiet as a spirit in the golden glow.

So he lay a-watching rosy castles crumbling,
Moats of blinding amber, bastions of flame,
Rugged rifts of opal, crimson turrets tumbling;
So he lay a-dreaming till the shadows came.

"Open wide the window; there's a lark a-singing;
There's a glad lark singing in the evening sky.

How it's wild with rapture, radiantly winging:
Oh it's good to hear that when one has to die.

I am horror-haunted from the hell they found me;
I am battle-broken, all I want is rest.

Ah! It's good to die so, blossoms all around me,
And a kind lark singing in the golden West.

"Flowers, song and sunshine, just one thing is wanting,
Just the happy laughter of a little child.

"
So we brought our dearest, Doris all-enchanting;
Tenderly he kissed her; radiant he smiled.

"In the golden peace-time you will tell the story
How for you and yours, sweet, bitter deaths were ours.

.

.

.

God bless little children!" So he passed to glory,
So we left him sleeping, still amid the flow'rs.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

57-58.

Our Pote Read Poem

A pote is sure a goofy guy;
He ain't got guts like you or I
To tell the score;
He ain't goy gumption 'nuff to know
The game of life's to get the dough,
Then get some more.

Take Brother Bill, he used to be
The big shot of the family,
The first at school;
But since about a year ago,
Through readin' Longfeller and Poe,
He's most a fool.

He mopes around with dimwit stare;
You might as well jest not be there,
The way he looks;
You'd think he shuns the human race,
The how he buries down his face
In highbrow books.

I've seen him stand for near an hour,
Jest starin' at a simple flower -
Sich waste o' time;
The scribblin' on an envelope .

.

.

Why, most of all his silly dope
Don't even rhyme.

Now Brother's Jim's an engineer,
And Brother Tim's a bank cashier,
While I keep store;
Yet Bill, the brightest of the flock,
Might be a lawyer or a doc,
And then some more.

But no, he moons and loafs about,
As if he tried to figger out
Why skies are blue;
Instead o' gittin' down to grips
Wi' life an' stackin' up the chips
Like me an' you.

*   *   *   *   *  *   *   *   *   *
Well, since them final lines I wrote,
We're mournin' for our Brother Pote:
Bill crossed the sea
And solved his problem with the beat,
For now he lies in peace and rest
In Normandie.

He died the bravest of the brave,
And here I'm standin' by his grave
So far from home;
With just a wooden cross to tell
How in the blaze of battle hell
As gloriously there he fell -
Bill wrote his "pome".

Over The Parapet Read Poem

All day long when the shells sail over
I stand at the sandbags and take my chance;
But at night, at night I'm a reckless rover,
And over the parapet gleams Romance.

Romance! Romance! How I've dreamed it, writing
Dreary old records of money and mart,
Me with my head chuckful of fighting
And the blood of vikings to thrill my heart.

But little I thought that my time was coming,
Sudden and splendid, supreme and soon;
And here I am with the bullets humming
As I crawl and I curse the light of the moon.

Out alone, for adventure thirsting,
Out in mysterious No Man's Land;
Prone with the dead when a star-shell, bursting,
Flares on the horrors on every hand.

There are ruby stars and they drip and wiggle;
And the grasses gleam in a light blood-red;
There are emerald stars, and their tails they wriggle,
And ghastly they glare on the face of the dead.

But the worst of all are the stars of whiteness,
That spill in a pool of pearly flame,
Pretty as gems in their silver brightness,
And etching a man for a bullet's aim.

Yet oh, it's great to be here with danger,
Here in the weird, death-pregnant dark,
In the devil's pasture a stealthy ranger,
When the moon is decently hiding.

Hark!
What was that?

Was it just the shiver
Of an eerie wind or a clammy hand?

The rustle of grass, or the passing quiver
Of one of the ghosts of No Man's Land?

It's only at night when the ghosts awaken,
And gibber and whisper horrible things;
For to every foot of this God-forsaken
Zone of jeopard some horror clings.

Ugh! What was that?

It felt like a jelly,
That flattish mound in the noisome grass;
You three big rats running free of its belly,
Out of my way and let me pass!
But if there's horror, there's beauty, wonder;
The trench lights gleam and the rockets play.

That flood of magnificent orange yonder
Is a battery blazing miles away.

With a rush and a singing a great shell passes;
The rifles resentfully bicker and brawl,
And here I crouch in the dew-drenched grasses,
And look and listen and love it all.

God! What a life! But I must make haste now,
Before the shadow of night be spent.

It's little the time there is to waste now,
If I'd do the job for which I was sent.

My bombs are right and my clippers ready,
And I wriggle out to the chosen place,
When I hear a rustle .

.

.

Steady! .

.

.

Steady!
Who am I staring slap in the face?

There in the dark I can hear him breathing,
A foot away, and as still as death;
And my heart beats hard, and my brain is seething,
And I know he's a Hun by the smell of his breath.

Then: "Will you surrender?

" I whisper hoarsely,
For it's death, swift death to utter a cry.

"English schwein-hund!" he murmurs coarsely.

"Then we'll fight it out in the dark," say I.

So we grip and we slip and we trip and wrestle
There in the gutter of No Man's Land;
And I feel my nails in his wind-pipe nestle,
And he tries to gouge, but I bite his hand.

And he tries to squeal, but I squeeze him tighter:
"Now," I say, "I can kill you fine;
But tell me first, you Teutonic blighter!
Have you any children?

" He answers: "Nein.

"
Nine!
Well, I cannot kill such a father,
So I tie his hands and I leave him there.

Do I finish my little job?

Well, rather;
And I get home safe with some light to spare.

Heigh-ho! by day it's just prosy duty,
Doing the same old song and dance;
But oh! with the night — joy, glory, beauty:
Over the parapet — Life, Romance!
From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, by Robert W.

Service, published by Barse & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

100-103.

"Nein" of course is German for "no.

"

Pantheist Read Poem

Lolling on a bank of thyme
Drunk with Spring I made this rhyme.

.

.

.

Though peoples perish in defeat,
And races suffer to survive,
The sunshine never was so sweet,
So vast he joy to be alive;
The laughing leaves, the glowing grass
Proclaim how good it is to be;
The pines are lyric as I pass,
The hills hosannas sing to me.

Pink roses ring yon placid palm,
Soft shines the blossom of the peach;
The sapphire sea is satin calm,
With bell-like tinkle on the beach;
A lizard lazes in the sun,
A bee is bumbling to my hand;
Shy breezes whisper: "You are one
With us because you understand.

"
Yea, I am one with all I see,
With wind and wave, with pine and palm;
Their very elements in me
Are fused to make me what I am.

Through me their common life-stream flows,
And when I yield this human breath,
In leaf and blossom, bud and rose,
Live on I will .

.

.

There is no Death.

Oh, let me flee from woeful things,
And listen to the linnet's song;
To solitude my spirit clings,
To sunny woodlands I belong.

O foolish men! Yourselves destroy.

But I from pain would win surcease.

.

.

.

O Earth, grant me eternal joy!
O Nature - everlasting peace!
Amen.

Patches Read Poem

Mother focused with a frown
The part of me where I sit down.

Said she: "Your pants are wearing through;
Let me sew on a patch for you.

"
And so she did,—of azure blue.

My britches were of sober grey,
And when I went to school next day,
The fellows said: "Excuse our smile:
We saw your patch 'way off a mile.

"
Said I: "Sure, it's the latest style.

"
So each boy asked his Ma to match
With bluer blue my super-patch,
And when to school they came en masse,
It was the emblem of our class,
Admired by every bonnie lass.

Now when I'm old and in my dotage,
I hope I'll have a humble cottage,
And sit me by a hive of bees,
A patchwork quilt accross my knees,
Warming my worn hands in the sun,
All ropey with the work they've done.

The work they've done to give me this
Brief bit of comfort, ease and bliss;
My pathway edged with cockle shells,
And bright with Canterbury bells,
That leads to where my humble thatch is,
It, too, adorned with straw-bright patches.

Pavement Poet Read Poem

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;
Come on, dad; you're in custody.

"
And then the Beak looks down and says:
"Sheer doggerel I deem your lays:
I send you down for seven days.

"
So for the week I won't disturb
The peace by singing at the curb.

I don't mind that, but oh it's hell
To have my verse called doggerel.

Pedlar Read Poem

Pedlar's coming down the street,
Housewives beat a swift retreat.

Don't you answer to the bell;
Heedless what she has to sell.

Just discreetly go inside.

We must hang a board, I fear:
PEDLARS NOT PERMITTED HERE.

I'm trying to sell what nobody wants to buy;
They turn me away, but still I try and try.

My arms are aching and my feet are sore;
Heartsick and worn I drag from door to door.

I ring bells, meekly knock, hold out my tray,
But no one answers, so I go away.

I am so weary; oh, I want to cry,
Trying to sell what no one wants to buy.

I do not blame them.

Maybe in their place
I'd slam the door shut in a pedlar's face.

I don not know; perhaps I'd raise their hopes
By looking at their pens and envelopes,
Their pins and needles, pencils, spools of thread,
Cheap tawdry stuff, before I shake my head
And go back to my cosy kitchen nook
Without another thought or backward look.

I would not see their pain nor hear their sigh,
Trying to sell what no one wants to buy.

I know I am a nuisance.

I can see
They only buy because they pity me.

They may .

.

.

I've had a cottage of my own,
A husband, children - now I am alone,
Friendless in all the world.

The bitter years
Have crushed me, robbed me of my dears.

All, all I've lost, my only wish to die,
Selling my trash that no one wants to buy.

Pedlar's beating a retreat -
Poor old thing, her face is sweet,
her figure frail, her hair snow-white;
Dogone it! Every door's shut tight.

.

.

.

"Say, Ma, how much for all you've got?

Hell, here's ten bucks .

.

.

I'll take the lot.

Go, get yourself a proper feed,
A little of the rest you need.

I've got a mother looks like you -
I'd hate her doing what you do.

.

.

.

No, don't get sloppy, can the mush,
Praying for me - all that slush;
But please don't come again this way,
Ten bucks is all I draw a day.

"

Perfection Read Poem

If I could practise what I preach,
Of fellows there would few be finer;
If I were true to what I teach
My life would be a lot diviner.

If I would act the way I speak,
Of halo I might be a winner:
The spirit wills, the flesh is weak,—
I'm just a simple sinner.

Six days I stray,—on number seven
I try to be a little better,
And stake a tiny claim on Heaven
By clinging close to gospel letter.

My pew I occupy on Sunday,
And though I draw the line at snoring,
I must admit I long for Monday,
And find the sermon boring.

Although from godly grace I fall,
For sensed with sin my every act is,
'Twere better not to preach at all,
Then I would have no need to practice.

So Sabbath day I'll sneak away,
And though the Church grieve my defection,
In sunny woodland I will pray:
"God save us from Perfection!"

Periods Read Poem

My destiny it is tonight
To sit with pensive brow
Beside my study fire and write
This verse I'm making now.

This Period, this tiny dot
My pencil has defined,
By centuries of human thought
Was predestined.

And my last period of all
With patience now I see;
The final point so very small,
That locks my life for me.

Yet in eternity of time
They relatively seem
So like,—the dot that rounds my rhyme
Or ends my dream.

For each was preordained by Fate
Since human life began;
So are the little and the great
Linked in the life of man.

And as I wait without heartache
The pencil-point of God,
To pattern predestined I make
This———.

Picture Dealer Read Poem

There were twin artists A.

and B.

Who painted pictures two,
And hung them in my galley
For everyone to view;
The one exhibited by A.

The name "A Sphere" did bear,
While strangely brother B's display
Was catalogued: "A Square".

Now although A.

(and this is queer)
Could squeeze a pretty tube,
The picture that he called a Sphere
Was blocky as a cube;
While B.

(though no hint he disclosed
To pull the public leg)
The Square he placidly exposed
Was oval as an egg.

Thought I: To sell these pictures two
I never will be able;
There's only one thing I can do,
That's change around the label.

The rotund one I called a Sphere,
The cornered one a Square .

.

.

And yet, I thought: It's very queer,
Unbought they linger there.

Then strange as it may well appear,
Derision did I bare,
And blandly dubbed the Square a Sphere
And tabbed the Sphere a Square.

Behold the answer I had found,
For to my glad dismay
The curious came crowding round:
A sold the daubs next day.

Well, maybe A.

and B.

were right,
Not mugs like you and me,
With something missing in our sight
That only artists see.

So what it is and what it ain't
I'll never more discuss .

.

.

These guys believe in what they paint,
Or .

.

.

are they spoofing us?

Pilgrims Read Poem

For oh, when the war will be over
We'll go and we'll look for our dead;
We'll go when the bee's on the clover,
And the plume of the poppy is red:
We'll go when the year's at its gayest,
When meadows are laughing with flow'rs;
And there where the crosses are greyest,
We'll seek for the cross that is ours.

For they cry to us:
Friends, we are lonely,
A-weary the night and the day;
But come in the blossom-time only,
Come when our graves will be gay:
When daffodils all are a-blowing,
And larks are a-thrilling the skies,
Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing,
And the joy of the Spring in your eyes.

But never, oh, never come sighing,
For ours was the Splendid Release;
And oh, but 'twas joy in the dying
To know we were winning you Peace!
So come when the valleys are sheening,
And fledged with the promise of grain;
And here where our graves will be greening,
Just smile and be happy again.

And so, when the war will be over,
We'll seek for the Wonderful One;
And maiden will look for her lover,
And mother will look for her son;
And there will be end to our grieving,
And gladness will gleam over loss,
As — glory beyond all believing!
We point .

.

.

to a name on a cross.

From RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN, Robert W.

Service, published by Barses & Hopkins, New York, US, © 1916, pp.

114-115.

Pipe Smoker Read Poem

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 into the fire,
Puffing like me a pipe of clay,
Corn-cob or briar.

A chap original of thought,
With cheery point of view,
Who has of gumption quite a lot,
And streaks of humour too.

He need not be a whiskered sage,
With wisdom over-ripe:
Just give me in the old of age
A pal who smokes a pipe.

A cigarette may make for wit,
Although I like it not;
A good cigar, I must admit,
Gives dignity to thought.

But as my glass of grog I sip
I never, never gripe
If I have for companionship
A guy who smokes a pipe.

Playboy Read Poem

I greet the challenge of the dawn
With weary, bleary eyes;
Into the sky so ashen wan
I wait the sun to rise;
Then in the morning's holy hush,
With heart of shame I hear
A robin from a lilac bush
Pipe pure and clear.

All night in dive and dicing den,
With wantons and with wine
I've squandered on wild, witless men
The fortune that was mine;
The gold my father fought to save
In folly I have spent;
And now to fill a pauper's grave
My steps are bent.

See! how the sky is amber bright!
The thrushes thrill their glee.

The dew-drops sparkle with delight,
And yonder smiles the sea.

Oh let me plunge to drown the pain
Of love and faith forgot:
Then purged I may return again,
—Or I may not.

Plebeian Plutocrat Read Poem

I own a gorgeous Cadillac,
A chauffeur garbed in blue;
And as I sit behind his back
His beefy neck I view.

Yet let me whisper, though you may
Think me a queer old cuss,
From Claude I often sneak away
To board a bus.

A democrat, I love the crowd,
The bustle and the din;
The market wives who gab aloud
As they go out and in.

I chuckle as I pay my dime,
With mien meticulous:
You can't believe how happy I'm;
Aboard a bus.

The driver of my Cadillac
Has such a haughty sneer;
I'm sure he would give me the sack
If he beheld me here.

His horror all my friends would share
Could they but see me thus:
A gleeful multi-millionaire
Aboard a bus.

Poet And Peer Read Poem

They asked the Bard of Ayr to dine;
The banquet hall was fit and fine,
With gracing it a Lord;
The poet came; his face was grim
To find the place reserved for him
Was at the butler's board.

So when the gentry called him in,
He entered with a knavish grin
And sipped a glass of wine;
But when they asked would he recite
Something of late he'd chanced to write
He ettled to decline.

Then with a sly, sardonic look
He opened up a little book
Containing many a gem;
And as they sat in raiment fine,
So smug and soused with rosy wine,
This verse he read to them.

'You see yon birkie caw'ed a Lord,
Who struts and stares an' a' that,
Though hundreds worship at his word
He's but a coof for a' that.

For a' that and a' that,
A man's a man for a' that.

He pointed at that portly Grace
Who glared with apoplectic face,
While others stared with gloom;
Then having paid them all he owed,
Burns, Bard of Homespun, smiled and strode
Superbly from the room.

Poet's Path Read Poem

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 would write maybe,
And sometimes he would not.

A verse a day he used to say
Keeps worry from the door;
Without the stink of printer's ink
How life would be a bore!
And so from chime of breakfast time
To supper he would beat
The pathway flat, a mossy mat
For his poetic feet.

He wrote, I'm told, of gods of old
And mythologic men;
Far better he had sung, maybe,
Of plain folks now and then;
With bitterness he would confess
Too lofty was his aim.

.

.

.

And then with woe I saw him throw
His poems to the flame.

He went away one bitter day
When death was in the sky;
No further word I ever heard
Beyond his last goodbye.

Did battle grim take toll of him
In heaven-rocking wrath?

Oh did he write in starry flight
His name in flame on hell-brewed night?

… Well, there's my poet's path.

Politeness Read Poem

The English and the French were met
Upon the field of future battle;
The foes were formidably set
And waiting for the guns to rattle;
When from the serried ranks of France
The English saw with woeful presage
Under a flaming flag advance
A trumpeter who bore a message.

'Twas from their Marshal, quite polite,
Yet made the English leader shiver.

"We're perched," said he, "upon the height,
While you're exposed beside the river.

We have the vantage, you'll agree,
And your look-out is melancholy;
But being famed for courtesy
We'll let you fire the starting volley.

"
The English General was moved,
In fact his eyes were almost tearful;
Then he too his politeness proved
By writing back: "We are not fearful.

Our England is too proud to take
The privilege you thrust upon her;
So let your guns in thunder break:
To you, M'sieu, shall be the houour.

"
Again a note the Marshall sent
By envoy for his battle station:
"Your spirit wins my compliment,
Your courage my appreciation.

Yet you are weak and we are strong,
And though your faith is most inspiring,
Don't let us linger all day long -
Mon General, begin the firing.

"
"How chivalrous the soul of France.

"
The English General reflected.

"I hate to take this happy chance,
But I suppose it's what's expected.

Politeness is a platitude
In this fair land of gallant foemen.

"
So with a heart of gratitude
He primed his guns and cried: "Let's go men!"
The General was puzzled when
No answer came, said he: "What is it?

Why don't they give us hell?

" And then
The herald paid another visit.

The Marshall wrote: "to your salute
Please pardon us for not replying;
To shatter you we cannot shoot .

.

.

My men are dead and I am dying.

"

Pooch Read Poem

Nurse, won't you let him in?

He's barkin' an' scratchen' the door,
Makin' so dreffel a din
I jest can't sleep any more;
Out there in the dark an' the cold,
Hark to him scrape an' whine,
Breakin' his heart o' gold,
Poor little pooch o' mine.

Nurse, I was sat in ma seat
In front o' the barber shop,
When there he was lickin' ma feet
As if he would never stop;
Then all of a sudden I see
That dog-catcher moseyin' by:
"Whose mongrel is that?

" says he;
"It's ma pedigree pup," says I.

Nurse, he was starved an' a-stray,
But his eyes was plumbful o' trust.

How could I turn him away?

I throwed him a bit o' a crust,
An' he choked as he gluped it up,
Then down at ma feet he curled:
Poor little pitiful pup!
Hadn't a friend in the world.

Nurse, I was friendless too,
So we was makin' a pair.

I'm black as a cast-off shoe,
But that li'le dog didn't care.

He loved me as much as though
Ma skin was pearly an' white:
Somehow dogs seem to know
When a man's heart's all right.

Nurse, we was thick as thieves;
Nothin' could pry us apart,
An' now to hear how he grieves
Is twistin' a knife in ma heart.

As I worked at ma shoe-shine stand
He'd watch me wi' eyes o' love,
A-wigglin' an' lickin' ma hand
Like I was a god above.

Nurse, I sure had no luck
That night o' the rain an' then fog;
There was that thunderin' truck,
And right in the way - ma dog.

Oh, I was a fool, I fear;
It's harder to think than to feel .

.

.

I dashed in, flung the pup clear,
But - I went under the wheel.

.

.

.

Nurse, it's a-gittin' dark;
Guess ma time's about up:
Don't seem to hear him bark,
Poor, broken-hearted pup! .

.

.

Why, here he is, darn his skin!
Lickin' ma face once more:
How did the cuss get in?

Musta' busted the door.

God, I'm an ol' black coon,
But You ain't conscious o' race.

I gotta be goin' soon,
I'll be meetin' You face to face.

I'se been sinful, dice an' hooch,
But Lordy, before I die
I'se a-prayin': "Be good to ma pooch" .

.

.

That's all - little mutt, good-bye.

Poor Cock Robin Read Poem

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 with jewelled song
Find favour in my sight.

And now that Autumn's in the air
He's singing singing still,
And yet somehow I cannot bear
The frenzy of his bill;
The keen wind ruffs his ruddy breast
As to bare boughs he clings;
The sun is sullen in the West
Yet still he sings and sings.

Soon, soon the legions of the snow
Will pitch their tents again,
And round my window-sill I know
He'll call for crumbs in vein;
The pulsing passion of his throat
Has hint of Winter woe;
The piercing sweetness of his note
entreats me not to go.

In vein, in vain, Oh valiant one,
You sing to bid me stay!
For all my life is in the sun
And I must fly away.

yet by no gold or orange glow
Will I be comforted,
Seeing blood-bright in bitter snow -
A robin dead.

Poor Kid Read Poem

Mumsie and Dad are raven dark
And I am lily blonde.

''Tis strange,' I once heard nurse remark,
'You do not correspond.

'
And yet they claim me as their own,
Born of their flesh and bone.

To doubt their parenthood I dread,
But now to girlhood grown,
The thought is haunting in my head
That I am not their own:
If so, my radiant bloom of youth
Would wither in the truth.

'Twould give me anguish deep to know
A fondling babe was I;
And that a maid in wedless woe
Left me to live or die:
I'd rather Mother lied and lied
To save my pride.

I love them both and they love me;
I am their all, they say.

Yet though the sweetest home have we,
To know I'm theirs I pray.

If not, please dear ones, never tell .

.

.

The truth would be of hell.

Poor Peter Read Poem

Blind Peter Piper used to play
All up and down the city;
I'd often meet him on my way,
And throw a coin for pity.

But all amid his sparkling tones
His ear was quick as any
To catch upon the cobble-stones
The jingle of my penny.

And as upon a day that shone
He piped a merry measure:
"How well you play!" I chanced to say;
Poor Peter glowed with pleasure.

You'd think the words of praise I spoke
Were all the pay he needed;
The artist in the player woke,
The penny lay unheeded.

Now Winter's here; the wind is shrill,
His coat is thin and tattered;
Yet hark! he's playing trill on trill
As if his music mattered.

And somehow though the city looks
Soaked through and through with shadows,
He makes you think of singing brooks
And larks and sunny meadows.

Poor chap! he often starves, they say;
Well, well, I can believe it;
For when you chuck a coin his way
He'll let some street-boy thieve it.

I fear he freezes in the night;
My praise I've long repented,
Yet look! his face is all alight .

.

.

Blind Peter seems contented.

Poor Poet Read Poem

'A man should write to please himself,'
He proudly said.

Well, see his poems on the shelf,
Dusty, unread.

When he came to my shop each day,
So peaked and cold,
I'd sneak one of his books away
And say 'twas sold.

And then by chance he looked below,
And saw a stack
Of his own work,—speechless with woe
He came not back.

I hate to think he took to drink,
And passed away;
I have not heard of him a word
Unto this day.

A man must write to please himself,
Of all it's true;
But happy they who spurning pelf—
Please people too.

Portent Read Poem

Courage mes gars:
La guerre est proche.

I plant my little plot of beans,
I sit beneath my cyprus tree;
I do not know what trouble means,
I cultivate tranquillity .

.

.

But as to-day my walk I made
In all serenity and cheer,
I saw cut in an agave blade:
"Courage, my comrades, war is near!"
Seward I went, my feet were slow,
Awhile I dowsed upon the shore;
And then I roused with fear for lo!
I saw six grisly ships of war.

A grim, grey line of might and dread
Against the skyline looming sheer:
With horror to myself I said:
"Courage, my comrades, war is near!"
I saw my cottage on the hill
With rambling roses round the door;
It was so peaceful and so still
I sighed .

.

.

and then it was no more.

A flash of flame, a rubble heap;
I cried aloud with woe and fear .

.

.

And wok myself from troubled sleep -
My home was safe, war was not near.

Oh, I am old, my step is frail,
My carcase bears a score of scars,
And as I climbed my homeward trail
Sadly I thought of other wars.

And when that agave leaf I saw
With vicious knife I made a blear
Of words clean-cut into the raw:
"Courage, my comrades, war is near!"
Who put hem there I do not know -
One of these rabid reds, no doubt;
But I for freedom struck my blow,
With bitter blade I scraped them out.

There now, said I, I will forget,
And smoke my pipe and drink my beer -
Yet in my mind these words were set:
"Courage, my comrades, war is near!"
"Courage, my comrades, war is near!"
I hear afar its hateful drums;
Its horrid din assails my ear:
I hope I die before it comes.

.

.

.

Yet as into the town I go,
And listen to the rabble cheer,
I think with heart of weary woe:
War is not coming - WAR IS HERE.

Portrait Read Poem

Because life's passing show
Is little to his mind,
There is a man I know
Indrawn from human kind.

His dearest friends are books;
Yet oh how glad he talks
To birds and trees and brooks
On lonely walks.

He takes the same still way
By grove and hill and sea;
He lives that each new day
May like the last one be.

He hates all kinds of change;
His step is sure and slow:
Though life has little range
He loves it so.

He makes it his one aim
His pleasure to repeat;
To always do the same,
Since sameness is so sweet;
In simple things to find
The dearest to his mood.

His true life in his mind
Is oh so good!
Please leave him to his dream,
This old, unweary man,
Who shuns the busy stream
And has outlived his span.

Just leave him on his shelf
To watch the world go by .

.

.

Because he is—myself:
Yea, such be I.

Post Office Romance Read Poem

The lady at the corner wicket
Sold me a stamp, I stooped to lick it,
And on the envelope to stick it;
A spinster lacking girlish grace,
Yet sweetly sensitive, her face
Seemed to en-star that stodgy place.

Said I: "I've come from o'er the sea
To ask you if you'll marry me -
That is to say, if you are free.

I see your gentle features freeze;
'I do not like such jokes as these,'
You seem to say .

.

.

Have patience, please.

I saw you twenty years ago;
Just here you sold me stamps, and Oh
Your image seemed to haunt me so.

For you were lovely as a rose,
But I was poor, and I suppose
At me you tilted dainty nose.

Ah, well I knew love could not be,
So sought my fortune o'er the sea,
Deeming that you were lost to me.

Of sailing ships a mate was I,
From oriental ports to ply .

.

.

Ten years went past of foreign sky.

But always in the starry night
I steered my course with you in sight,
My dream of you a beacon light.

Then after a decade had sped
I cam again: 'What luck?

I said,
'Will she be here and free to wed?

'
Oh it was on a morn of Spring,
And I had in my purse a ring
I bought in Eastern voyaging,
With thought of you and only you;
For I to my love dream was true .

.

.

And here you were, your eyes of blue.

The same sun shining on your brow
Lustered you hair as it does now,
My heart was standing still, I vow.

I bought a stamp, my eyes were bent
Upon a ring you wore - I went
Away as if indifferent.

Again I sailed behind the mast,
And yet your image held me fast,
For once again ten years have passed.

And I am bronzed with braid of gold;
The rank of Captain now I hold,
And fifty are my years all told.

Yet still I have that ruby ring
I bought for you that morn of Spring -
See, here it is, a pretty thing.

.

.

.

But now you've none upon your finger;
Why?

I don't know - but as I linger
I'm thinking : Oh what can I bring her.

Who all my life have ploughed the ocean,
A lonely man with one devotion -
Just you?

Ah, if you'd take the notion
To try the thing you ought to wear,
It fits so well.

Do leave it there.

And here's a note addressed to you.

Ah yes, quite strangers are we two,
But - well, please answer soon .

.

.

Adieu!
*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *
Oh no, you never more will see
Her selling stamps at Wicket Three:
Queen of my home, she's pouring tea.

Pragmatic Read Poem

When young I was an Atheist,
Yea, pompous as a pigeon
No opportunity I missed
To satirize religion.

I sneered at Scripture, scoffed at Faith,
I blasphemed at believers:
Said I: "There's nothing after Death,—
Your priests are just deceivers.

"
In middle age I was not so
Contemptuous and caustic.

Thought I: "There's much I do not know:
I'd better be agnostic.

The hope of immortality
'Tis foolish to be flouting.

"
So in the end I came to be
A doubter of my doubting.

Now I am old, with steps inclined
To hesitate and falter;
I find I get such peace of mind
Just sitting by an altar.

So Friends, don't scorn the family pew,
The preachments of the kirks:
Religion may be false or true,
But by the Lord!—it works.

Prayer Read Poem

You talk o' prayer an' such -
Well, I jest don't know how;
I guess I got as much
Religion as a cow.

I fight an' drink an' swear;
Red hell I often raise,
But never said a prayer
In all my days.

I'm honest, right enough;
Don't take no stock in crimes;
I'm jest a dockside tough,
An' yet .

.

.

an' yet sometimes,
If I should happen by
A church-door open wide
The chances are that I
Will sneak inside.

It's kin o' peaceful there,
Jest sittin' in a pew;
There's sompin' in the air
That rests me through an' through;
It does me heaps o' good
To see them candles glow,
So soothin' to the mood .

.

.

Why?

- I don't know.

Unless that sittin' still
Can be a kind o' prayer;
My heart jest seems to fill
Wi' peace .

.

.

Oh, God don't care
For guys the likes o' me;
I just ain't in His line:
But when the Cross I see,
I make the sign.

Prelude Read Poem

To smite Apollo's lyre I am unable;
Of loveliness, alas! I cannot sing.

My lot it i, across the tavern table,
To start a chorus to the strumming string.

I have no gift to touch your heart to pity;
I have no power to ring the note of pain:
All I can do is pipe a pot-house ditty,
Or roar a Rabelaisian refrain.

Behold yon minstrel of the empty belly,
Who seeks to please the bored and waiting throng,
Outside the Opera with ukulele,
And raucous strains of syncopated song.

His rag-time mocks their eager hearts a-hunger
For golden voices, melody divine:
Yet .

.

.

throw a penny to the ballad-monger;
Yet .

.

.

listen idly to this song of mine.

For with a humble heart I clank rhyme's fetters,
And bare my buttocks to the critic knout;
A graceless hobo in the Land of Letters,
Piping my ditties of the down-and-out.

A bar-room bard .

.

.

so if a coin you're flinging,
Pay me a pot, and let me dream and booze;
To stars of scorn my dour defiance ringing,
With battered banjo and a strumpet Muse.

Premonition Read Poem

'Twas a year ago and the moon was bright
(Oh, I remember so well, so well);
I walked with my love in a sea of light,
And the voice of my sweet was a silver bell.

And sudden the moon grew strangely dull,
And sudden my love had taken wing;
I looked on the face of a grinning skull,
I strained to my heart a ghastly thing.

'Twas but fantasy, for my love lay still
In my arms, with her tender eyes aglow,
And she wondered why my lips were chill,
Why I was silent and kissed her so.

A year has gone and the moon is bright,
A gibbous moon, like a ghost of woe;
I sit by a new-made grave to-night,
And my heart is broken — it's strange, you know.

Priscilla Read Poem

Jerry MacMullen, the millionaire,
Driving a red-meat bus out there —
How did he win his Croix de Guerre?

Bless you, that's all old stuff:
Beast of a night on the Verdun road,
Jerry stuck with a woeful load,
Stalled in the mud where the red lights glowed,
Prospect devilish tough.

"Little Priscilla" he called his car,
Best of our battered bunch by far,
Branded with many a bullet scar,
Yet running so sweet and true.

Jerry he loved her, knew her tricks;
Swore: "She's the beat of the best big six,
And if ever I get in a deuce of a fix
Priscilla will pull me through.

"
"Looks pretty rotten right now," says he;
"Hanged if the devil himself could see.

Priscilla, it's up to you and me
To show 'em what we can do.

"
Seemed that Priscilla just took the word;
Up with a leap like a horse that's spurred,
On with the joy of a homing bird,
Swift as the wind she flew.

Shell-holes shoot at them out of the night;
A lurch to the left, a wrench to the right,
Hands grim-gripping and teeth clenched tight,
Eyes that glare through the dark.

"Priscilla, you're doing me proud this day;
Hospital's only a league away,
And, honey, I'm longing to hit the hay,
So hurry, old girl.

.

.

.

But hark!"
Howl of a shell, harsh, sudden, dread;
Another .

.

.

another.

.

.

.

"Strike me dead
If the Huns ain't strafing the road ahead
So the convoy can't get through!
A barrage of shrap, and us alone;
Four rush-cases — you hear 'em moan?

Fierce old messes of blood and bone.

.

.

.

Priscilla, what shall we do?

"
Again it seems that Priscilla hears.

With a rush and a roar her way she clears,
Straight at the hell of flame she steers,
Full at its heart of wrath.

Fury of death and dust and din!
Havoc and horror! She's in, she's in;
She's almost over, she'll win, she'll win!
Woof! Crump! right in the path.

Little Priscilla skids and stops,
Jerry MacMullen sways and flops;
Bang in his map the crash he cops;
Shriek from the car: "Mon Dieu!"
One of the blessés hears him say,
Just at the moment he faints away:
"Reckon this isn't my lucky day,
Priscilla, it's up to you.

"
Sergeant raps on the doctor's door;
"Car in the court with couchés  four;
Driver dead on the dashboard floor;
Strange how the bunch got here.

"
"No," says the Doc, "this chap's alive;
But tell me, how could a man contrive
With both arms broken, a car to drive?

Thunder of God! it's queer.

"
Same little blessé  makes a spiel;
Says he: "When I saw our driver reel,
A Strange Shape leapt to the driving wheel
And sped us safe through the night.

"
But Jerry, he says in his drawling tone:
"Rats! Why, Priscilla came in on her own.

Bless her, she did it alone, alone.

.

.

.

"
Hanged if I know who's right.

Privacy Read Poem

Oh you who are shy of the popular eye,
(Though most of us seek to survive it)
Just think of the goldfish who wanted to die
Because she could never be private.

There are pebbles and reeds for aquarium needs
Of eel and of pike who are bold fish;
But who gives a thought to a sheltering spot
For the sensitive soul of a goldfish?

So the poor little thing swam around in a ring,
In a globe of a crystalline crudity;
Swam round and swam round, but no refuge she found
From the public display of her nudity;
No weedy retreat for a cloister discreet,
From the eye of the mob to exempt her;
Can you wonder she paled, and her appetite failed,
Till even a fly couldn't tempt her?

I watched with dismay as she faded away;
Each day she grew slimmer and slimmer.

From an amber hat burned, to a silver she turned
Then swiftly was dimmer and dimmer.

No longer she gleamed, like a spectre she seemed,
One morning I anxiously sought her:
I only could stare - she no longer was there .

.

.

She'd simply dissolved in the water.

So when you behold bright fishes of gold,
In globes of immaculate purity;
Just think how they'd be more contented and free
If you gave them a little obscurity.

And you who make laws, get busy because
You can brighten he lives of untold fish,
If its sadness you note, and a measure promote
To Ensure Private Life For The Goldfish.

Procreation Read Poem

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 dust.

I think the Lord made a mistake
When he designed the human race,
That man and angel in the make
Should have brutality for base.

Jehovah might have planned at least
Not to confound us with the beast.

So with humiliation I
Think of my basic origin;
And yet with some relief I sigh,—
I might have been conceived in sin;
Instead of being, I believe,
The offspring of a nuptial eve.

So when I look in beauty's face,
Or that of king or saint or sage,
It seems to me I darkly trace
Their being to a rutting rage .

.

.

Had I been Deity's adviser
Meseems I might have planned it wiser.

Profane Poet Read Poem

Oh how it would enable me
To titillate my vanity
If you should choose to label me
A Poet of Profanity!
For I've been known with vulgar slang
To stoke the Sacred Fire,
And even used a word like 'hang',
Suggesting ire.

Yea, I've been slyly told, although
It savours of inanity,
In print the ladies often show
A failing for profanity.

So to delight the dears I try,
And often in the past
In fabricating sonnets I
Have fulminated: 'Blast!'
I know I shock the sober folk
Who doubt my lyric sanity,
And readers of my rhyme provoke
By publishing profanity,
But oh a hale and hearty curse
Is very dear to me,
And so I end this bit of verse
With d— and d— and d—!

Property Read Poem

The red-roofed house of dream design
Looks three ways on the sea;
For fifty years I've made it mine,
And held it part of me.

The pines I planted in my youth
Triumpantly are tall .

.

.

Yet now I know with sorry sooth
I have to leave it all.

Hard-hewn from out the living rock
And salty from the tide,
My house has braved the tempest shock
With hardihood and pride.

Each nook is memoried to me;
I've loved its every stone,
And cried to it exultantly:
"My own, my very own!"
Poor fool! To think that I possess.

I have but cannot hold;
And all that's mine is less and less
My own as I grow old.

My home shall ring with childish cheers
When I shall leave it lone;
My house will bide a hundred years
When I am in the bone.

Alas! No thing can be my own:
At most a life-long lease
Is all I hold, a little loan
From Time, that soon will cease.

For now by faint and failing breath
I feel that I must go .

.

.

Old House! You've never known a death,—
Well, now's your hour to know.

Pullman Porter Read Poem

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 —
Oh, he was most assiduous;
And I was pleased to think that he
Enjoyed my brand of poetry.

He was forever at my call,
So when we got to Montreal
And he had brushed me off, I said:
“I’m glad my poems you have read,
I feel quite flattered, I confess,
And if you give me your address
I’ll send you (autographed, of course)
One of my little books of verse.

”

He smiled — his teeth were white as milk;
He spoke — his voice was soft as silk.

I recognized, despite his skin,
The perfect gentleman within.

Then courteously he made reply:
“I thank you kindly, Sir, but I
With many other cherished tome
Have all your books of verse at home.

“When I was quite a little boy
I used to savour them with joy;
And now my daughter, aged three,
Can tell the tale of Sam McGee;
While Tom, my son, that’s only two,
Has heard the yarn of Dan McGrew .

.

.

.

Don’t think your stuff I’m not applaudin’ —
Mytaste is Eliot and Auden.

”

So as we gravely bade adieu
I felt quite snubbed — and so would you.

And yet I shook him by the hand,
Impressed that he could understand
The works of those two tops I mention,
So far beyondmycomprehension —
A humble bard of boys and barmen,
Disdained, alas! by Pullman carmen.

Quatrains Read Poem

One said: Thy life is thine to make or mar,
To flicker feebly, or to soar, a star;
It lies with thee — the choice is thine, is thine,
To hit the ties or drive thy auto-car.

I answered Her: The choice is mine — ah, no!
We all were made or marred long, long ago.

The parts are written; hear the super wail:
"Who is stage-managing this cosmic show?

"
Blind fools of fate and slaves of circumstance,
Life is a fiddler, and we all must dance.

From gloom where mocks that will-o'-wisp, Free-will
I heard a voice cry: "Say, give us a chance.

"
Chance! Oh, there is no chance! The scene is set.

Up with the curtain! Man, the marionette,
Resumes his part.

The gods will work the wires.

They've got it all down fine, you bet, you bet!
It's all decreed — the mighty earthquake crash,
The countless constellations' wheel and flash;
The rise and fall of empires, war's red tide;
The composition of your dinner hash.

There's no haphazard in this world of ours.

Cause and effect are grim, relentless powers.

They rule the world.

(A king was shot last night;
Last night I held the joker and both bowers.

)
From out the mesh of fate our heads we thrust.

We can't do what we would, but what we must.

Heredity has got us in a cinch —
(Consoling thought when you've been on a "bust".

)
Hark to the song where spheral voices blend:
"There's no beginning, never will be end.

"
It makes us nutty; hang the astral chimes!
The tables spread; come, let us dine, my friend.

Ragetty Doll Read Poem

Rosemary has of dolls a dozen,
Yet she disdains them all;
While Marie Rose, her pauper cousin
Has just an old rag doll.

But you should see her mother it,
And with her kisses smother it.

A twist of twill, a hank of hair,
Fit for the rubbish bin;
How Rosemary with scorn would stare
At its pathetic grin!
Yet Marie Rose can lover it,
And with her kisses cover it.

Rosemary is a pampered pet;
She sniffs a dainty nose
Of scorn at ragged dolls, and yet
My love's with Marie Rose,
In garret corner shy and sweet,
With rag doll Marguerite.

Though kin they are, a gulf will grow
Between them with the years;
For one a life of love will know,
The other toil and tears:
Perhaps that shabby rag doll knows
The rue of Marie Rose.

Raising The Flag Read Poem

Behold! the Spanish flag they're raising
Before the Palace courtyard gate;
To watch its progress bold and blazing
Two hundred patient people wait.

Though bandsmen play the anthem bravely
The silken emblem seems to lag;
Two hundred people watch it gravely -
But only two salute the flag.

Fine-clad and arrogant of manner
The twain are like dark dons of old,
And to that high and haughty banner
Uplifted palms they proudly hold.

The others watch them glumly, grimly;
No sullen proletariat these,
but middle-class, well clad though dimly,
Who seem to live in decent ease.

Then sadly they look at each other,
And sigh and shrug and turn away.

What is the feeling that they smother?

I wonder, but it's none too gay.

And as with puzzlement I bide me,
Beneath that rich, resplendent rag,
I hear a bitter voice beside me:
"It isn't ours - it's Franco's flag.

"I'm Right: I have no Left obsession.

I hate the Communists like hell,
But after ten years of oppression
I hate our Franco twice as well.

And hush! I keep (do not reprove me)
His portrait in a private place,
And every time my bowels move me
I - spit in El Caudillo's face.

"
These were the words I heard, I swear,
But when I turned around to stare,
Believe me - there was no one there.

Raw Recruit Read Poem

They said to me: "Thou shalt not kill,"
And well I understood.

"Thy brother's blood thou shalt not spill,"
They spake, and it was good.

And then I could not understand,
Yet had to do their will;
Cold steel they put into my hand,
Saying: "Go forth and kill.

"Go forth with rage of race and slay;
Pile up the corpses for
What's murder called in Peace - alway
Is hollowed in war.

The Church has blest your bloody blade,
The which in peace is cursed;
So go forth, son, all unafraid,
And do your bloody worst.

"
What's wrong in Peace in War is right,
So I will do their will,
And bear me bravely in the fight,
And kill and kill and kill.

.

.

.

.

Yet as I brave the battle test
With dripping sword in hand,
Proving me equal with the best.

.

.

.

Christ, help me understand!

Red-Tiled Roof Read Poem

Poets may praise a wattle thatch
Doubtfully waterproof;
Let me uplift my lowly latch
Beneath a rose-tiled roof.

Let it be gay and rich in hue,
Soft bleached by burning days,
Where skies ineffably are blue,
And seas a golden glaze.

But set me in the surly North
Beneath a roof of slate,
And as I sourly sally forth
My heart will hum with hate;
And I will brood beneath a pine
Where Nature seldom smiles,
Heart-longing for a starry vine
And roof of ruddy tiles.

For oh the South's a bonny clime
And sunshine is its life;
So there I'll finish up my time
A stranger unto strife.

And smoke my pipe and sit aloof
From care by miles and miles,
Sagaciously beneath a roof,
Geranium-gay and panic proof,
Of ruby tinted tiles.

Regret Read Poem

It's not for laws I've broken
That bitter tears I've wept,
But solemn vows I've spoken
And promises unkept;
It's not for sins committed
My heart is full of rue,
but gentle acts omitted,
Kind deeds I did not do.

I have outlived the blindness,
The selfishness of youth;
The canker of unkindness,
The cruelty of truth;
The searing hurt of rudeness .

.

.

By mercies great and small,
I've come to reckon goodness
The greatest gift of all.

Let us be helpful ever
to those who are in need,
And each new day endeavour
To do some gentle deed;
For faults beyond our grieving,
What kindliness atone;
On earth by love achieving
A Heaven of our own.

Relativity Read Poem

I looked down on a daisied lawn
To where a host of tiny eyes
Of snow and gold from velvet shone
And made me think of starry skies.

I looked up to the vasty night
Where stars were very small indeed,
And in their galaxy of light
They made me think of daised mead.

I took a daisy in my hold;
Its snowy rays were tipped with rose,
And with its tiny boss of gold
I thought—how like a star it glows!
I dreamt I plucked from Heaven's field
A star and held it in my hand.

Said I: "The might of God I wield,
The Great and Small I understand.

"
For when the All is said and done,
In Time and Space I seem to see
A daisy equal to a sun,
Between heart-beats—Eternity

Relax Read Poem

Do you recall that happy bike
With bundles on our backs?

How near to heaven it was like
To blissfully relax!
In cosy tavern of good cheer
To doff our heavy packs,
And with a mug of foamy beer
Relax.

Learn to relax: to clean the mind
Of fear and doubt and care,
And in vacuity to find
The perfect peace that's there.

With lassitude of heart and hand,
When every sinew slacks,
How good to rest the old bean and
Relax, relax.

Just sink back in an easy chair
For forty winks or so,
And fold your hands as if in prayer,
—That helps a lot, you know.

Forget that you are you awhile,
And pliable as wax,
Just beatifically smile .

.

.

Relax, relax, relax.

Remorse Read Poem

That scathing word I used in scorn
(Though half a century ago)
Comes back to me this April morn,
Like boomerang to work me woe;
Comes back to me with bitter blame
(Though apple boughs are blossoming),
And oh! the anguish of my shame
Is sharper than a serpent's sting!
Age sensitizes us to pain,
And when remembrance of some word
We spoke in wrath return again,
It stab is like a driven sword.

.

.

.

And if in some celestial span
Our hearts in penitence may bleed
For all the hurt we've done to man -
Ah, that would be a hell indeed!
So friends, be careful of your words,
Though other breasts may meet their steel,
Lest they return like vengeful swords,
Till yours the wounds that never heal,
For Age the heart to mercy mellows;
Foul memories haunt like evil elves:
let us be gentle to our fellows,
And win God's mercy for ourselves.

Repentance Read Poem

"If you repent," the Parson said,"
Your sins will be forgiven.

Aye, even on your dying bed
You're not too late for heaven.

"
That's just my cup of tea, I thought,
Though for my sins I sorrow;
Since salvation is easy bought
I will repent .

.

.

to-morrow.

To-morrow and to-morrow went,
But though my youth was flying,
I was reluctant to repent,
having no fear of dying.

'Tis plain, I mused, the more I sin,
(To Satan's jubilation)
When I repent the more I'll win
Celestial approbation.

So still I sin, and though I fail
To get snow-whitely shriven,
My timing's good: I home to hail
The last bus up to heaven.

Reptiles And Roses Read Poem

So crystal clear it is to me
That when I die I cease to be,
All else seems sheer stupidity.

All promises of Paradise
Are wishful thinking, preacher's lies,
Dogmatic dust flung in our eyes.

Yea, life's immortal, swift it flows
Alike in reptile and in rose,
But as it comes, so too it goes.

Dead roses will not bloom again;
The lifeless lizard writhes in vain;
Cups shattered will not hold champagne.

Our breath is brief, and being so
Let's make our heaven here below,
And lavish kindness as we go.

For when dour Death shall close the door
There will be darkness evermore;
So let us kneel in prayer before
Each day and let our duty be
To fight that mankind may be free .

.

.

There is our Immortality.

Resignation Read Poem

I'd hate to be centipede (of legs I've only two),
For if new trousers I should need (as oftentimes I do),
The bill would come to such a lot 'twould tax an Astorbilt,
Or else I'd have to turn a Scot and caper in a kilt.

I'm jolly glad I haven't got a neck like a giraffe.

I'd want to tie it in a knot and shorten it by half.

or, as I wear my collars high, how laundry men would gloat!
And what a lot of beer I'd buy to lubricate my throat!
I'd hate to be a goldfish, snooping round a crystal globe,
A naughty little bold fish, that distains chemise of robe.

The public stare I couldn't bear, if naked as a stone,
And when my toilet I prepare, I'd rather be alone.

I'd hate to be an animal, an insect or a fish.

To be the least like bird or beast I've not the slightest wish.

It's best I find to be resigned, and stick to Nature's plan:
Content am I to live and die, just - Ordinary MAN.

Resolutions Read Poem

Each New Year's Eve I used to brood
On my misdoings of the past,
And vowed: "This year I'll be so good -
Well, haply better than the last.

"
My record of reforms I read
To Mum who listened sweetly to it:
"Why plan all this, my son?

" she said;
"Just do it.

"
Of her wise words I've often thought -
Aye, sometimes with a pang of pain,
When resolutions come to naught,
And high resolves are sadly vain;
The human heart from failure bleeds;
Hopes may be wrecked so that we rue them .

.

.

Don't let us dream of lovely deeds -
Just do them.

And so, my son, uphold your pride.

Believe serenely in your soul.

Just take things in a steady stride,
Until behold! you've gained your goal.

But if, perchance, you frame a plan
Of conduct, let it be a free one:
Don't try to make yourself a man -
Just be one.

Retired Read Poem

I used to sing, when I was young,
The joy of idleness;
But now I'm grey I hold my tongue,
For frankly I confess
If I had not some job to do
I would be bored to death;
So I must toil until I'm through
With this asthmatic breath.

Where others slothfully would brood
beg for little chores,
To peel potatoes, chop the wood,
And even scrub the floors.

When slightly useful I can be,
I'm happy as a boy;
Dish-washing is a boon to me,
And brushing boots a joy.

The young folks tell me: "Grandpa, please,
Don't be so manual;
You certainly have earned your ease -
Why don't you rest a spell?

"
Say I: I'll have a heap of rest
On my sepulchral shelf;
So now please let me do my best
To justify myself.

"
For one must strive or one will die,
And work's our dearest friend;
God meant it so, and that is why
I'll toil unto the end.

I thank the Lord I'm full of beans,
So let me heft a hoe,
And I will don my garden jeans
And help the beans to grow.

Retired Shopman Read Poem

He had the grocer's counter-stoop,
That little man so grey and neat;
His moustache had a doleful droop,
He hailed me in the slushy street.

"I've sold my shop," he said to me,
Cupping his hand behind his ear.

"My deafness got so bad, you see,
Folks had to shout to make me hear.

"
He sighed and sadly shook his head;
The hand he gave was chill as ice.

"I sold out far too soon," he said;
"To-day I'd get ten times the price.

But then how was a man to know,
(The War, the rising cost of life.

)
We have to pinch to make things go:
It's tough - I'm sorry for the wife.

"She looks sometimes at me with tears.

'You worked so hard,' I hear her say.

'You had your shop for forty years,
And you were honest as the day.

'
Ah yes, I loved my shop, it's true;
My customers I tried to please;
But when one's deaf and sixty-two
What can one do in times like these?

"My savings, that I fondly thought
Would keep me snug when we were old,
Are melting fast - what once I bought
For silver, now is sought with gold.

The cost of life goes up each day;
I wonder what will be the end?

"
He sighed, I saw him drift away
And thought: Alas for you, my friend!
and every day I see him stop
And look and look with wistful eye
At what was once his little shop,
Whose goods he can no longer buy.

Then homeward wearily he goes
To where his wife bed-ridden lies,
A driblet dangling from his nose.

.

.

.

But Oh the panic in his eyes!

Reverence Read Poem

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 head he bared,
With reverence I stared and stared,
As mummified as any Pharaoh.

He leaned upon a little cane,
A big cigar was in his mouth;
Through spectacles of yellow stain
He gazed and gazed toward the South;
And then he dived into the sea,
As if to Corsica to swim;
His side stroke was so strong and free
I could not help but envy him.

A fitter man than I, I said,
Although his age is more than mine;
And I was strangely comforted
To see him battle in the brine.

Thought I: We have no cause for sorrow;
For one so dynamic to-day
Will gird him for the future fray
And lead us lion-like to-morrow.

The Greatest Man in all the world
Lay lazing like you or me,
Within a flimsy bathrobe curled
Upon a mattress by the sea:
He reached to pat a tou-tou's nose,
And scratched his torso now and then,
And scribbled with a fountain pen
What I assumed was jewelled prose.

And then methought he looked at me,
And hailed me with a gesture grand;
His fingers made the letter "V,"
So I, too, went to raise my hand; -
When nigh to me the barman glided
With liquid gold, and then I knew
He merely called for cock-tails two,
And so abjectly I subsided.

Yet I have had my moment's glory,
A-squatting nigh that Mighty Tory,
Proud Hero of our Island Story.

Rhyme Builder Read Poem

I envy not those gay galoots
Who count on dying in their boots;
For that, to tell the sober truth
Sould be the privilege of youth;
But aged bones are better sped
To heaven from a downy bed.

So prop me up with pillows two,
And serve me with the barley brew;
And put a pencil in my hand,
A copy book at my command;
And let my final effort be
To ring a rhyme of homely glee.

For since I've loved it oh so long,
Let my last labour be in song;
And when my pencil falters down,
Oh may a final couplet crown
The years of striving I have made
To justify the jinglers trade.

Let me surrender with a rhyme
My long and lovely lease of time;
Let me be grateful for the gift
To couple words in lyric lift;
Let me song-build with humble hod,
My last brick dedicate to God.

Rhyme For My Tomb Read Poem

Here lyeth one
Who loved the sun;
Who lived with zest,
Whose work was done,
Reward, dear Lord,
Thy weary son:
May he be blest
With peace and rest,
Nor wake again,
Amen.

Rhyme-Smith Read Poem

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 slumbers.

Said Ma: "He'll be a bard, I know it.

"
Said Pa: "let's hoe he will outgrow it.

"
Alas! I never did and so
A dreamer and a drone was I,
Who persevered in want and woe
His misery to versify.

Yea, I was doomed to be a failure
(Old Browning rhymes that last with "pale lure"):
And even starving in the gutter,
My macaronics I would utter.

Then in a poor, cheap book I crammed,
And to the public maw I tossed
My bitter Dirges of the Damned,
My Lyrics of the Lost.

"Let carping critic flay and flout
My Ditties of the Down and Out -
"There now," said I, "I've done with verse,
My love, my weakness and my curse.

"
Then lo! (As I would fain believe,
Before they crown, the fates would shame us)
I went to sleep one bitter eve,
And woke to find that I was famous.

.

.

.

And so the sunny sequels were a
Gay villa on the Riviera,
A bank account, a limousine, a
Life patterned dolce e divina.

Oh, yes, my lyric flight is flighty;
My muse is much more mite than mighty:
But poetry has been my friend,
And rhyming's saved me in the end.

Rich Poor Man Read Poem

We pitied him because
He lived alone;
His tiny cottage was
His only own.

His little garden had
A wall around;
Yet never was so glad
A bit of ground.

It seemed to fair rejoice
With flowers and fruit;
With blooms it found a voice
When ours was mute.

It smiled without a pause
In gracious glow:
I think it was because
He loved it so.

He had no news to read,
No rent to pay;
His vegetable need
He plucked each day.

His grateful garden gave
Him ample fare;
He lived without a crave,
Without a care.

His bread and milk and tea
Were all he bought;
To us he seemed to be
A sorry lot .

.

.

But when we're dead and gone,
With all our fuss,
I guess he'll carry on,
And laugh at us.

Ripe Fruit Read Poem

Through eyelet holes I watched the crowd
Rain of confetti fling;
Their joy is lush, their laughter loud,
For Carnival is King.

Behind his chariot I pace
To ean my petty pay;
They laugh to see my monster face:
"Ripe Fruit," I hear them say.

I do not laugh: my shoulders sag;
No heart have I for glee,
Because I hold aloft a hag
Who grins enough for me;
A hideous harridan who bears
In crapulous display,
Like two grub-eaten mouldy pears
Her bubbies on  a tray.

Ripe Fruit! Oh, God! It's hell to think
How I have drifted down
Through vice and dice and dope and drink
To play the sordid clown;
That I who held the golden key
To operatic fame,
Should gnaw the crust of misery
And drain the dregs of shame.

What matter! I'll get soused to-night,
And happy I will be,
To sit within a tavern bright,
A trollop on my knee.

.

.

.

So let the crazy pipers pipe,
And let the rapture ring:
Ripe fruit am I - yea, rotten ripe,
And Carnival is King.

Ripeness Read Poem

With peace and rest
And wisdom sage,
Ripeness is best
Of every age.

With hands that fold
In pensive prayer,
For grave-yard mold
Prepare.

From fighting free
With fear forgot,
Let ripeness be,
Before the rot.

With heart of cheer
At eighty odd,
How man grows near
To God!
With passion spent
And life nigh run
Let us repent
The ill we've done.

And as we bless
With happy heart
Life's mellowness
—Depart.

Rivera Honeymoon Read Poem

Beneath the trees I lounged at ease
And watched them speed the pace;
They swerved and swung, they clutched and clung,
They leapt in roaring chase;
The crowd was thrilled, a chap was killed:
It was a splendid race.

Two men, they say, went West that day,
But I knew only one;
Geranium-red his blood was spread
And blazoned in the sun;
A lighting crash .

.

.

Lo! in a flash
His racing days were done.

I did not see - such sights to me
Appallingly are grim;
But for a girl of sunny curl
I would not mention him,
That English lad with grin so glad,
And racing togs so trim.

His motor bike was painted like
A postal box of ed.

'Twas gay to view .

.

.

"We bought it new,"
A voice beside me said.

"Our little bit we blew on it
The day that we were wed.

"We took a chance: through sunny France
We flashed with flaunting power.

With happy smiles a hundred miles
Or more we made an hour.

Like flame we hurled into a world
A-foam with fruit and flower.

"Our means were small; we risked them all
This famous race to win,
So we can take a shop and make
Our bread - one must begin.

We're not afraid; Jack has his trade:
He's bright as brassy pin.

"Hark! Here they come; uphill they hum;
My lad has second place;
They swing, they roar, they pass once more,
Now Jack sprints up the pace.

They're whizzing past .

.

.

At last, at last
He leads - he'll win the race.

Another round .

.

.

They leap, they bound,
But - where O where is he?

"
And then the girl with sunny curl
Turned chalk-faced unto me,
Within her eyes a wild surmise
It was not good to see.

They say like thunder-bold he crashed
Into a wall of stone;
To bloody muck his face was mashed,
He died without a moan;
In borrowed black the girl went back
To London Town alone.

Beneath the trees I longed at ease
And saw them pep the pace;
They swerved and swung, they clutched and clung
And roaring was the chase:
Two men, they say, were croaked that day -
It was a glorious race.

Romance Read Poem

In Paris on a morn of May
I sent a radio transatlantic
To catch a steamer on the way,
But oh the postal fuss was frantic;
They sent me here, they sent me there,
They were so courteous yet so canny;
Then as I wilted in despair
A Frenchman flipped me on the fanny.

'Twas only just a gentle pat,
Yet oh what sympathy behind it!
I don't let anyone do that,
But somehow then I didn't mind it.

He seemed my worry to divine,
With kindly smile, that foreign mannie,
And as we stood in waiting line
With tender touch he tapped my fanny.

It brought a ripple of romance
Into that postal bureau dreary;
He gave me such a smiling glance
That somehow I felt gay and cheery.

For information on my case
The postal folk searched nook and cranny;
He gently tapped, with smiling face,
His reassurance on my fanny.

So I'll go back to Tennessee,
And they will ask: "How have you spent your
Brief holiday in gay Paree?

"
But I'll not speak of my adventure.

Oh say I'm spectacled and grey,
Oh say I'm sixty and a grannie -
But say that morn of May
A Frenchman flipped me on the fanny!

Room 4: The Painter Chap Read Poem

He gives me such a bold and curious look,
That young American across the way,
As if he'd like to put me in a book
(Fancies himself a poet, so they say.

)
Ah well! He'll make no "document" of me.

I lock my door.

Ha! ha! Now none shall see.

.

.

.

Pictures, just pictures piled from roof to floor,
Each one a bit of me, a dream fulfilled,
A vision of the beauty I adore,
My own poor glimpse of glory, passion-thrilled .

.

.

But now my money's gone, I paint no more.

For three days past I have not tasted food;
The jeweled colors run .

.

.

I reel, I faint;
They tell me that my pictures are no good,
Just crude and childish daubs, a waste of paint.

I burned to throw on canvas all I saw —
Twilight on water, tenderness of trees,
Wet sands at sunset and the smoking seas,
The peace of valleys and the mountain's awe:
Emotion swayed me at the thought of these.

I sought to paint ere I had learned to draw,
And that's the trouble.

.

.

.

Ah well! here am I,
Facing my failure after struggle long;
And there they are, my croutes that none will buy
(And doubtless they are right and I am wrong);
Well, when one's lost one's faith it's time to die.

.

.

.

This knife will do .

.

.

and now to slash and slash;
Rip them to ribands, rend them every one,
My dreams and visions — tear and stab and gash,
So that their crudeness may be known to none;
Poor, miserable daubs! Ah! there, it's done.

.

.

.

And now to close my little window tight.

Lo! in the dusking sky, serenely set,
The evening star is like a beacon bright.

And see! to keep her tender tryst with night
How Paris veils herself in violet.

.

.

.

Oh, why does God create such men as I?

—
All pride and passion and divine desire,
Raw, quivering nerve-stuff and devouring fire,
Foredoomed to failure though they try and try;
Abortive, blindly to destruction hurled;
Unfound, unfit to grapple with the world.

.

.

.

And now to light my wheezy jet of gas;
Chink up the window-crannies and the door,
So that no single breath of air may pass;
So that I'm sealed air-tight from roof to floor.

There, there, that's done; and now there's nothing more.

.

.

.

Look at the city's myriad lamps a-shine;
See, the calm moon is launching into space .

.

.

There will be darkness in these eyes of mine
Ere it can climb to shine upon my face.

Oh, it will find such peace upon my face! .

.

.

City of Beauty, I have loved you well,
A laugh or two I've had, but many a sigh;
I've run with you the scale from Heav'n to Hell.

Paris, I love you still .

.

.

good-by, good-by.

Thus it all ends — unhappily, alas!
It's time to sleep, and now .

.

.

blow out the gas.

.

.

.

Now there's that little midinette
Who goes to work each morning daily;
I choose to call her Blithe Babette,
Because she's always humming gaily;
And though the Goddess "Comme-il-faut"
May look on her with prim expression,
It's Pagan Paris where, you know,
The queen of virtues is Discretion.

Room 5: The Concert Singer Read Poem

I'm one of these haphazard chaps
Who sit in cafes drinking;
A most improper taste, perhaps,
Yet pleasant, to my thinking.

For, oh, I hate discord and strife;
I'm sadly, weakly human;
And I do think the best of life
Is wine and song and woman.

Now, there's that youngster on my right
Who thinks himself a poet,
And so he toils from morn to night
And vainly hopes to show it;
And there's that dauber on my left,
Within his chamber shrinking —
He looks like one of hope bereft;
He lives on air, I'm thinking.

But me, I love the things that are,
My heart is always merry;
I laugh and tune my old guitar:
Sing ho! and hey-down-derry.

Oh, let them toil their lives away
To gild a tawdry era,
But I'll be gay while yet I may:
Sing tira-lira-lira.

I'm sure you know that picture well,
A monk, all else unheeding,
Within a bare and gloomy cell
A musty volume reading;
While through the window you can see
In sunny glade entrancing,
With cap and bells beneath a tree
A jester dancing, dancing.

Which is the fool and which the sage?

I cannot quite discover;
But you may look in learning's page
And I'll be laughter's lover.

For this our life is none too long,
And hearts were made for gladness;
Let virtue lie in joy and song,
The only sin be sadness.

So let me troll a jolly air,
Come what come will to-morrow;
I'll be no cabotin of care,
No souteneur of sorrow.

Let those who will indulge in strife,
To my most merry thinking,
The true philosophy of life
Is laughing, loving, drinking.

And there's that weird and ghastly hag
Who walks head bent, with lips a-mutter;
With twitching hands and feet that drag,
And tattered skirts that sweep the gutter.

An outworn harlot, lost to hope,
With staring eyes and hair that's hoary
I hear her gibber, dazed with dope:
I often wonder what's her story.

Room 6: The Little Workgirl Read Poem

Three gentlemen live close beside me —
A painter of pictures bizarre,
A poet whose virtues might guide me,
A singer who plays the guitar;
And there on my lintel is Cupid;
I leave my door open, and yet
These gentlemen, aren't they stupid!
They never make love to Babette.

I go to the shop every morning;
I work with my needle and thread;
Silk, satin and velvet adorning,
Then luncheon on coffee and bread.

Then sewing and sewing till seven;
Or else, if the order I get,
I toil and I toil till eleven —
And such is the day of Babette.

It doesn't seem cheerful, I fancy;
The wage is unthinkably small;
And yet there is one thing I can say:
I keep a bright face through it all.

I chaff though my head may be aching;
I sing a gay song to forget;
I laugh though my heart may be breaking —
It's all in the life of Babette.

That gown, O my lady of leisure,
You begged to be "finished in haste.

"
It gives you an exquisite pleasure,
Your lovers remark on its taste.

Yet .

.

.

oh, the poor little white faces,
The tense midnight toil and the fret .

.

.

I fear that the foam of its laces
Is salt with the tears of Babette.

It takes a brave heart to be cheery
With no gleam of hope in the sky;
The future's so utterly dreary,
I'm laughing — in case I should cry.

And if, where the gay lights are glowing,
I dine with a man I have met,
And snatch a bright moment — who's going
To blame a poor little Babette?

And you, Friend beyond all the telling,
Although you're an ocean away,
Your pictures, they tell me, are selling,
You're married and settled, they say.

Such happiness one wouldn't barter;
Yet, oh, do you never regret
The Springtide, the roses, Montmartre,
Youth, poverty, love and — Babette?

That blond-haired chap across the way
With sunny smile and voice so mellow,
He sings in some cheap cabaret,
Yet what a gay and charming fellow!
His breath with garlic may be strong,
What matters it?

his laugh is jolly;
His day he gives to sleep and song:
His night's made up of song and folly.

Room 7: The Coco-Fiend Read Poem

I look at no one, me;
I pass them on the stair;
Shadows! I don't see;
Shadows! everywhere.

Haunting, taunting, staring, glaring,
Shadows! I don't care.

Once my room I gain
Then my life begins.

Shut the door on pain;
How the Devil grins!
Grin with might and main;
Grin and grin in vain;
Here's where Heav'n begins:
Cocaine! Cocaine!
A whiff! Ah, that's the thing.

How it makes me gay!
Now I want to sing,
Leap, laugh, play.

Ha! I've had my fling!
Mistress of a king
In my day.

Just another snuff .

.

.

Oh, the blessed stuff!
How the wretched room
Rushes from my sight;
Misery and gloom
Melt into delight;
Fear and death and doom
Vanish in the night.

No more cold and pain,
I am young again,
Beautiful again,
Cocaine! Cocaine!
Oh, I was made to be good, to be good,
For a true man's love and a life that's sweet;
Fireside blessings and motherhood.

Little ones playing around my feet.

How it all unfolds like a magic screen,
Tender and glowing and clear and glad,
The wonderful mother I might have been,
The beautiful children I might have had;
Romping and laughing and shrill with glee,
Oh, I see them now and I see them plain.

Darlings! Come nestle up close to me,
You comfort me so, and you're just .

.

.

Cocaine.

It's Life that's all to blame:
We can't do what we will;
She robes us with her shame,
She crowns us with her ill.

I do not care, because
I see with bitter calm,
Life made me what I was,
Life makes me what I am.

Could I throw back the years,
It all would be the same;
Hunger and cold and tears,
Misery, fear and shame,
And then the old refrain,
Cocaine! Cocaine!
A love-child I, so here my mother came,
Where she might live in peace with none to blame.

And how she toiled! Harder than any slave,
What courage! patient, hopeful, tender, brave.

We had a little room at Lavilette,
So small, so neat, so clean, I see it yet.

Poor mother! sewing, sewing late at night,
Her wasted face beside the candlelight,
This Paris crushed her.

How she used to sigh!
And as I watched her from my bed I knew
She saw red roofs against a primrose sky
And glistening fields and apples dimmed with dew.

Hard times we had.

We counted every sou,
We sewed sacks for a living.

I was quick .

.

.

Four busy hands to work instead of two.

Oh, we were happy there, till she fell sick.

.

.

.

My mother lay, her face turned to the wall,
And I, a girl of sixteen, fair and tall,
Sat by her side, all stricken with despair,
Knelt by her bed and faltered out a prayer.

A doctor's order on the table lay,
Medicine for which, alas! I could not pay;
Medicine to save her life, to soothe her pain.

I sought for something I could sell, in vain .

.

.

All, all was gone! The room was cold and bare;
Gone blankets and the cloak I used to wear;
Bare floor and wall and cupboard, every shelf —
Nothing that I could sell .

.

.

except myself.

I sought the street, I could not bear
To hear my mother moaning there.

I clutched the paper in my hand.

'Twas hard.

You cannot understand .

.

.

I walked as martyr to the flame,
Almost exalted in my shame.

They turned, who heard my voiceless cry,
"For Sale, a virgin, who will buy?

"
And so myself I fiercely sold,
And clutched the price, a piece of gold.

Into a pharmacy I pressed;
I took the paper from my breast.

I gave my money .

.

.

how it gleamed!
How precious to my eyes it seemed!
And then I saw the chemist frown,
Quick on the counter throw it down,
Shake with an angry look his head:
"Your louis d'or is bad," he said.

Dazed, crushed, I went into the night,
I clutched my gleaming coin so tight.

No, no, I could not well believe
That any one could so deceive.

I tried again and yet again —
Contempt, suspicion and disdain;
Always the same reply I had:
"Get out of this.

Your money's bad.

"
Heart broken to the room I crept,
To mother's side.

All still .

.

.

she slept .

.

.

I bent, I sought to raise her head .

.

.

"Oh, God, have pity!" she was dead.

That's how it all began.

Said I: Revenge is sweet.

So in my guilty span
I've ruined many a man.

They've groveled at my feet,
I've pity had for none;
I've bled them every one.

Oh, I've had interest for
That worthless louis d'or.

But now it's over; see,
I care for no one, me;
Only at night sometimes
In dreams I hear the chimes
Of wedding-bells and see
A woman without stain
With children at her knee.

Ah, how you comfort me,
Cocaine! .

.

.

Room Ghost Read Poem

Though elegance I ill afford,
My living-room is green and gold;
The former tenant was a lord
Who died of drinking, I am told.

I fancy he was rather bored;
I don't think he was ever old.

And where on books I dully browse,
And gaze in rapture at the sea,
My predecessor world carouse
In lavish infidelity
With ladies amoral as cows;
But interesting, you'll agree.

I'm dull as water in a ditch,
Making these silly bits of rhyme;
My Lord, I'm told, was passing rich
And must have has a lovely time;
With champagne and a pretty bitch
No need to heed the church-bell chime.

My living-room is marble floored,
And on its ceiling cherubs play;
But like my lord I'm often bored
And put my sullen books away;
And though my people say I snored,
I dream of indiscretions gay.

And often in the niggard night,
When sweet sleep I fail to drown,
I seem to see that noble sprite
In monocle and dressing-gown:
A glass of brandy to the light
He holds and winks and drinks it down.

When life's so beautifully planned,
Dear reader, can you understand
Why men should die be their own hand?

Rose Leaves Read Poem

When they shall close my careless eyes
And look their last upon my face,
I fear that some will say: "her lies
A man of deep disgrace;
His thoughts were bare, his words were brittle,
He dreamed so much, he did so little.

When they shall seal y coffin lid
And this worn mask I know as ME,
Shall from the sight of man be hid
To all eternity -
Some one may say: "His sins were many,
His virtues - really, had he any?

"
When I shall lie beneath my tomb,
Oh do not grave it with my name
But let one rose-bush o'er me bloom,
And heedless of my shame,
With velvet shade and loving laugh,
In petals write my epitaph.

Rosy-Kins Read Poem

As home from church we two did plod,
"Grandpa," said Rosy, "What is God?

"
Seeking an answer to her mind,
This is the best that I could find.

.

.

.

God is the Iz-ness of our Cosmic Biz;
The high, the low, the near, the far,
The atom and the evening star;
The lark, the shark, the cloud, the clod,
The whole darned Universe - that's God.

Some deem that others there be,
And to them humbly bend the knee;
To Mumbo Jumbo and to Joss,
To Bud and Allah - but the Boss
Is mine .

.

.

While there are suns and seas
MY timeless God shall dwell in these.

In every glowing leaf He lives;
When roses die His life he gives;
God is not outside and apart
From Nature, but her very heart;
No Architect (as I of verse)
He is Himself the Universe.

Said Rosy-kins: "Grandpa, how odd
Is your imagining of God.

To me he's always just appeared
A huge Grandfather with a beard.

Roulette Read Poem

I'll wait until my money's gone
Before I take the sleeping pills;
Then when they find me in the dawn,
Remote from earthly ails and ills
They'll say: "She's broke, the foreign bitch!"
And dump me in the common ditch.

So thought I, of all hope bereft,
And by my evil fate obsessed;
A thousand franks was all I'd left
Of that fair fortune I possessed.

…I throw it on the table there,
And wait, with on my lips a prayer.

I fear my very life's at stake;
My note is lying on the Red .

.

.

I know I'll lose it, then I'll take
My pills and sleep until I'm dead .

.

.

Oh God of mercy, understand!
In pity guide the croupier's hand.

My heart beats hard, my lips are dry;
I feel I cannot bear to look.

I dread to hear the croupier's cry,
I'll sit down in this quiet nook.

The lights go dim, my senses reel .

.

.

See! Jesus Christ is at the wheel.

^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^
Kind folks arouse me from my trance.

"The Red has come ten times," they say.

"Oh do not risk another chance;
Please, Lady, take your gains away,
And to the Lord of Luck give thanks -
You've won nigh half a million franks.

"
Aye, call me just a daft old dame;
I knit and sew to make my bread,
And nevermore I'll play that game,
For I've a glory in my head.

.

.

.

Ah well I know, to stay my fall,
'Twas our dear Lord who spun the ball.

Rover's Rest Read Poem

By parents I would not be pinned,
Nor in my home abide,
For I was wanton as the wind
And tameless as the tide;
So scornful of domestic hearth,
And bordered garden path,
I sought the wilder ways of earth,
The roads of wrath.

It scares me now to think of how
Foolhardily I fared;
Though mighty scarred of pelt and pow
A dozen deaths I've dared;
Yet there are trails I would explore,
And wilds that for me wait .

.

.

Alas! I'll wander nevermore,—
The hour's too late.

The folks are at my picture show,
I smoke my pipe and sigh.

Soft-slippered by the ember's glow
A baby-sitter I.

Behold! In dressing-gown of mauve,
To comfort reconciled,
A rover rocks the cradle of
His new grand-child.

Ruins Read Poem

Ruins in Rome are four a penny,
And here along the Appian Way
I see the monuments of many
Esteemed almighty in their day.

.

.

.

Or so he makes me understand -
My glib guide of the rubber bus,
And tells me with a gesture grand:
"Behold! the tomb of Romulus.

"
Whereat I stared with eyes of awe,
And yet a whit dismayed was I,
When on its crumbling wall I saw
A washing hanging out to dry;
Yea, that relict of slow decay,
With peristyle and gnarly frieze,
Was garnished with a daft display
Of bifurcation and chemise.

But as we went our Southward way
Another ruin soon I saw;
No antique tower, gaunt and grey,
But modern manor rubbled raw;
And on its sill a maiden sat,
And told me in a tone of rue:
It was your allied bombs did that .

.

.

But do not think we're blaming you.

"
Thought I: Time is more kind than we
Who blot out beauty with a blow;
And truly it was sad to see
A gracious mansion levelled low .

.

.

While moulderings of ancient Rome
Still serve the peasants for their swine,
We do not leave a lovely home
A wall to hang a washing line.

Sacrifice Read Poem

I gave an eye to save from night
A babe born blind;
And now with eager semi-sight
Vast joy I find
To think a child can share with me
Earth ecstasy!
Delight of dawn with dewy gleam
On damask rose;
Crimson and gold as pennons stream
Where sunset flows;
And sight most nigh to paradise,
Star-studded skies.

Ah! How in old of age I feel,
E'er end my days,
Could I star-splendoured sky reveal
To childish gaze,
Not one eye would I give, but two,—
Well, wouldn't you?

Sailor Son Read Poem

When you come home I'll not be round
To welcome you.

They'll take you to a grassy mound
So neat and new;
Where I'll be sleeping—O so sound!
The ages through.

I'll not be round to broom the hearth,
To feed the chicks;
And in the wee room of your birth
Your bed to fix;
Rose room that knew your baby mirth
Your tiny tricks.

I'll not be round .

.

.

The garden still
With bees will hum;
To cheerful you the throstle's bill
Will not be dumb;
The rambler rose will overspill
When you will come.

Bird, bee and bloom, they'll greet you all
With scented sound;
Yet though the joy of your footfall
Will thrill the ground
Your mother with her old grey shawl—
Will not be round.

Sailor's Sweetheart Read Poem

He sleeps beside me in the bed;
Upon my breast I hold his head;
Oh how I would that we were wed,
For he sails in the morning.

I wish I had not been so kind;
But love is fain and passion blind,
While out of sight is out of mind,
And he ships in the morning.

I feel his bairn stir in my womb;
Poor wee one, born to bitter doom;
How dreary dark will be the gloom,
When he goes in the morning!
A sailor lad has need to court
A loving lass in every port;
To him it's just a bit of sport .

.

.

My heart-break's in the morning.

Schizophrenic Read Poem

Each morning as I catch my bus,
A-fearing I'll be late,
I think: there are in all of us
Two folks quite separate;
As one I greet the office staff
With grim, official mien;
The other's when I belly-laugh,
And Home Sweet Home's the scene.

I've half a hundred men to boss,
And take my job to heart;
You'll never find me at a loss,
So well I play my part.

My voice is hard, my eye is cold,
My mouth is grimly set;
They all consider me, I'm told,
A "bloody martinet.

"
But when I reach my home at night
I'm happy as a boy;
My kiddies kiss me with delight,
And dance a jig of joy.

I slip into my oldest cloths,
My lines of care uncrease;
I mow the lawn, unhook the hose,
And glow with garden peace.

It's then I wonder which I am,
the boss with hard-boiled eye,
Or just the gay don't care-a-damn
Go-lucky garden guy?

Am I the starchy front who rants
As round his weight he throws,
or just old Pop with patchy pants,
Who sings and sniffs a rose?

Sea Change Read Poem

I saw a Priest in beetle black
Come to our golden beach,
And I was taken sore aback
Lest he should choose to preach
And chide me for my only wear,
A "Gee" string and a brassière.

And then I saw him shyly doff
And fold his grim soutane,
And one by one his clothes take off,
Until like any man
He stood in bathing trunks, a sight
To thrill a maiden with delight.

For he was framed and fashioned like
Apollo Belvedere;
I felt my heart like cymbal strike
Beneath my brassière.

And then the flounce of foam he broke,
And disappeared with flashing stroke.

We met.

'Twas in the billows roll.

Oh how he sang with joy;
But not a hymn, - a merry troll
With gusto of a boy.

I looked, and lo! the priest was gone,
And in his place a laughing faun.

.

.

.

Today confession I have made.

The Father's face was stern,
And I was glad that in the shade
Mine he could not discern .

.

.

He gave me grace - but oh the bliss,
The salty passion of his kiss!

Sea Sorcery Read Poem

Oh how I love the laughing sea,
Sun lances splintering;
Or with a virile harmony
In salty caves to sing;
Or mumbling pebbles on the shore,
Or roused to monster might:
By day I love the sea, but more
I love it in the night.

High over ocean hangs my home
And when the moon is clear
I stare and stare till fairy foam
Is music in my ear;
Till glamour dances to a tune
No mortal man could make;
And there bewitched beneath the moon
To beauty I awake.

Then though I seek my bed again
And close the shutters tight,
Still, still I hear that wild refrain
And see that mystic light .

.

.

Oh reckon me a crazy loon,
But blesséd I will be
If my last seeing be the moon,
My last sound—the Sea.

Second Childhood Read Poem

Some deem I'm gentle, some I'm kind:
It may be so,—I cannot say.

I know I have a simple mind
And see things in a simple way;
And like a child I love to play.

I love to toy with pretty words
And syllable them into rhyme;
To make them sing like sunny birds
In happy droves with silver chime,
In dulcet groves in summer time.

I pray, with hair more white than grey,
And second childhood coming on,
That yet with wonderment I may
See life as in its lucent dawn,
And be by beauty so beguiled
I'll sing as sings a child.

Secretary Read Poem

My Master is a man of might
With manners like a hog;
He makes me slave from morn to night
And treats me like a dog.

He thinks there's nothing on this earth
His money cannot buy,
And claims to get full wages worth
From hirelings such as I.

But does he?

Though a Man of State,
And fabulously rich,
He little guesses that his mate
Is just a bonny bitch.

For he is grey and gross and fat,
While I am tall and slim,
And when he's gone it happens that
I take the place of him.

Oh God! The beauty of the blow
When I will blast his life;
When I will laugh and let him know
My mistress is his wife.

Today a doormat for his feet,
He loves to see me squirm .

.

.

Tomorrow,—how revenge is sweet!
The turning of the worm.

Security Read Poem

There once was a limpet puffed with pride
Who said to the ribald sea:
"It isn't I who cling to the rock,
It's the rock that clings to me;
It's the silly old rock who hugs me tight,
Because he loves me so;
And though I struggle with all my might,
He will not let me go.

"
Then said the sea, who hates the rock
That defies him night and day:
"You want to be free - well, leave it to me,
I'll help you get away.

I know such a beautiful silver beach,
Where blissfully you may bide;
Shove off to-night when the moon is bright,
And I'll swig you thee on my tide.

"
"I'd like to go," said the limpet low,
"But what's a silver beach?

"
"It's sand," said the sea, "bright baby rock,
And you shall be lord of each.

"
"Righto!" said the limpet; "Life allures,
And a rover I would be.

"
So greatly bold she slacked her hold
And launched on the laughing sea.

But when she got to the gelid deep
Where the waters swish and swing,
She began to know with a sense of woe
That a limpet's lot is to cling.

but she couldn't cling to a jelly fish,
Or clutch at a wastrel weed,
So she raised a cry as the waves went by,
but the waves refused to heed.

Then when she came to the glaucous deep
Where the congers coil and leer,
The flesh in her shell began to creep,
And she shrank in utter fear.

It was good to reach that silver beach,
That gleamed in the morning light,
Where a shining band of the silver sand
Looked up with with a welcome bright.

Looked up with a smile that was full of guile,
Called up through the crystal blue:
"Each one of us is a baby rock,
And we want to cling to you.

"
Then the heart of the limpet leaped with joy,
For she hated the waters wide;
So down she sank to the sandy bank
That clung to her under-side.

That clung so close she couldn't breath,
So fierce she fought to be free;
But the silver sand couldn't understand,
While above her laughed the sea.

Then to each wave that wimpled past
She cried in her woe and pain:
"Oh take me back, let me rivet fast
To my steadfast rock again.

"
She cried till she roused a taxi-crab
Who gladly gave her a ride;
But I grieve to say in his crabby way
He insisted she sit inside.

.

.

.

So if of the limpet breed ye be,
Beware life's brutal shock;
Don't take the chance of the changing sea,
But - cling like hell to your rock.

Segregation Read Poem

I stood beside the silken rope,
Five dollars in my hand,
And waited in my patient hope
To sit anear the Band,
And hear the famous Louie play
The best hot trumpet of today.

And then a waiter loafing near
Says in a nasty tone:
"Old coon, we don't want darkies here,
Beat it before you're thrown.

"
So knowin' nothin' I could do
I turned to go and—there was Lou.

I think he slapped that Dago's face;
His voice was big an' loud;
An' then he leads me from my place
Through all that tony crowd.

World-famous Louie by the hand
Took me to meet his famous Band.

"Listen, you folks," I heard him say.

"Here's Grand-papa what's come.

Savin' he teached me how to play,
I mighta been a bum.

Come on, Grand-pop, git up an' show
How you kin trumpet Ol' Black Joe.

"
Tremblin' I played before his Band:
You should have heard the cheers.

Them swell folks gave me such a hand
My cheeks was wet wi' tears .

.

.

An' now I'm off to tell the wife
The proudest night o' all ma life.

Self-Made Man Read Poem

A hundred people I employed,
But when they struck for higher pay,
I was so damnably annoyed
I told them they could stay away.

I simply shut my business down;
I closed my doors and locked them out,
And now you'll find all round the town
A lot of idle men about.

Of course I know it is my loss,
And I their point of view can see,
But I must show them I'm the boss,
And any raise must come from ME.

But when they claim it as a right,
And send their Union leaders round,
Why then, by God, I'm out to fight,
Or burn my workshop to the ground.

I've risen from the ranks myself;
By brawn and brain I've made my way.

Had I bet, beered and blown my pelf,
I would have been as poor as they.

Had I wed young to thrift's unheed,
I might have been a toiler now,
With rent to pay and kids to feed,
And bloody sweat upon my brow.

Ah there's the point! "I might have been.

"
I might have been as peeved as they,
And know what misery can mean,
And ask like them a raise of pay.

I see myself.

.

.

.

"The telephone!"
.

.

.

Had I not been so bloody wise -
(A poor old rich man all alone) .

.

.

"Hullo! Strike's off.

I grant the rise.

"

Sensibility Read Poem

I
Once, when a boy, I killed a cat.

I guess it's just because of that
A cat evokes my tenderness,
And takes so kindly my caress.

For with a rich, resonant purr
It sleeks an arch or ardent fur
So vibrantly against my shin;
And as I tickle tilted chin
And rub the roots of velvet ears
Its tail in undulation rears.

Then tremoring with all its might,
In blissful sensuous delight,
It looks aloft with lambent eyes,
Mystic, Egyptianly wise,
And O so eloquently tries
In every fibre to express
Consummate trust and friendliness.

II
I think the longer that we live
The more do we grow sensitive
Of hurt and harm to man and beast,
And learn to suffer at the least
Surmise of other's suffering;
Till pity, lie an eager spring
Wells up, and we are over-fain
To vibrate to the chords of pain.

For look you - after three-score yeas
I see with anguish nigh to tears
That starveling cat so sudden still
I set my terrier to to kill.

Great, golden memories pale away,
But that unto my dying day
Will haunt and haunt me horribly.

Why, even my poor dog felt shame
And shrank away as if to blame
of that poor mangled mother-cat
Would ever lie at his doormat.

III
What's done is done.

No power can bring
To living joy a slaughtered thing.

Aye, if of life I gave my own
I could not for my guilt atone.

And though in stress of sea and land
Sweet breath has ended at my hand,
That boyhood killing in my eyes
A thousand must epitomize.

Yet to my twilight steals a thought:
Somehow forgiveness may be bought;
Somewhere I'll live my life again
So finely sensitized to pain,
With heart so rhymed to truth and right
That Truth will be a blaze of light;
All all the evil I have wrought
Will haggardly to home be brought.

.

.

.

Then will I know my hell indeed,
And bleed where I made others bleed,
Till purged by penitence of sin
To Peace (or Heaven) I may win.

Well, anyway, you know the why
We are so pally, cats and I;
So if you have the gift of shame,
O Fellow-sinner, be the same.

The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill Read Poem

I took a contract to bury the body of blasphemous Bill MacKie,
Whenever, wherever or whatsoever the manner of death he die —
Whether he die in the light o’ day or under the peak-faced moon;
In cabin or dance-hall, camp or dive, mucklucks or patent shoon;
On velvet tundra or virgin peak, by glacier, drift or draw;
In muskeg hollow or canyon gloom, by avalanche, fang or claw;
By battle, murder or sudden wealth, by pestilence, hooch or lead —
I swore on the Book I would follow and look till I found my tombless dead.

For Bill was a dainty kind of cuss, and his mind was mighty sot
On a dinky patch with flowers and grass in a civilized boneyard lot.

And where he died or how he died, it didn’t matter a damn
So long as he had a grave with frills and a tombstone “epigram.

”
So I promised him, and he paid the price in good cheechako coin
(Which the same I blowed in that very night down in the Tenderloin).

Then I painted a three-foot slab of pine: “Here lies poor Bill MacKie,”
And I hung it up on my cabin wall and I waited for Bill to die.

Years passed away, and at last one day came a squaw with a story strange,
Of a long-deserted line of traps ’way back of the Bighorn range,
Of a little hut by the great divide, and a white man stiff and still,
Lying there by his lonesome self, and I figured it must be Bill.

So I thought of the contract I’d made with him, and I took down from the shelf
The swell black box with the silver plate he’d picked out for hisself;
And I packed it full of grub and “hooch,” and I slung it on the sleigh;
Then I harnessed up my team of dogs and was off at dawn of day.

You know what it’s like in the Yukon wild when it’s sixty-nine below;
When the ice-worms wriggle their purple heads through the crust of the pale blue snow;
When the pine-trees crack like little guns in the silence of the wood,
And the icicles hang down like tusks under the parka hood;
When the stove-pipe smoke breaks sudden off, and the sky is weirdly lit,
And the careless feel of a bit of steel burns like a red-hot spit;
When the mercury is a frozen ball, and the frost-fiend stalks to kill —
Well, it was just like that that day when I set out to look for Bill.

Oh, the awful hush that seemed to crush me down on every hand,
As I blundered blind with a trail to find through that blank and bitter land;
Half dazed, half crazed in the winter wild, with its grim heartbreaking woes,
And the ruthless strife for a grip on life that only the sourdough knows!
North by the compass, North I pressed; river and peak and plain
Passed like a dream I slept to lose and I waked to dream again.

River and plain and mighty peak — and who could stand unawed?

As their summits blazed, he could stand undazed at the foot of the throne of God.

North, aye, North, through a land accurst, shunned by the scouring brutes,
And all I heard was my own harsh word and the whine of the malamutes,
Till at last I came to a cabin squat, built in the side of a hill,
And I burst in the door, and there on the floor, frozen to death, lay Bill.

Ice, white ice, like a winding-sheet, sheathing each smoke-grimed wall;
Ice on the stove-pipe, ice on the bed, ice gleaming over all;
Sparkling ice on the dead man’s chest, glittering ice in his hair,
Ice on his fingers, ice in his heart, ice in his glassy stare;
Hard as a log and trussed like a frog, with his arms and legs outspread.

I gazed at the coffin I’d brought for him, and I gazed at the gruesome dead,
And at last I spoke: “Bill liked his joke; but still, goldarn his eyes,
A man had ought to consider his mates in the way he goes and dies.

”

Have you ever stood in an Arctic hut in the shadow of the Pole,
With a little coffin six by three and a grief you can’t control?

Have you ever sat by a frozen corpse that looks at you with a grin,
And that seems to say: “You may try all day, but you’ll never jam me in”?

I’m not a man of the quitting kind, but I never felt so blue
As I sat there gazing at that stiff and studying what I’d do.

Then I rose and I kicked off the husky dogs that were nosing round about,
And I lit a roaring fire in the stove, and I started to thaw Bill out.

Well, I thawed and thawed for thirteen days, but it didn’t seem no good;
His arms and legs stuck out like pegs, as if they was made of wood.

Till at last I said: “It ain’t no use — he’s froze too hard to thaw;
He’s obstinate, and he won’t lie straight, so I guess I got to —saw.

”
So I sawed off poor Bill’s arms and legs, and I laid him snug and straight
In the little coffin he picked hisself, with the dinky silver plate,
And I came nigh near to shedding a tear as I nailed him safely down;
Then I stowed him away in my Yukon sleigh, and I started back to town.

So I buried him as the contract was in a narrow grave and deep,
And there he’s waiting the Great Clean-up, when the Judgment sluice-heads sweep;
And I smoke my pipe and I meditate in the light of the Midnight Sun,
And sometimes I wonder if theywas,the awful things I done.

And as I sit and the parson talks, expounding of the Law,
I often think of poor old Bill —and how hard he was to saw.

The Battle of the Bulge Read Poem

This year an ocean trip I took, and as I am a Scot
And like to get my money’s worth I never missed a meal.

In spite of Neptune’s nastiness I ate an awful lot,
Yet felt as fit as if we sailed upon an even keel.

But now that I am home again I’m stricken with disgust;
How many pounds of fat I’ve gained I’d rather not divulge:
Well, anyway, I mean to take this tummy down or bust,
So here I’m suet-strafing in the
Battle of the Bulge.

No more will sausage, bacon, eggs provide my breakfast fare;
On lobster I will never lunch, with mounds ofmayonnaise.

At tea I’ll Spartanly eschew the chocolateéclair;
Roast duckling andpêche melbashall not consummate my days.

No more nocturnal ice-box raids, midnight spaghetti feeds;
On slabs ofpâté de foie grasI vow I won’t indulge:
Let bran and cottage cheese suffice my gastronomic needs,
And lettuce be my ally in the
Battle of the Bulge.

To hell with you, ignoble paunch, abhorrent in my sight!
I gaze at your rotundity, and savage is my frown.

I’ll rub you and I’ll scrub you and I’ll drub you day and night,
But by the gods of symmetry I swear I’ll get you down.

Your smooth and smug convexity, by heck! I will subdue,
And when you tucker in again with joy will I refulge;
No longer of my toes will you obstruct my downward view .

.

.

With might and main I’ll fight to gain the
Battle of the Bulge.

The Cremation of Sam McGee Read Poem

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 seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request.

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains.

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains.

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May.

"
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum.

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; .

then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm.

The Harpy Read Poem

There was a woman, and she was wise; woefully wise was she;
She was old, so old, yet her years all told were but a score and three;
And she knew by heart, from finish to start, the Book of Iniquity.

There is no hope for such as I on earth, nor yet in Heaven;
Unloved I live, unloved I die, unpitied, unforgiven;
A loathèd jade, I ply my trade, unhallowed and unshriven.

I paint my cheeks, for they are white, and cheeks of chalk men hate;
Mine eyes with wine I make them shine, that man may seek and sate;
With overhead a lamp of red I sit me down and wait

Until they come, the nightly scum, with drunken eyes aflame;
Your sweethearts, sons, ye scornful ones — ’tis I who know their shame.

The gods, ye see, are brutes to me — and so I play my game.

For life is not the thing we thought, and not the thing we plan;
And Woman in a bitter world must do the best she can —
Must yield the stroke, and bear the yoke, and serve the will of man;

Must serve his need and ever feed the flame of his desire,
Though be she loved for love alone, or be she loved for hire;
For every man since life began is tainted with the mire.

And though you know he love you so and set you on love’s throne;
Yet let your eyes but mock his sighs, and let your heart be stone,
Lest you be left (as I was left) attainted and alone.

From love’s close kiss to hell’s abyss is one sheer flight, I trow,
And wedding ring and bridal bell are will-o’-wisps of woe,
And ’tis not wise to love too well, and this all women know.

Wherefore, the wolf-pack having gorged upon the lamb, their prey,
With siren smile and serpent guile I make the wolf-pack pay —
With velvet paws and flensing claws, a tigress roused to slay.

One who in youth sought truest truth and found a devil’s lies;
A symbol of the sin of man, a human sacrifice.

Yet shall I blame on man the shame?

Could it be otherwise?

Was I not born to walk in scorn where others walk in pride?

The Maker marred, and, evil-starred, I drift upon His tide;
And He alone shall judge His own, so I His judgment bide.

Fate has written a tragedy; its name is “The Human Heart.

”
The Theatre is the House of Life, Woman the mummer’s part;
The Devil enters the prompter’s box and the play is ready to start.

I Believe Read Poem

It’s my belief that every man
Should do his share of work,
And in our economic plan
No citizen should shirk.

That in return each one should get
His meed of fold and food,
And feel that all his toil and sweat
Is for the common good.

It’s my belief that every chap
Should have an equal start,
And there should be no handicap
To hinder his depart;
That there be fairness in the fight,
And justice in the race,
And every lad should have the right
To win his proper place.

It’s my belief that people should
Be neither rich nor poor;
That none should suffer servitude,
And all should be secure.

That wealth is loot, and rank is rot,
And foul is class and clan;
That to succeed a man may not
Exploit his brother man.

It’s my belief that heritage
And usury are wrong;
That each should win a worthy wage
And sing an honest song .

.

.

.

Not one like this — for though I rue
The wrong of life, I flout it.

Alas! I’m not prepared to do
A goddam thing about it.

The Men That Don't Fit In Read Poem

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.

They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.

They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.

And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.

Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.

Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.

The Prospector Read Poem

I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight,
A-purpose to revisit the old claim.

I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate,
And the lads who once were with me in the game.

Poor boys, they’re down-and-outers, and there’s scarcely one to-day
Can show a dozen colors in his poke;
And me, I’m still prospecting, old and battered, gaunt and gray,
And I’m looking for a grub-stake, and I’m broke.

I strolled up old Bonanza.

The same old moon looked down;
The same old landmarks seemed to yearn to me;
But the cabins all were silent, and the flat, once like a town,
Was mighty still and lonesome-like to see.

There were piles and piles of tailings where we toiled with pick and pan,
And turning round a bend I heard a roar,
And there a giant gold-ship of the very newest plan
Was tearing chunks of pay-dirt from the shore.

It wallowed in its water-bed; it burrowed, heaved and swung;
It gnawed its way ahead with grunts and sighs;
Its bill of fare was rock and sand; the tailings were its dung;
It glared around with fierce electric eyes.

Full fifty buckets crammed its maw; it bellowed out for more;
It looked like some great monster in the gloom.

With two to feed its sateless greed, it worked for seven score,
And I sighed: “Ah, old-time miner, here’s your doom!”

The idle windlass turns to rust; the sagging sluice-box falls;
The holes you digged are water to the brim;
Your little sod-roofed cabins with the snugly moss-chinked walls
Are deathly now and mouldering and dim.

The battle-field is silent where of old you fought it out;
The claims you fiercely won are lost and sold.

But there’s a little army that they’ll never put to rout —
The men who simply live to seek the gold.

The men who can’t remember when they learned to swing a pack,
Or in what lawless land the quest began;
The solitary seeker with his grub-stake on his back,
The restless buccaneer of pick and pan.

On the mesas of the Southland, on the tundras of the North,
You will find us, changed in face but still the same;
And it isn’t need, it isn’t greed that sends us faring forth —
It’s the fever, it’s the glory of the game.

For once you’ve panned the speckled sand and seen the bonny dust,
Its peerless brightness blinds you like a spell;
It’s little else you care about; you go because you must,
And you feel that you could follow it to hell.

You’d follow it in hunger, and you’d follow it in cold;
You’d follow it in solitude and pain;
And when you’re stiff and battened down let someone whisper “Gold,”
You’re lief to rise and follow it again.

Yet look you, if I find the stuff it’s just like so much dirt;
I fling it to the four winds like a child.

It’s wine and painted women and the things that do me hurt,
Till I crawl back, beggared, broken, to the Wild.

Till I crawl back, sapped and sodden, to my grub-stake and my tent —
There’s a city, there’s an army (hear them shout).

There’s the gold in millions, millions, but I haven’t got a cent;
And oh, it’s me, it’s me that found it out.

It was my dream that made it good, my dream that made me go
To lands of dread and death disprized of man;
But oh, I’ve known a glory that their hearts will never know,
When I picked the first big nugget from my pan.

It’s still my dream, my dauntless dream, that drives me forth once more
To seek and starve and suffer in the Vast;
That heaps my heart with eager hope, that glimmers on before —
My dream that will uplift me to the last.

Perhaps I am stark crazy, but there’s none of you too sane;
It’s just a little matter of degree.

My hobby is to hunt out gold; it’s fortressed in my brain;
It’s life and love and wife and home to me.

And I’ll strike it, yes, I’ll strike it; I’ve a hunch I cannot fail;
I’ve a vision, I’ve a prompting, I’ve a call;
I hear the hoarse stampeding of an army on my trail,
To the last, the greatest gold camp of them all.

Beyond the shark-tooth ranges sawing savage at the sky
There’s a lowering land no white man ever struck;
There’s gold, there’s gold in millions, and I’ll find it if I die.

And I’m going there once more to try my luck.

Maybe I’ll fail — what matter?

It’s a mandate, it’s a vow;
And when in lands of dreariness and dread
You seek the last lone frontier, far beyond your frontiers now,
You will find the old prospector, silent, dead.

You will find a tattered tent-pole with a ragged robe below it;
You will find a rusted gold-pan on the sod;
You will find the claim I’m seeking, with my bones as stakes to show it;
But I’ve sought the last Recorder, and He’s — God.

The Reckoning Read Poem

It’s fine to have a blow-out in a fancy restaurant,
With terrapin and canvas-back and all the wine you want;
To enjoy the flowers and music, watch the pretty women pass,
Smoke a choice cigar, and sip the wealthy water in your glass.

It’s bully in a high-toned joint to eat and drink your fill,
But it’s quite another matter when you
Pay the bill.

It’s great to go out every night on fun or pleasure bent;
To wear your glad rags always and to never save a cent;
To drift along regardless, have a good time every trip;
To hit the high spots sometimes, and to let your chances slip;
To know you’re acting foolish, yet to go on fooling still,
Till Nature calls a show-down, and you
Pay the bill.

Time has got a little bill — get wise while yet you may,
For the debit side’s increasing in a most alarming way;
The things you had no right to do, the things you should have done,
They’re all put down; it’s up to you to pay for every one.

So eat, drink and be merry, have a good time if you will,
But God help you when the time comes, and you
Foot the bill.

The Shooting of Dan McGrew Read Poem

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.

When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.

He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.

There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;
And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;
With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,
As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.

Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do,
And I turned my head — and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou.

His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze,
Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.

The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool,
So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.

In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands — my God! but that man could play.

Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most couldhear;
With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,
A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;
While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars?

—
Then you've a hunch what the music meant.

.

.

hunger and night and the stars.

And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans,
But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means;
For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above;
But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman's love —
A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true —
(God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, — the lady that's known as Lou.

)

Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear;
But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear;
That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie;
That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.

'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through —
"I guess I'll make it a spread misere", said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

The music almost died away .

.

.

then it burst like a pent-up flood;
And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood.

The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,
And the lust awoke to kill, to kill .

.

.

then the music stopped with a crash,
And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way;
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,
And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn;
But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true,
That one of you is a hound of hell.

.

.

and that one is Dan McGrew.

"

Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark,
And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.

Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.

They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch," and I'm not denying it's so.

I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two —
The woman that kissed him and — pinched his poke — was the lady that's known as Lou.

The Song of the Wage-slave Read Poem

When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay,
I hope that it won't be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say.

And I hope that it won't be heaven, with some of the parsons I've met —
All I want is just quiet, just to rest and forget.

Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands;
Master, I've done Thy bidding, wrought in Thy many lands —
Wrought for the little masters, big-bellied they be, and rich;
I've done their desire for a daily hire, and I die like a dog in a ditch.

I have used the strength Thou hast given, Thou knowest I did not shirk;
Threescore years of labor — Thine be the long day's work.

And now, Big Master, I'm broken and bent and twisted and scarred,
But I've held my job, and Thou knowest, and Thou wilt not judge me hard.

Thou knowest my sins are many, and often I've played the fool —
Whiskey and cards and women, they made me the devil's tool.

I was just like a child with money; I flung it away with a curse,
Feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot's purse;
Then back to the woods repentant, back to the mill or the mine,
I, the worker of workers, everything in my line.

Everything hard but headwork (I'd no more brains than a kid),
A brute with brute strength to labor, doing as I was bid;
Living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life;
Never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife.

A brute with brute strength to labor, and they were so far above —
Yet I'd gladly have gone to the gallows for one little look of Love.

I, with the strength of two men, savage and shy and wild —
Yet how I'd ha' treasured a woman, and the sweet, warm kiss of a child!
Well, 'tis Thy world, and Thou knowest.

I blaspheme and my ways be rude;
But I've lived my life as I found it, and I've done my best to be good;
I, the primitive toiler, half naked and grimed to the eyes,
Sweating it deep in their ditches, swining it stark in their styes;
Hurling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams;
Down in the ditch building o'er me palaces fairer than dreams;
Boring the rock to the ore-bed, driving the road through the fen,
Resolute, dumb, uncomplaining, a man in a world of men.

Master, I've filled my contract, wrought in Thy many lands;
Not by my sins wilt Thou judge me, but by the work of my hands.

Master, I've done Thy bidding, and the light is low in the west,
And the long, long shift is over .

.

.

Master, I've earned it — Rest.

The Spell of the Yukon Read Poem

I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.

Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.

I wanted the gold, and I got it—
Came out with a fortune last fall,—
Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn’t all.

No! There’s the land.

(Have you seen it?

)
It’s the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.

Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it’s a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there’s some as would trade it
For no land on earth—and I’m one.

You come to get rich (damned good reason);
You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
And then you are worse than the worst.

It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it’s been since the beginning;
It seems it will be to the end.

I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That’s plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I’ve watched the big, husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,
Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I’ve thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o’ the world piled on top.

The summer—no sweeter was ever;
The sunshiny woods all athrill;
The grayling aleap in the river,
The bighorn asleep on the hill.

The strong life that never knows harness;
The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness—
O God! how I’m stuck on it all.

The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
The silence that bludgeons you dumb.

The snows that are older than history,
The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
I’ve bade ’em good-by—but I can’t.

There’s a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There’s a land—oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back—and I will.

They’re making my money diminish;
I’m sick of the taste of champagne.

Thank God! when I’m skinned to a finish
I’ll pike to the Yukon again.

I’ll fight—and you bet it’s no sham-fight;
It’s hell!—but I’ve been there before;
And it’s better than this by a damsite—
So me for the Yukon once more.

There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting;
It’s luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting
So much as just finding the gold.

It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder,
It’s the forests where silence has lease;
It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

The Telegraph Operator Read Poem

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 hell to be
Alone, alone, alone.

Snow-peaks and deep-gashed draws
Corral me in a ring.

I feel as if I was
The only living thing
On all this blighted earth;
And so I frowst and shrink,
And crouching by my hearth,
I hear the thoughts I think.

I think of all I miss —
The boys I used to know;
The girls I used to kiss;
The coin I used to blow:
The bars I used to haunt;
The racket and the row;
The beers I didn't want
(I wish I had 'em now).

Day after day the same,
Only a little worse;
No one to grouch or blame —
Oh, for a loving curse!
Oh, in the night I fear,
Haunted by nameless things,
Just for a voice to cheer,
Just for a hand that clings!

Faintly as from a star
Voices come o'er the line;
Voices of ghosts afar,
Not in this world of mine.

Lives in whose loom I grope;
Words in whose weft I hear
Eager the thrill of hope,
Awful the chill of fear.

I'm thinking out aloud;
I reckon that is bad;
(The snow is like a shroud) —
Maybe I'm going mad.

Say! wouldn't that be tough?

This awful hush that hugs
And chokes one is enough
To make a man go "bugs".

There's not a thing to do;
I cannot sleep at night;
No wonder I'm so blue;
Oh, for a friendly fight!
The din and rush of strife;
A music-hall aglow;
A crowd, a city, life —
Dear God, I miss it so!

Here, you have moped enough!
Brace up and play the game!
But say, it's awful tough —
Day after day the same
(I've said that twice, I bet).

Well, there's not much to say.

I wish I had a pet,
Or something I could play.

Cheer up! don't get so glum
And sick of everything;
The worst is yet to come;
God help you till the Spring.

God shield you from the Fear;
Teach you to laugh, not moan.

Ha! ha! it sounds so queer —
Alone, alone, alone.

The Twins Read Poem

There were two brothers, John and James,
And when the town went up in flames,
To save the house of James dashed John,
Then turned, and lo! his own was gone.

And when the great World War began,
To volunteer John promptly ran;
And while he learned live bombs to lob,
James stayed at home and—sneaked his job.

John came home with a missing limb;
That didn’t seem to worry him;
But oh, it set his brain awhirl
To find that James had—sneaked his girl!

Time passed.

John tried his grief to drown;
To-day James owns one-half the town;
His army contracts riches yield;
And John?

Well,search the Potter’s Field.