Robert William Service

Clorinda met me on the way As I came from the train; Her face was anything but gay,

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;

There's sunshine in the heart of me, My blood sings in the breeze; The mountains are a part of me,

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,

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,

It isn't the foe that we fear; It isn't the bullets that whine; It isn't the business career

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,

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:

They brought the mighty chief to town; They showed him strange, unwonted sights; Yet as he wandered up and down,

Three score and ten, the psalmist saith, And half my course is well-nigh run; I've had my flout at dusty death,

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

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,

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;

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,

I wonder 'oo and wot 'e was, That 'Un I got so slick. I couldn't see 'is face because

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,

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,

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 -

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

Say! You've struck a heap of trouble - Bust in business, lost your wife; No one cares a cent about you,

I I took the clock down from the shelf; "At eight," said I, "I shoot myself."

I just think that dreams are best, Just to sit and fancy things; Give your gold no acid test,

So easy 'tis to make a rhyme, That did the world but know it, Your coachman might Parnassus climb,

Since all that is was ever bound to be; Since grim, eternal laws our Being bind; And both the riddle and the answer find,

Up into the sky I stare; All the little stars I see; And I know that God is there

A pistol-shot rings round and round the world: In pitiful defeat a warrior lies. A last defiance to dark Death is hurled,

Hurrah! I'm off to Finist're, to Finist're, to Finist're; 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,

(The Wounded Canadian Speaks) My leg? It's off at the knee. Do I miss it? Well, some. You see

I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes In weary, woeful, waiting times; In doleful hours of battle-din,

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;

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.

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,

Another day of toil and strife, Another page so white, Within that fateful Log of Life

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 so when he reached my bed The General made a stand: "My brave young fellow," he said,

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 -

And when I come to the dim trail-end, I who have been Life's rover, This is all I would ask, my friend,

"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. . . .

"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,

Just Home and Love! the words are small Four little letters unto each; And yet you will not find in all

I have some friends, some worthy friends, And worthy friends are rare: These carpet slippers on my feet,

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

If you had a friend strong, simple, true, Who knew your faults and who understood; Who believed in the very best of you,

Heigh ho! to sleep I vainly try; Since twelve I haven't closed an eye, And now it's three, and as I lie,

There! my pipe is out. Let me light it again and consider. I have no illusions about myself. I am not fool enough to think I am a poet, but I have a knack of rhyme and I love to make verses. Mine is a tootling, tin-whistle music. Humbly and afar I follow in the footsteps of Praed and Lampson, of Field and Riley, hoping that in time my Muse may bring me bread and butter. So far, however, it has been all kicks and no coppers. And to-night I am at the end of my tether. I wish I knew where to-morrow's breakfast was coming from. Well, since rhyming's been my ruin, let me rhyme to the bitter end. It Is Later Than You Think Lone amid the cafe's cheer,

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,

Never knew Jim, did you? Our boy Jim? Bless you, there was the likely lad; Supple and straight and long of limb,

Ten sous. . . . I think one can sing best of poverty when one is holding it at arm's length. I'm sure that when I wrote these lines, fortune had for a moment tweaked me by the nose. To-night, however, I am truly down to ten sous. It is for that I have stayed in my room all day, rolled in my blankets and clutching my pen with clammy fingers. I must work, work, work. I must finish my book before poverty crushes me. I am not only writing for my living but for my life. Even to-day my Muse was mutinous. For hours and hours anxiously I stared at a paper that was blank; nervously I paced up and down my garret; bitterly I flung myself on my bed. Then suddenly it all came. Line after line I wrote with hardly a halt. So I made another of my Ballads of the Boulevards. Here it is: Julot the Apache You've heard of Julot the apache, and Gigolette, his m'me. . . .

Just think! some night the stars will gleam Upon a cold, grey stone, And trace a name with silver beam,

Now Kelly was no fighter; He loved his pipe and glass; An easygoing blighter,

My job is done; my rhymes are ranked and ready, My word-battalions marching verse by verse; Here stanza-companies are none too steady;

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,

You who have lived in the Land, You who have trusted the trail; You who are strong to withstand,

We've finished up the filthy war; We've won what we were fighting for . . . (Or have we? I don't know).

Chez Moi, Montparnasse, April 1914. The same evening. To-day is an anniversary. A year ago to-day I kicked over an office stool and came to Paris thinking to make a living by my pen. I was twenty then, and in my pocket I had twenty pounds. Of that, my ten sous are all that remain. And so to-night I am going to spend them, not prudently on bread, but prodigally on beer.

I saw three wounded of the war: And the first had lost his eyes; And the second went on wheels and had

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:

"Black is the sky, but the land is white - (O the wind, the snow and the storm!) - Father, where is our boy to-night?

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,

Men of the High North, the wild sky is blazing; Islands of opal float on silver seas; Swift splendors kindle, barbaric, amazing;

"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,

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,

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?

A child saw in the morning skies The dissipated-looking moon, And opened wide her big blue eyes,

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

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,

Before I drink myself to death, God, let me finish up my Book! At night, I fear, I fight for breath,

A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks: - GURR! You 'cochon'! Stand and fight! Show your mettle! Snarl and bite!

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.

Montparnasse, April 1914. All day the sun has shone into my little attic, a bitter sunshine that brightened yet did not warm. And so as I toiled and toiled doggedly enough, many were the looks I cast at the three faggots I had saved to cook my evening meal. Now, however, my supper is over, my pipe alight, and as I stretch my legs before the embers I have at last a glow of comfort, a glimpse of peace.

Day after day behold me plying My pen within an office drear; The dullest dog, till homeward hieing,

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,

I haled me a woman from the street, Shameless, but, oh, so fair! I bade her sit in the model's seat,

It's slim and trim and bound in blue; Its leaves are crisp and edged with gold; Its words are simple, stalwart too;

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;

To rest my fagged brain now and then, When wearied of my proper labors, I lay aside my lagging pen

We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me; Fightin' wiv our bayonets was we; Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was,

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,

Scarcely do I scribble that last line on the back of an old envelope when a voice hails me. It is a fellow free-lance, a short-story man called MacBean. He is having a feast of Marennes and he asks me to join him. MacBean is a Scotsman with the soul of an Irishman. He has a keen, lean, spectacled face, and if it were not for his gray hair he might be taken for a student of theology. However, there is nothing of the Puritan in MacBean. He loves wine and women, and money melts in his fingers. He has lived so long in the Quarter he looks at life from the Parisian angle. His knowledge of literature is such that he might be a Professor, but he would rather be a vagabond of letters. We talk shop. We discuss the American short story, but MacBean vows they do these things better in France. He says that some of the contes printed every day in the Journal are worthy of Maupassant. After that he buys more beer, and we roam airily over the fields of literature, plucking here and there a blossom of quotation. A fine talk, vivid and eager. It puts me into a kind of glow.

Oh, it is good to drink and sup, And then beside the kindly fire To smoke and heap the faggots up,

He dreamed away his hours in school; He sat with such an absent air, The master reckoned him a fool,

Oh, it's pleasant sitting here, Seeing all the people pass; You beside your bock of beer,

O God, take the sun from the sky! It's burning me, scorching me up. God, can't You hear my cry?

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,

"Flowers, only flowers - bring me dainty posies, Blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he said; So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses,

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,

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,

Blind Peter Piper used to play All up and down the city; I'd often meet him on my way,

Alas! upon some starry height, The Gods of Excellence to please, This hand of mine will never smite

'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,

Jerry MacMullen, the millionaire, Driving a red-meat bus out there - How did he win his Croix de Guerre?

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,

I sing no idle songs of dalliance days, No dreams Elysian inspire my rhyming; I have no Celia to enchant my lays,

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

I Flat as a drum-head stretch the haggard snows; The mighty skies are palisades of light;

O Teddy Bear! with your head awry And your comical twisted smile, You rub your eyes - do you wonder why

He's yonder, on the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix, The little wizened Spanish man, I see him every day. He's sitting with his Pernod on his customary chair;

What are you doing here, Tom Thorne, on the white top-knot o' the world, Where the wind has the cut of a naked knife and the stars are rapier keen? Hugging a smudgy willow fire, deep in a lynx robe curled,

Her little head just topped the window-sill; She even mounted on a stool, maybe; She pressed against the pane, as children will,

When Chewed-ear Jenkins got hitched up to Guinneyveer McGee, His flowin' locks, ye recollect, wuz frivolous an' free; But in old Hymen's jack-pot, it's a most amazin' thing,

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;

He was an old prospector with a vision bleared and dim. He asked me for a grubstake, and the same I gave to him. He hinted of a hidden trove, and when I made so bold

Now wouldn't you expect to find a man an awful crank That's staked out nigh three hundred claims, and every one a blank; That's followed every fool stampede, and seen the rise and fall

This is the tale that was told to me by the man with the crystal eye, As I smoked my pipe in the camp-fire light, and the Glories swept the sky; As the Northlights gleamed and curved and streamed, and the bottle of "hooch" was dry.

"The North has got him." - Yukonism. I tried to refine that neighbor of mine, honest to God, I did. I grieved for his fate, and early and late I watched over him like a kid.

You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin' line, Of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where the bullets whine; Out there where the bombs are bustin', and the cannons like 'ell-doors slam -

There was Claw-fingered Kitty and Windy Ike living the life of shame, When unto them in the Long, Long Night came the man-who-had-no-name; Bearing his prize of a black fox pelt, out of the Wild he came.

'Twas up in a land long famed for gold, where women were far and rare, Tellus, the smith, had taken to wife a maiden amazingly fair; Tellus, the brawny worker in iron, hairy and heavy of hand,

One of the Down and Out - that's me. Stare at me well, ay, stare! Stare and shrink - say! you wouldn't think that I was a millionaire. Look at my face, it's crimped and gouged - one of them death-mask things;

Humping it here in the dug-out, Sucking me black dudeen, I'd like to say in a general way,

"The aristocratic ne'er-do-well in Canada frequently finds his way into the ranks of the Royal North-West Mounted Police." - Extract. Hark to the ewe that bore him: "What has muddied the strain?

She lay like a saint on her copper couch; Like an angel asleep she lay, In the stare of the ghoulish folks that slouch

What was the blackest sight to me Of all that campaign? A naked woman tied to a tree

Up in my garret bleak and bare I tilted back on my broken chair, And my three old pals were with me there,

Because my overcoat's in pawn, I choose to take my glass Within a little bistro on

I'm crawlin' out in the mangolds to bury wot's left o' Joe - Joe, my pal, and a good un (God! 'ow it rains and rains). I'm sick o' seein' him lyin' like a 'eap o' offal, and so

Oh, one gets used to everything! I hum a merry song, And up the street and round the square

(France, August first, 1914) Far and near, high and clear, Hark to the call of War!

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on, Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore, Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,

As I sat by my baby's bed That's open to the sky, There fluttered round and round my head

"How good God is to me," he said; "For have I not a mansion tall, With trees and lawns of velvet tread,

. . . So I walked among the willows very quietly all night; There was no moon at all, at all; no timid star alight; There was no light at all, at all; I wint from tree to tree,

The clover was in blossom, an' the year was at the June, When Flap-jack Billy hit the town, likewise O'Flynn's saloon. The frost was on the fodder an' the wind was growin' keen,

'Ave you seen Bill's mug in the Noos to-day? 'E's gyned the Victoriar Cross, they say; Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away,

There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales

We're taking Marie Toro to her home in P're-La-Chaise; We're taking Marie Toro to her last resting-place. Behold! her hearse is hung with wreaths till everything is hid

The lone man gazed and gazed upon his gold, His sweat, his blood, the wage of weary days; But now how sweet, how doubly sweet to hold

I'm dead. Officially I'm dead. Their hope is past. How long I stood as missing! Now, at last

"But it isn't playing the game," he said, And he slammed his books away; "The Latin and Greek I've got in my head

Smith, great writer of stories, drank; found it immortalised his pen; Fused in his brain-pan, else a blank, heavens of glory now and then; Gave him the magical genius touch; God-given power to gouge out, fling

Now Eddie Malone got a swell grammyfone to draw all the trade to his store; An' sez he: "Come along for a season of song, which the like ye had niver before." Then Dogrib, an' Slave, an' Yellow-knife brave, an' Cree in his dinky canoe,

"Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me? It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee. "And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun,

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.

Moko, the Educated Ape is here, The pet of vaudeville, so the posters say, And every night the gaping people pay

There where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon; There where the sullen sun-dogs glare in the snow-bright, bitter noon, And the glacier-gutted streams sweep down at the clarion call of June:

Oh you who have daring deeds to tell! And you who have felt Ambition's spell! Have you heard of the louse who longed to dwell

I Let others sing of gold and gear, the joy of being rich; But oh, the days when I was poor, a vagrant in a ditch!

It's good the great green earth to roam, Where sights of awe the soul inspire; But oh, it's best, the coming home,

The Junior God looked from his place In the conning towers of heaven, And he saw the world through the span of space

The lonely sunsets flare forlorn Down valleys dreadly desolate; The lordly mountains soar in scorn

Have ever you heard of the Land of Beyond, That dreams at the gates of the day? Alluring it lies at the skirts of the skies,

From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn, The guns have brayed without abate; And now the sick sun looks upon

This is the law of the Yukon, and ever she makes it plain: "Send not your foolish and feeble; send me your strong and your sane. Strong for the red rage of battle; sane, for I harry them sore;

(The Dark Side) My mind goes back to Fumin Wood, and how we stuck it out, Eight days of hunger, thirst and cold, mowed down by steel and flame;

When a man gits on his uppers in a hard-pan sort of town, An' he ain't got nothin' comin', an' he can't afford ter eat, An' he's in a fix fer lodgin', an' he wanders up an' down,

* The French "Tommy". Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, And some of us slinked in the slum;

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

Ye who know the Lone Trail fain would follow it, Though it lead to glory or the darkness of the pit. Ye who take the Lone Trail, bid your love good-bye;

"And when I come to die," he said, "Ye shall not lay me out in state, Nor leave your laurels at my head,

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

Jack would laugh an' joke all day; Never saw a lad so gay; Singin' like a medder lark,

There's a cry from out the Loneliness - Oh, listen, Honey, listen! Do you hear it, do you fear it, you're a-holding of me so? You're a-sobbing in your sleep, dear, and your lashes, how they glisten -

The Dreamer visioned Life as it might be, And from his dream forthright a picture grew, A painting all the people thronged to see,

Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas nothing but the thrumming Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree; And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming

He's the man from Eldorado, and he's just arrived in town, In moccasins and oily buckskin shirt. He's gaunt as any Indian, and pretty nigh as brown;

The cruel war was over - oh, the triumph was so sweet! We watched the troops returning, through our tears; There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street,

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,

There will be a singing in your heart, There will be a rapture in your eyes; You will be a woman set apart,

I know a mountain thrilling to the stars, Peerless and pure, and pinnacled with snow; Glimpsing the golden dawn o'er coral bars,

I look into the aching womb of night; I look across the mist that masks the dead; The moon is tired and gives but little light,

On the ragged edge of the world I'll roam, And the home of the wolf shall be my home, And a bunch of bones on the boundless snows

Me and Ed and a stretcher Out on the nootral ground. (If there's one dead corpse, I'll betcher

"Gather around me, children dear; The wind is high and the night is cold; Closer, little ones, snuggle near;

A wild and woeful race he ran Of lust and sin by land and sea; Until, abhorred of God and man,

This is the song of the parson's son, as he squats in his shack alone, On the wild, weird nights when the Northern Lights shoot up from the frozen zone, And it's sixty below, and couched in the snow the hungry huskies moan.

My glass is filled, my pipe is lit, My den is all a cosy glow; And snug before the fire I sit,

A pencil, sir; a penny - won't you buy? I'm cold and wet and tired, a sorry plight; Don't turn your back, sir; take one just to try;

"Sow your wild oats in your youth," so we're always told; But I say with deeper sooth: "Sow them when you're old." I'll be wise till I'm about seventy or so:

Oh, have you forgotten those afternoons With riot of roses and amber skies, When we thrilled to the joy of a million Junes,

She was a Philistine spick and span, He was a bold Bohemian. She had the mode, and the last at that;

We sleep in the sleep of ages, the bleak, barbarian pines; The grey moss drapes us like sages, and closer we lock our lines, And deeper we clutch through the gelid gloom where never a sunbeam shines.

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,

I sought Him on the purple seas, I sought Him on the peaks aflame; Amid the gloom of giant trees

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child, And Death looks you bang in the eye, And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle

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,

Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers (I've 'ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin' feet); Tramp, tramp, the dim road - we didn't 'ave no pipers,

To-day within a grog-shop near I saw a newly captured linnet, Who beat against his cage in fear,

They turned him loose; he bowed his head, A felon, bent and grey. His face was even as the Dead,

The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut; Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut; Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train:

There's a four-pronged buck a-swinging in the shadow of my cabin, And it roamed the velvet valley till to-day; But I tracked it by the river, and I trailed it in the cover,

We couldn't sit and study for the law; The stagnation of a bank we couldn't stand; For our riot blood was surging, and we didn't need much urging

I Oh, how good it is to be Foot-loose and heart-free!

My Father Christmas passed away When I was barely seven. At twenty-one, alack-a-day,

When from my fumbling hand the tired pen falls, And in the twilight weary droops my head; While to my quiet heart a still voice calls,

"And now, blow out your candle, lad, and get to bed. See, the dawn is in the sky. Open your window and let its freshness rouge your cheek. You've earned your rest. Sleep." Aye, but before I do so, let me read again the last of my Ballads.

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,

Out of the night a crash, A roar, a rampart of light; A flame that leaped like a lash,

"Deny your God!" they ringed me with their spears; Blood-crazed were they, and reeking from the strife; Hell-hot their hate, and venom-fanged their sneers,

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 -

I Heed me, feed me, I am hungry, I am red-tongued with desire; Boughs of balsam, slabs of cedar, gummy fagots of the pine,

(With apologies to the singer of the "Song of the Banjo".) I'm a homely little bit of tin and bone; I'm beloved by the Legion of the Lost;

What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead? Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed? By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?

Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant; Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant; Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant.

I wanted the gold, and I sought it; I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy - I fought it,

The Spirit of the Unborn Babe peered through the window-pane, Peered through the window-pane that glowed like beacon in the night; For, oh, the sky was desolate and wild with wind and rain;

The cow-moose comes to water, and the beaver's overbold, The net is in the eddy of the stream; The teepee stars the vivid sward with russet, red and gold,

My stretcher is one scarlet stain, And as I tries to scrape it clean, I tell you wot - I'm sick with pain

I will not wash my face; I will not brush my hair; I "pig" around the place -

That Barret, the painter of pictures, what feeling for color he had! And Fanning, the maker of music, such melodies mirthful and mad! And Harley, the writer of stories, so whimsical, tender and glad!

The waves have a story to tell me, As I lie on the lonely beach; Chanting aloft in the pine-tops,

I. Gold! We leapt from our benches. Gold! We sprang from our stools. Gold! We wheeled in the furrow, fired with the faith of fools.

Can you recall, dear comrade, when we tramped God's land together, And we sang the old, old Earth-song, for our youth was very sweet; When we drank and fought and lusted, as we mocked at tie and tether,

It's mighty lonesome-like and drear. Above the Wild the moon rides high, And shows up sharp and needle-clear

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska tae Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye: "That's whit I hate maist aboot fechtin' - it makes ye sae deevilish dry; Noo jist hae a keek at yon ferm-hoose them Gairmans are poundin' sae fine,

There were two brothers, John and James, And when the town went up in flames, To save the house of James dashed John,

Sez I: My Country calls? Well, let it call. I grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks. Go, let 'em plaster every blighted wall,

(He speaks.) Walking, walking, oh, the joy of walking! Swinging down the tawny lanes with head held high;

The Wanderlust has lured me to the seven lonely seas, Has dumped me on the tailing-piles of dearth; The Wanderlust has haled me from the morris chairs of ease,

She risked her all, they told me, bravely sinking The pinched economies of thirty years; And there the little shop was, meek and shrinking,

You may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine, Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a', But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine

"Tell Annie I'll be home in time To help her with her Christmas-tree." That's what he wrote, and hark! the chime

I sought the trails of South and North, I wandered East and West; But pride and passion drove me forth

An angel was tired of heaven, as he lounged in the golden street; His halo was tilted sideways, and his harp lay mute at his feet; So the Master stooped in His pity, and gave him a pass to go,

I wish that I could understand The moving marvel of my Hand; I watch my fingers turn and twist,

The sky is like an envelope, One of those blue official things; And, sealing it, to mock our hope,

Be honest, kindly, simple, true; Seek good in all, scorn but pretence; Whatever sorrow come to you,

If you leave the gloom of London and you seek a glowing land, Where all except the flag is strange and new, There's a bronzed and stalwart fellow who will grip you by the hand,

Oh, weren't they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them, Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare; Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them,

The lonely sunsets flare forlorn Down valleys dreadly desolate; The lordly mountains soar in scorn,

There lies the trail to Sunnydale, Amid the lure of laughter. Oh, how can we unhappy be

My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming I've drifted, silver-sailed, on seas of dream, Hearing afar the bells of Elfland chiming,

POPPIES, you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat; Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood. It's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat;

I know a garden where the lilies gleam, And one who lingers in the sunshine there; She is than white-stoled lily far more fair,

What d'ye think, lad; what d'ye think, As the roaring crowds go by? As the banners flare and the brasses blare

"Hullo, young Jones! with your tie so gay And your pen behind your ear; Will you mark my cheque in the usual way?

Light up your pipe again, old chum, and sit awhile with me; I've got to watch the bannock bake - how restful is the air! You'd little think that we were somewhere north of Sixty-three,

Is it not strange? A year ago to-day, With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round, I did my decent job and earned my pay;

"Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad, On this glittering morn of May?" "I'm going to join the Colours, Dad;