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diff --git a/25546.txt b/25546.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d47193d --- /dev/null +++ b/25546.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2362 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs of a Sourdough, by Robert W. Service + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Songs of a Sourdough + +Author: Robert W. Service + +Release Date: May 20, 2008 [EBook #25546] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF A SOURDOUGH *** + + + + +Produced by David Clarke, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +_Songs of a Sourdough_ + + + + +_"Songs from Overseas"_ + + +SONGS OF A SOURDOUGH. By ROBERT W. SERVICE. + +BALLADS OF A CHEECHAKO. By ROBERT W. SERVICE. + +LYRA NIGERIAE. By "ADAMU" (E. C. ADAMS). + +SOUTH AFRICA, AND OTHER POEMS. By A. VINE HALL. + +SONGS OUT OF EXILE (RHODESIAN RHYMES). By CULLEN GOULDSBURY. + +COWBOY SONGS. By JOHN A. LOMAX. + +RHYMES OF A ROLLING STONE. By ROBERT W. SERVICE. + +THE HELL-GATE OF SOISSONS, AND OTHER POEMS. By HERBERT KAUFMAN. + +THE WAITING WOMAN. By HERBERT KAUFMAN. + +FROM THE OUTPOSTS. By CULLEN GOULDSBURY. + +RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN. By ROBERT W. SERVICE. + + +LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN, LTD. + + + + + _Songs of a Sourdough_ + + + _By + Robert W. Service_ + + + _London + T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd. + Adelphi Terrace_ + + + + + _First Fifteen Impressions published in Canada + Sixteenth Impression, 1907 + (First English Edition) + Seventeenth Impression, 1908 + Eighteenth Impression, 1908 + Nineteenth Impression, 1909 + Twentieth Impression, 1909 + Twenty-first Impression, 1909 + Twenty-second Impression, 1910 + Twenty-third Impression, 1910 + Twenty-fourth Impression, 1911 + Twenty-fifth Impression, 1912 + Twenty-sixth Impression, 1913 + Twenty-seventh Impression, 1913 + Twenty-eighth Impression, 1914 + Twenty-ninth Impression, 1915 + Thirtieth Impression, 1915 + Thirty-first Impression, 1916 + Thirty-second Impression, 1916 + Thirty-third Impression, 1916_ + + +(_All rights reserved_) + + + + +To + +C. M. + + + + + _The lonely sunsets flare forlorn + Down valleys dreadly desolate; + The lordly mountains soar in scorn, + As still as death, as stern as fate._ + + _The lonely sunsets flame and die; + The giant valleys gulp the night; + The monster mountains scrape the sky, + Where eager stars are diamond-bright._ + + _So gaunt against the gibbous moon, + Piercing the silence velvet-piled, + A lone wolf howls his ancient rune, + The fell arch-spirit of the Wild._ + + _O outcast land! O leper land! + Let the lone wolf-cry all express-- + The hate insensate of thy hand, + Thy heart's abysmal loneliness._ + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + THE LAW OF THE YUKON 11 + THE PARSON'S SON 17 + THE SPELL OF THE YUKON 21 + THE CALL OF THE WILD 25 + THE LONE TRAIL 28 + THE HEART OF THE SOURDOUGH 31 + THE THREE VOICES 34 + THE PINES 36 + THE HARPY 39 + THE LURE OF LITTLE VOICES 43 + THE SONG OF THE WAGE-SLAVE 46 + GRIN 49 + THE SHOOTING OF DAN MCGREW 51 + THE CREMATION OF SAM MCGEE 56 + MY MADONNA 62 + UNFORGOTTEN 63 + THE RECKONING 64 + QUATRAINS 66 + THE MEN THAT DON'T FIT IN 68 + MUSIC IN THE BUSH 70 + THE RHYME OF THE REMITTANCE MAN 73 + THE LOW-DOWN WHITE 76 + THE LITTLE OLD LOG CABIN 78 + THE YOUNGER SON 81 + THE MARCH OF THE DEAD 85 + "FIGHTING MAC" 89 + THE WOMAN AND THE ANGEL 93 + THE RHYME OF THE RESTLESS ONES 96 + NEW YEAR'S EVE 99 + COMFORT 103 + PREMONITION 105 + THE TRAMPS 106 + L'ENVOI 108 + + + + +Songs of a Sourdough + + + + +THE LAW OF THE YUKON + + + 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; + Send me men girt for the combat, men who are grit to the core; + Swift as the panther in triumph, fierce as the bear in defeat, + Sired of a bulldog parent, steeled in the furnace heat. + Send me the best of your breeding, lend me your chosen ones; + Them will I take to my bosom, them will I call my sons; + Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat; + But the others--the misfits, the failures--I trample under my feet. + Dissolute, damned, and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, + Ye would send me the spawn of your gutters--Go! take back your spawn + again. + + "Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway; + From my ruthless throne I have ruled alone for a million years and a + day; + Hugging my mighty treasure, waiting for man to come: + Till he swept like a turbid torrent, and after him swept--the scum. + The pallid pimp of the dead-line, the enervate of the pen, + One by one I weeded them out, for all that I sought was--Men. + One by one I dismayed them, frighting them sore with my glooms; + One by one I betrayed them unto my manifold dooms. + Drowned them like rats in my rivers, starved them like curs on my + plains, + Rotted the flesh that was left them, poisoned the blood in their veins; + Burst with my winter upon them, searing forever their sight, + Lashed them with fungus-white faces, whimpering wild in the night; + Staggering blind through the storm-whirl, stumbling mad through the + snow, + Frozen stiff in the ice pack, brittle and bent like a bow; + Featureless, formless, forsaken, scented by wolves in their flight, + Left for the wind to make music through ribs that are glittering white; + Gnawing the black crust of failure, searching the pit of despair, + Crooking the toe in the trigger, trying to patter a prayer; + Going outside with an escort, raving with lips all afoam; + Writing a cheque for a million, drivelling feebly of home; + Lost like a louse in the burning ... or else in tented town + Seeking a drunkard's solace, sinking and sinking down; + Steeped in the slime at the bottom, dead to a decent world, + Lost 'mid the human flotsam, far on the frontier hurled; + In the camp at the bend of the river, with its dozen saloons aglare, + Its gambling dens a-riot, its gramophones all a-blare; + Crimped with the crimes of a city, sin-ridden and bridled with lies, + In the hush of my mountained vastness, in the flush of my midnight + skies. + Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them + thrive, + Crushing my Weak in their clutches, that only my Strong may survive. + + "But the others, the men of my mettle, the men who would 'stablish + my fame, + Unto its ultimate issue, winning me honour, not shame; + Searching my uttermost valleys, fighting each step as they go, + Shooting the wrath of my rapids, scaling my ramparts of snow; + Ripping the guts of my mountains, looting the beds of my creeks, + Them will I take to my bosom, and speak as a mother speaks. + I am the land that listens, I am the land that broods; + Steeped in eternal beauty, crystalline waters and woods. + Long have I waited lonely, shunned as a thing accurst, + Monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the lands and the first; + Visioning camp-fires at twilight, sad with a longing forlorn, + Feeling my womb o'er-pregnant with the seed of cities unborn. + Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway, + And I wait for the men who will win me--and I will not be won in a day; + And I will not be won by weaklings, subtile, suave, and mild, + But by men with the hearts of vikings, and the simple faith of a child; + Desperate, strong, and resistless, unthrottled by fear or defeat, + Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat. + + "Lofty I stand from each sister land, patient and wearily wise, + With the weight of a world of sadness in my quiet, passionless eyes; + Dreaming alone of a people, dreaming alone of a day, + When men shall not rape my riches, and curse me and go away; + Making a bawd of my bounty, fouling the hand that gave-- + Till I rise in my wrath and I sweep on their path and I stamp them + into a grave. + Dreaming of men who will bless me, of women esteeming me good, + Of children born in my borders, of radiant motherhood; + Of cities leaping to stature, of fame like a flag unfurled, + As I pour the tide of my riches in the eager lap of the world." + + This is the Law of the Yukon, that only the Strong shall thrive; + That surely the Weak shall perish, and only the Fit survive. + Dissolute, damned, and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, + This is the Will of the Yukon,--Lo! how she makes it plain! + + + + +THE PARSON'S SON + + + _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._ + + "I'm one of the Arctic brotherhood, I'm an old-time pioneer. + I came with the first--O God! how I've cursed this Yukon--but still + I'm here. + I've sweated athirst in its summer heat, I've frozen and starved in + its cold; + I've followed my dreams by its thousand streams, I've toiled and + moiled for its gold. + + "Look at my eyes--been snow-blind twice; look where my foot's half + gone; + And that gruesome scar on my left cheek where the frost-fiend bit to + the bone. + Each one a brand of this devil's land, where I've played and I've + lost the game, + A broken wreck with a craze for 'hooch,' and never a cent to my name. + + "This mining is only a gamble, the worst is as good as the best; + I was in with the bunch and I might have come out right on top with + the rest; + With Cormack, Ladue and Macdonald--O God! but it's hell to think + Of the thousands and thousands I've squandered on cards and women + and drink. + + "In the early days we were just a few, and we hunted and fished around, + Nor dreamt by our lonely camp-fires of the wealth that lay under the + ground. + We traded in skins and whiskey, and I've often slept under the shade + Of that lone birch-tree on Bonanza, where the first big find was made. + + "We were just like a great big family, and every man had his squaw, + And we lived such a wild, free, fearless life beyond the pale of the + law; + Till sudden there came a whisper, and it maddened us every man, + And I got in on Bonanza before the big rush began. + + "Oh, those Dawson days, and the sin and the blaze, and the town all + open wide! + (If God made me in His likeness, sure He let the devil inside.) + But we all were mad, both the good and the bad, and as for the + women, well-- + No spot on the map in so short a space has hustled more souls to hell. + + "Money was just like dirt there, easy to get and to spend. + I was all caked in on a dance-hall jade, but she shook me in the end. + It put me queer, and for near a year I never drew sober breath, + Till I found myself in the bughouse ward with a claim staked out on + death. + + "Twenty years in the Yukon, struggling along its creeks; + Roaming its giant valleys, scaling its god-like peaks; + Bathed in its fiery sunsets, fighting its fiendish cold, + Twenty years in the Yukon ... twenty years--and I'm old. + + "Old and weak, but no matter, there's 'hooch' in the bottle still. + I'll hitch up the dogs to-morrow, and mush down the trail to Bill. + It's so long dark, and I'm lonesome--I'll just lay down on the bed, + To-morrow I'll go ... to-morrow ... I guess I'll play on the red. + + "... Come, Kit, your pony is saddled. I'm waiting, dear, in the + court ... + ... Minnie, you devil, I'll kill you if you skip with that flossy + sport ... + ... How much does it go to the pan, Bill?... play up, School, and + play the game ... + ... Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name ..." + + _This was the song of the parson's son, as he lay in his bunk alone, + Ere the fire went out and the cold crept in, and his blue lips + ceased to moan, + And the hunger-maddened malamutes had torn him flesh from bone._ + + + + +THE SPELL OF THE YUKON + + + 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 the 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-bye--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 CALL OF THE WILD + + + 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, + Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar? + Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking + through it, + Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost? + Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God's sake go and do it; + Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost. + + Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sage-brush desolation, + The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze? + Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation, + And learned to know the desert's little ways? + Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o'er the ranges, + Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through? + Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes? + Then listen to the wild--it's calling you. + + Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig + a-quiver? + (Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.) + Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river, + Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize? + Have you marked the map's void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races, + Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew? + And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses? + Then hearken to the wild--it's wanting you. + + Have you suffered, starved, and triumphed grovelled, down, yet + grasped at glory, + Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole? + "Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story, + Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul? + Have you seen God in His splendours, heard the text that nature + renders? + (You'll never hear it in the family pew.) + The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things-- + Then listen to the wild--it's calling you. + + They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their + preaching, + They have soaked you in convention through and through; + They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching-- + But can't you hear the wild?--it's calling you. + Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us; + Let us journey to a lonely land I know. + There's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to guide us, + And the wild is calling, calling ... let us go. + + + + +THE LONE TRAIL + + + _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; + The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail follow till you die._ + + The trails of the world be countless, and most of the trails be tried; + You tread on the heels of the many, till you come where the ways + divide; + And one lies safe in the sunlight, and the other is dreary and wan, + Yet you look aslant at the Lone Trail, and the Lone Trail lures you on. + And somehow you're sick of the highway, with its noise and its easy + needs, + And you seek the risk of the by-way, and you reck not where it leads. + And sometimes it leads to the desert, and the tongue swells out of + the mouth, + And you stagger blind to the mirage, to die in the mocking drouth. + And sometimes it leads to the mountain, to the light of the lone + camp-fire, + And you gnaw your belt in the anguish of hunger-goaded desire. + And sometimes it leads to the Southland, to the swamp where the + orchid glows, + And you rave to your grave with the fever, and they rob the corpse + for its clothes. + And sometimes it leads to the Northland, and the scurvy softens your + bones, + And your flesh dints in like putty, and you spit out your teeth like + stones. + And sometimes it leads to a coral reef in the wash of a weedy sea, + And you sit and stare at the empty glare where the gulls wait greedily. + And sometimes it leads to an Arctic trail, and the snows where your + torn feet freeze, + And you whittle away the useless clay, and crawl on your hands and + knees. + Often it leads to the dead-pit; always it leads to pain; + By the bones of your brothers ye know it, but oh, to follow you're + fain. + By your bones they will follow behind you, till the ways of the + world are made plain. + + _Bid good-bye to sweetheart, bid good-bye to friend; + The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail follow to the end. + Tarry not, and fear not, chosen of the true; + Lover of the Lone Trail, the Lone Trail waits for you._ + + + + +THE HEART OF THE SOURDOUGH + + + 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: + + There where the livid tundras keep their tryst with the tranquil snows; + There where the Silences are spawned, and the light of hell-fire flows + Into the bowl of the midnight sky, violet, amber, and rose: + + There where the rapids churn and roar, and the ice-floes bellowing run; + Where the tortured, twisted rivers of blood rush to the setting sun-- + I've packed my kit and I'm going, boys, ere another day is done. + + * * * * * + + I knew it would call, or soon or late, as it calls the whirring wings; + It's the olden lure, it's the golden lure, it's the lure of the + timeless things; + And to-night, O God of the trails untrod, how it whines in my + heart-strings! + + I'm sick to death of your well-groomed gods, your make-believe and + your show; + I long for a whiff of bacon and beans, a snug shake-down in the snow, + A trail to break, and a life at stake, and another bout with the foe; + + With the raw-ribbed Wild that abhors all life, the wild that would + crush and rend; + I have clinched and closed with the naked North, I have learned to + defy and defend; + Shoulder to shoulder we've fought it out--yet the Wild must win in + the end. + + I have flouted the Wild. I have followed its lure, fearless, + familiar, alone; + By all that the battle means and makes I claim that land for mine own; + Yet the Wild must win, and a day will come when I shall be overthrown. + + Then when as wolf-dogs fight we've fought, the lean wolf-land and I; + Fought and bled till the snows are red under the reeling sky; + Even as lean wolf-dog goes down will I go down and die. + + + + +THE THREE VOICES + + + The waves have a story to tell me, + As I lie on the lonely beach; + Chanting aloft in the pine-tops, + The wind has a lesson to teach; + But the stars sing an anthem of glory + I cannot put into speech. + + The waves tell of ocean spaces, + Of hearts that are wild and brave, + Of populous city places, + Of desolate shores they lave; + Of men who sally in quest of gold + To sink in an ocean grave. + + The wind is a mighty roamer; + He bids me keep me free, + Clean from the taint of the gold-lust, + Hardy and pure as he; + Cling with my love to nature + As a child to the mother-knee. + + But the stars throng out in their glory, + And they sing of the God in man; + They sing of the mighty Master, + Of the loom His fingers span; + Where a star or a soul is a part of the whole, + And weft in the wondrous plan. + + Here by the camp-fire's flicker, + Deep in my blanket curled, + I long for the peace of the pine-gloom + When the scroll of the Lord is unfurled, + And the wind and the wave are silent, + And world is singing to world. + + + + +THE PINES + + + We sleep in the sleep of ages, the bleak, barbarian pines; + The grey moss drapes us like sages, and closer we lock our lines, + And deeper we clutch through the gelid gloom where never a sunbeam + shines. + + On the flanks of the storm-gored ridges are our black battalions + massed; + We surge in a host to the sullen coast, and we sing in the ocean blast; + From empire of sea to empire of snow we grip our empire fast. + + To the niggard lands were we driven; 'twixt desert and foe are we + penned. + To us was the Northland given, ours to stronghold and defend; + Ours till the world be riven in the crash of the utter end. + + Ours from the bleak beginning, through the aeons of death-like sleep; + Ours from the shock when the naked rock was hurled from the hissing + deep; + Ours through the twilight ages of weary glacier-creep. + + Wind of the East, wind of the West, wandering to and fro, + Chant your songs in our topmost boughs, that the sons of men may know + The peerless pine was the first to come, and the pine will be last + to go! + + We pillar the halls of perfumed gloom; we plume where the eagles soar; + The North-wind swoops from the brooding Pole, and our ancients crash + and roar; + But where one falls from the crumbling walls shoots up a hardy score. + + We spring from the gloom of the canyon's womb; in the valley's lap + we lie; + From the white foam-fringe where the breakers cringe to the peaks + that tusk the sky + We climb, and we peer in the crag-locked mere that gleams like a + golden eye,-- + + Gain to the verge of the hog-back ridge where the vision ranges free: + Pines and pines and the shadow of pines as far as the eye can see; + A steadfast legion of stalwart knights in dominant empery. + + Sun, moon and stars, give answer; shall we not staunchly stand + Even as now, forever, wards of the wilder strand, + Sentinels of the stillness, lords of the last lone land! + + + + +THE HARPY + + + _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 loathed 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 to shine, that men 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._ + + + + +THE LURE OF LITTLE VOICES + + + 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-- + Do you hear the Little Voices all a-begging me to go? + + All a-begging me to leave you. Day and night they're pleading, praying, + On the North-wind, on the West-wind, from the peak and from the + plain; + Night and day they never leave me--do you know what they are saying? + "He was ours before you got him, and we want him once again." + + Yes, they're wanting me, they're haunting me, the awful lonely places; + They're whining and they're whimpering as if each had a soul; + They're calling from the wilderness, the vast and god-like spaces, + The stark and sullen solitudes that sentinel the Pole. + + They miss my little camp-fires, ever brightly, bravely gleaming + In the womb of desolation where was never man before; + As comradeless I sought them, lion-hearted, loving, dreaming; + And they hailed me as a comrade, and they loved me evermore. + + And now they're all a-crying, and it's no use me denying: + The spell of them is on me and I'm helpless as a child; + My heart is aching, aching, but I hear them sleeping, waking; + It's the Lure of Little Voices, it's the mandate of the Wild. + + I'm afraid to tell you, Honey, I can take no bitter leaving; + But softly in the sleep-time from your love I'll steal away. + Oh, it's cruel, dearie, cruel, and it's God knows how I'm grieving; + But His Loneliness is calling and He knows I must obey. + + + + +THE SONG OF THE WAGE-SLAVE + + + 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 labour--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 labour, 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 labour, 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, + Hulling 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. + + + + +GRIN + + + If you're up against a bruiser and you're getting knocked about-- + Grin. + If you're feeling pretty groggy, and you're licked beyond a doubt-- + Grin. + Don't let him see you're funking, let him know with every clout, + Though your face is battered to a pulp, your blooming heart is stout; + Just stand upon your pins until the beggar knocks you out-- + And grin. + + This life's a bally battle, and the same advice holds true, + Of grin. + If you're up against it badly, then it's only one on you, + So grin. + If the future's black as thunder, don't let people see you're blue; + Just cultivate a cast-iron smile of joy the whole day through; + If they call you "Little Sunshine," wish 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. + + + + +THE SHOOTING OF DAN MCGREW + + + 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 could + _hear_; + 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 haunch 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 some one 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 CREMATION OF SAM MCGEE + + + _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 cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled + clean through to the bone. + Yet 'taint 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." + + _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._ + + + + +MY MADONNA + + + 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 Hilaire, + Where you and all may see. + + + + +UNFORGOTTEN + + + 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, + And oh, her eyes are heaven-lit with dream. + + I know a garret, cold and dark and drear, + And one who toils and toils with tireless pen, + Until his brave, sad eyes grow weary--then + He seeks the stars, pale, silent as a seer. + + And ah, it's strange, for desolate and dim + Between these two there rolls an ocean wide; + Yet he is in the garden by her side, + And she is in the garret there with him. + + + + +THE RECKONING + + + 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. + + + + +QUATRAINS + + + 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 answer 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, Freewill, + 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 table's spread; come, let us dine, my friend. + + + + +THE MEN THAT DON'T FIT IN + + + 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 gipsy 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. + + + + +MUSIC IN THE BUSH + + + 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 overseas + 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 grey, + 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. + + + + +THE RHYME OF THE REMITTANCE MAN + + + 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, + And I killed it on the mountain miles away. + Now I've had my lazy supper, and the level sun is gleaming + On the water where the silver salmon play; + And I light my little corn-cob, and I linger softly dreaming, + In the twilight, of a land that's far away. + + Far away, so faint and far, is flaming London, fevered Paris, + That I fancy I have gained another star; + Far away the din and hurry, far away the sin and worry, + Far away--God knows they cannot be too far. + Gilded galley-slaves of Mammon--how my purse-proud brothers taunt me! + I might have been as well-to-do as they + Had I clutched like them my chances, learned their wisdom, crushed + my fancies, + Starved my soul and gone to business every day. + + Well, the cherry bends with blossom, and the vivid grass is springing, + And the star-like lily nestles in the green; + And the frogs their joys are singing, and my heart in tune is ringing, + And it doesn't matter what I might have been, + While above the scented pine-gloom, piling heights of golden glory, + The sun-god paints his canvas in the west; + I can couch me deep in clover, I can listen to the story + Of the lazy, lapping water--it is best. + While the trout leaps in the river, and the blue grouse thrills the + cover, + And the frozen snow betrays the panther's track, + And the robin greets the dayspring with the rapture of a lover, + I am happy, and I'll nevermore go back. + For I know I'd just be longing for the little old log cabin, + With the morning-glory clinging to the door, + Till I loathed the city places, cursed the care on all the faces, + Turned my back on lazar London evermore. + + So send me far from Lombard Street, and write me down a failure; + Put a little in my purse and leave me free. + Say: "He turned from Fortune's offering to follow up a pale lure, + He is one of us no longer--let him be." + I am one of you no longer: by the trails my feet have broken, + The dizzy peaks I've scaled, the camp-fire's glow, + By the lonely seas I've sailed in--yea, the final word is spoken, + I am signed and sealed to nature. Be it so. + + + + +THE LOW-DOWN WHITE + + + This is the pay-day up at the mines, when the bearded brutes come down; + There's money to burn in the streets to-night, so I've sent my + klooch to town, + With a haggard face and a ribband of red entwined in her hair of brown. + + And I know at the dawn she'll come reeling home with the bottles, + one, two, three; + One for herself to drown her shame, and two big bottles for me, + To make me forget the thing I am and the man I used to be. + + To make me forget the brand of the dog, as I crouch in this hideous + place; + To make me forget once I kindled the light of love in a lady's face, + Where even the squalid Siwash now holds me a black disgrace. + + Oh, I have guarded my secret well! And who would dream as I speak + In a tribal tongue like a rogue unhung, 'mid the ranch-house filth + and reek, + I could roll to bed with a Latin phrase, and rise with a verse of + Greek? + + Yet I was a senior prizeman once, and the pride of a college eight; + Called to the bar--my friends were true! but they could not keep me + straight; + Then came the divorce, and I went abroad and "died" on the River Plate. + + But I'm not dead yet; though with half a lung there isn't time to + spare, + And I hope that the year will see me out, and, thank God, no one + will care-- + Save maybe the little slim Siwash girl with the rose of shame in her + hair. + + She will come with the dawn, and the dawn is near; I can see its + evil glow, + Like a corpse-light seen through a frosty pane in a night of want + and woe; + And yonder she comes, by the bleak bull-pines, swift staggering + through the snow. + + + + +THE LITTLE OLD LOG CABIN + + + 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, + An' you'd fancy he'd been boozin', he's so locoed 'bout the feet; + When he's feelin' sneakin' sorry, an' his belt is hangin' slack, + An' his face is peaked an' grey-like, an' his heart gits down an' + whines, + Then he's apt ter git a-thinkin' an' a-wishin' he was back + In the little ol' log cabin in the shadder of the pines. + + When he's on the blazin' desert, an' his canteen's sprung a leak, + An' he's all alone an' crazy, an' he's crawlin' like a snail, + An' his tongue's so black an' swollen that it hurts him fer to speak, + An' he gouges down fer water, an' the raven's on his trail; + When he's done with care and cursin', an' he feels more like to cry, + An' he sees ol' Death a-grinnin', an' he thinks upon his crimes, + Then he's like ter hev' a vision, as he settles down ter die, + Of the little ol' log cabin an' the roses an' the vines. + + Oh, the little ol' log cabin, it's a solemn shinin' mark + When a feller gits ter sinnin', an' a-goin' ter the wall, + An' folks don't understand him, an' he's gropin' in the dark, + An' he's sick of bein' cursed at, an' he's longin' fer his call: + When the sun of life's a-sinkin' you can see it 'way above, + On the hill from out the shadder in a glory 'gin the sky, + An' your mother's voice is callin', an' her arms are stretched in love, + An' somehow you're glad you're goin', an' you ain't a-scared to die; + When you'll be like a kid again, an' nestle to her breast, + An' never leave its shelter, an' forget, an' love, an' rest. + + + + +THE YOUNGER SON + + + 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, + And greet you with a welcome warm and true; + For he's your younger brother, the one you sent away, + Because there wasn't room for him at home; + And now he's quite contented, and he's glad he didn't stay, + And he's building Britain's greatness o'er the foam. + + When the giant herd is moving at the rising of the sun, + And the prairie is lit with rose and gold; + And the camp is all a-bustle, and the busy day's begun, + He leaps into the saddle sure and bold. + Through the round of heat and hurry, through the racket and the rout, + He rattles at a pace that nothing mars; + And when the night-winds whisper, and camp-fires flicker out, + He is sleeping like a child beneath the stars. + + When the wattle-blooms are drooping in the sombre she-oak glade, + And the breathless land is lying in a swoon, + He leaves his work a moment, leaning lightly on his spade, + And he hears the bell-bird chime the Austral noon. + The parakeets are silent in the gum-tree by the creek; + The ferny grove is sunshine-steeped and still; + But the dew will gem the myrtle in the twilight ere he seek + His little lonely cabin on the hill. + + Around the purple, vine-clad slope the argent river dreams; + The roses almost hide the house from view; + A snow-peak of the Winterberg in crimson splendour gleams; + The shadow deepens down on the karroo. + He seeks the lily-scented dusk beneath the orange-tree: + His pipe in silence glows and fades and glows, + And then two little maids come out and climb upon his knee, + And one is like the lily, one the rose. + He sees his white sheep dapple o'er the green New Zealand plain, + And where Vancouver's shaggy ramparts frown, + When the sunlight threads the pine-gloom he is fighting might and main + To clinch the rivets of an Empire down. + You will find him toiling, toiling, in the south or in the west, + A child of nature, fearless, frank and free; + And the warmest heart that beats for you is beating in his breast, + And he sends you loyal greeting o'er the sea. + + You've a brother in the Army, you've another in the Church; + One of you is a diplomatic swell; + You've had the pick of everything and left him in the lurch; + And yet I think he's doing very well. + I'm sure his life is happy, and he doesn't envy yours; + I know he loves the land his pluck has won; + And I fancy in the years unborn, while England's fame endures, + She will come to bless with pride--the Younger Son. + + + + +THE MARCH OF THE DEAD + + + 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, + And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers. + And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew + between, + The bells were pealing madly to the sky; + And every one was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen, + And the glory of an age was passing by. + + And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear; + The bells were silent, not an echo stirred. + The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer; + We waited, and we never spoke a word. + The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack + There came a voice that checked the heart with dread: + "Tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black; + They are coming--it's the Army of the Dead." + + They were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow; + They were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride; + With faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe, + And clotted holes the khaki couldn't hide. + Oh, the clammy brow of anguish! the livid, foam-flecked lips! + The reeling ranks of ruin swept along! + The limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger-tips! + And oh, the dreary rhythm of their song! + + "They left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn't stop, + On this, our England's crowning festal day; + We're the men of Magersfontein, we're the men of Spion Kop, + Colenso,--we're the men who had to pay. + We're the men who paid the blood-price. Shall the grave be all our + gain? + You owe us. Long and heavy is the score. + Then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain, + And cheer us as ye never cheered before." + + The folks were white and stricken, and each tongue seemed weighed + with lead; + Each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice; + And every eye was staring at the horror of the dead, + The pity of the men who paid the price. + They were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace; + Through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam; + They were coming in their thousands--oh, would they never cease! + I closed my eyes, and then--it was a dream. + + There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street; + The town was mad, a man was like a boy. + A thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet; + A thousand bells were thundering the joy. + There was music, mirth and sunshine; but some eyes shone with regret: + And while we stun with cheers our homing braves, + O God, in Thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget + The graves they left behind, the bitter graves. + + + + +"FIGHTING MAC" + +A LIFE TRAGEDY + + + 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 far 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, defenceless, 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. Honour 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. + + + + +THE WOMAN AND THE ANGEL + + + 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, + For the space of a moon, to the earth-world, to mix with the men below. + + He doffed his celestial garments, scarce waiting to lay them straight; + He bade goodbye to Peter, who stood by the golden gate; + The sexless singers of heaven chanted a fond farewell, + And the imps looked up as they pattered on the red-hot flags of hell. + + Never was seen such an angel: eyes of a heavenly blue, + Features that shamed Apollo, hair of a golden hue; + The women simply adored him, his lips were like Cupid's bow; + But he never ventured to use them--and so they voted him slow. + + Till at last there came One Woman, a marvel of loveliness, + And she whispered to him: "Do you love me?" And he answered that + woman, "Yes." + And she said: "Put your arms around me, and kiss me, and hold me--so--" + But fiercely he drew back, saying: "This thing is wrong, and I know." + + Then sweetly she mocked his scruples, and softly she him beguiled: + "You, who are verily man among men, speak with the tongue of a child. + We have outlived the old standards; we have burst, like an + over-tight thong, + The ancient, outworn, puritanic traditions of Right and Wrong." + + Then the Master feared for His angel, and called him again to His side, + For oh, the woman was wondrous, and oh, the angel was tried. + And deep in his hell sang the Devil, and this was the strain of his + song: + "The ancient, outworn, puritanic traditions of Right and Wrong." + + + + +THE RHYME OF THE RESTLESS ONES + + + 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 + To excitements and excesses that are banned. + So we took to wine and drink and other things, + And the devil in us struggled to be free; + Till our friends rose up in wrath, and they pointed out the path, + And they paid our debts and packed us o'er the sea. + + Oh, they shook us off and shipped us o'er the foam, + To the larger lands that lure a man to roam; + And we took the chance they gave + Of a far and foreign grave, + And we bade goodbye for evermore to home. + + And some of us are climbing on the peak, + And some of us are camping on the plain; + By pine and palm you'll find us, with never claim to bind us, + By track and trail you'll meet us once again. + + We are fated serfs to freedom--sky and sea; + We have failed where slummy cities overflow; + But the stranger ways of earth know our pride and know our worth, + And we go into the dark as fighters go. + + Yes, we go into the night as brave men go, + Though our faces they be often streaked with woe; + Yet we're hard as cats to kill, + And our hearts are reckless still, + And we've danced with death a dozen times or so. + + And you'll find us in Alaska after gold, + And you'll find us herding cattle in the South. + We like strong drink and fun; and when the race is run, + We often die with curses in our mouth. + + We are wild as colts unbroke, but never mean; + Of our sins we've shoulders broad to bear the blame; + But we'll never stay in town, and we'll never settle down, + And we'll never have an object or an aim. + + No, there's that in us that time can never tame; + And life will always seem a careless game; + And they'd better far forget-- + Those who say they love us yet-- + Forget, blot out with bitterness our name. + + + + +NEW YEAR'S EVE + + + 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.... + + * * * * * + + 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 goodbye, 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 year? + + 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 ... but it fades ... And now--I can hear the + dreadful hum + Of the crowded court ... See! the Judge looks down ... NOT GUILTY, + my Lord, I swear ... + The bells, I can hear the bells again ... Ethel, I come, I come!... + + * * * * * + + "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!" + + + + +COMFORT + + + 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. + + + + +PREMONITION + + + '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. + + + + +THE TRAMPS + + + 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, + Along the road to Anywhere, the wide world at our feet. + + Along the road to Anywhere, when each day had its story; + When time was yet our vassal, and life's jest was still unstale; + When peace unfathomed filled our hearts as, bathed in amber glory, + Along the road to Anywhere we watched the sunsets pale. + + Alas! the road to Anywhere is pitfalled with disaster; + There's hunger, want, and weariness, yet O we loved it so! + As on we tramped exultantly, and no man was our master, + And no man guessed what dreams were ours, as swinging heel and toe, + We tramped the road to Anywhere, the magic road to Anywhere, + The tragic road to Anywhere, such dear, dim years ago. + + + + +_L'ENVOI_ + + + _You who have lived in the Land, + You who have trusted the trail; + You who are strong to withstand, + You who are swift to assail; + Songs have I sung to beguile, + Vintage of desperate years + Hard as a harlot's smile, + Bitter as unshed tears._ + + _Little of joy or mirth, + Little of ease I sing; + Sagas of men of earth, + Humanly suffering, + Such as you all have done; + Savagely faring forth, + Sons of the midnight sun, + Argonauts of the North._ + + _Far in the land God forgot + Glimmers the lure of your trail; + Still in your lust are you taught + Even to win is to fail. + Still must you follow and fight + Under the vampire wing; + There in the long, long night + Hoping and vanquishing._ + + _Husbandmen of the Wild, + Reaping a barren gain; + Scourged by desire, reconciled + Unto disaster and pain; + These my songs are for you, + You who are seared with the brand: + God knows I have tried to be true; + Please God you will understand._ + + + + + _Printed in Great Britain by_ + UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED + WOKING AND LONDON. + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + Inconsistent hyphenation has been retained. Minor typographical + errors have been corrected without note, whilst significant + amendments have been listed below. + + P. 22, 'greyling' amended to _grayling_. + P. 58, 'trial' amended to _trail_. + P. 93, 'sidways' amended to _sideways_. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Songs of a Sourdough, by Robert W. 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