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diff --git a/33758.txt b/33758.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7d606bf --- /dev/null +++ b/33758.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1784 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Derby Day in the Yukon, by Yukon Bill + + +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: Derby Day in the Yukon + and Other Poems of the "Northland" + + +Author: Yukon Bill + + + +Release Date: September 19, 2010 [eBook #33758] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON*** + + +E-text prepared by Bryan Ness, Josephine Paolucci, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from images generously +made available by Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries +(http://www.archive.org/details/toronto) + + + +Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this + file which includes the original illustrations. + See 33758-h.htm or 33758-h.zip: + (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33758/33758-h/33758-h.htm) + or + (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33758/33758-h.zip) + + + Images of the original pages are available through + Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries. See + http://www.archive.org/details/derbydayinyukono00yukouoft + + + + + +DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON AND OTHER POEMS OF THE "NORTHLAND" + + +[Illustration: THE MALAMUTE] + + +DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON + +and other Poems of the "Northland" + +by + +YUKON BILL + + + + + + + +Toronto +The Musson Book Company +Limited + +Copyright, 1910, by +George H. Doran Co. + + + So, go you, little broken Song, + And carry to some heart in bitter pain + Only my lute's light laughter; make thou strong + The weak of heart, and bid them smile again! + + THESE RHYMES +OF THE NORTHLAND ARE AFFECTIONATELY + INSCRIBED TO MY PARDS, B. AND B., + WHO HELPED ME TO CARRY MY + PACK OVER LIFE'S TRAIL. + + Y. B. + +On the Trail, 1910. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + Page + +GREETING 11 + +DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON 17 + +THE MALAMUTE 23 + +RED-JACKET 29 + +UP AGAINST IT 35 + +HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME 39 + +HEROES 47 + +LOWER-FLAT ANNALS 53 + +THE TRAIL 61 + +THE KING OF THE KLONDIKE 67 + +GHOSTS 75 + +AN ANGEL 81 + +BILLY BIRD'S CELEBRATION 87 + +INVITATION 93 + +JIM 97 + +TALE OF THE CHE-CHA-KO 107 + +ST. BONIFACE FIRE BRIGADE 113 + +WINDY 119 + +MY SONG 127 + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + +THE MALAMUTE Frontispiece + +RED-JACKET, BULLY BOY HE IS facing p. 29 + +WHEN I MET WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAIL 97 + +PRAY, SIR, HAVE YOU SEEN MR. MARMADUKE? 121 + + + + +GREETING + +TO ROBERT W. SERVICE + + + + +GREETING + + + Shake, Pard! I'm mighty proud o' you! + (I'm know'd as "Yukon Bill"); + You blazed th' trail an' blazed it true;---- + Some o' my friends I see y' knew + On old Che-cha-ko Hill; + But say, old man, y' clean forgot my friend, "Swiftwater Bill!" + + You was a kid in pettic'uts + When I went in, a man; + Grub-stakin' with two other goats---- + We sow'd th' last of our wild oats + An' th' new, clean life began; + We was th' fu'st (an' p'raps th' wu'st) Five Fingers' Rapids ran. + + I staked out Eldorado crick + Long 'fore th' world was told + Them hills from Hunker to St. Mick + Groaned f'r th' drill an' f'r th' pick, + The'r bellies achin' GOLD! + Where many a night th' moon pale white saw me in blankets rolled. + + At Magnet Gulch I lit my pipe---- + Got drunk upon Gold Hill; + I hoofed it cle'r t' Kokusqum---- + 'Twas ther' I lost my Siwash chum + (She drownded in a spill), + An' Love an' Luck together went from pore old Yukon Bill! + + Big Skookum claim might a-bin mine, + But fortune ther' I missed; + For all I got a-though I sought---- + I starved an' thirsted, dug an' fought, + Was d---- plumbago schist! + Ten years of toil, of muck an' spoil; then on th' "Failure list." + + Labarge; th' Canyon; I was there; + I clumb th' Glacier mound. + I might a-bin a millionaire---- + God! think of it, and see me--WHERE? + A bum on Puget Sound!---- + At night my roof th' open sky--my pillow th' cold ground. + + Me for th' trail at seventy! + I'm longin' f'r th' track: + I'll try again--no, I'll not fail---- + I hear them "Little Voices" wail: + "Come back! come back! come back!" + O, God! how Mem'ry knifes me now an' puts me on th' rack. + + Yes, yes--I failed! Yes, yes, a drink! + An' then my pipe I'll fill. + Boy, here's t' you--y'r picter's true + Of them old sinners that I knew + On old Che-cha-ko Hill; + But say, old man, y' overlooked my friend, "Swiftwater Bill!" + + + + +DERBY DAY IN THE YUKON + + Talk of England's Derby Race; of Kentucky's blue-grass chase; + Epsom Downs an' Frisco "Tanforan" t' boot; + I don't say they ain't done well, but I tell y' even h--ll + Couldn't match th' Yukon racin' malamoot. + + How them dogs they love th' Race! Y' kin see it in th' face + Of th' starvin' scut that hangs aroun' th' claim; + F'r he knows, like you an' me, that th' Derby Day'll be + Th' big jag day--th' glad rag play, that brings th' Yukon fame. + + It was Fool's Day f'r th' Race; every husky in his place; + Wasky's dogs was runnin' Billy Brown of Nome; + But at th' Starter's line ranged up Jake Berger's Nine, + Ten t' one THEY'D bring th' Derby money home! + + Thousands hit th' trail that night; we was out t' see th' sight; + Th' stakes, eleven-thousand-plunks in gold! + Th' thermometer on strike--every bench-claim on th' hike---- + An' them leaders b' th' leash y' couldn't hold. + + Oh, th' run was cruel hard--th' white frost how it scarred + As they galloped down th' long, unending trail; + The whip cut like th' wind, an' Carey's dog, snow-blind, + Joined his howlin' t' th' screeches of th' gale. + + Down where Candle's bonfires glow see th' racin' huskies go, + All keen t' win--McCarthy's purp drops dead---- + He's thrown out upon th' track f'r th' lean an' hungry pack + Of grey wolves follerin' th' flyin' sled. + + Two-an'-eighty hours they raced--an' four hunderd-miles they paced, + Them dogs never paused f'r frozen fish 'r drink; + Hung with icicles of foam, the'r lithe bodies stretched whale-bone,-- + BUT THEY BROKE THE RECORD MADE BY JIMMIE FINK! + + Cursed, an' kicked, an' whipped ahead, th' dumb brutes, staggerin', bled + Where th' whip cut cruel in; but comes th' feast + When at Nome t'morrow night there'll be brawl an' drink, an' fight; + An' no tellin' which is man an' which is beast. + + Then th' dumb an' winded brute--th' blood-blinded malamoot, + All frosted foam is gaspin' upon th' bar-room floor; + He, the WINNER OF TH' RACE! in th' glory has no place; + He's jes' a slinkin' malamoot when Derby Day is o'er! + + + + +THE MALAMUTE + + + Hi, there! Into your harness of thong! + (Whip.) You get into your place; + Give him the lash, Bill. Eh? What's wrong? + See that look in the mal'mute's face:-- + Is it devilish cunning o'ermastering pain? + Some lost soul reincarnate again, + Running Sin's last race. + + Come skulkin' into the camp last June, + A leprous, mangy cur; + Reasty and rotten--bayed at th' Moon + As if you'd a grudge 'gainst her. + All fester and soil--corruption and boil; + Your evil face like some carved gargoyle, + And you refused to stir + + Though I broke th' lash on your back, + YOU subjugated me:-- + You proved the master--I proved the hack, + For, plainly I could see + You'd been sent back to earth to work out y'r sin, + And y' came straight t' me, a larrikin; + An' why did you come to me? + + What were you There? Unregenerate thief, + A derelict from your birth? + Were you a church-going pharisee, + That Belial of this earth? + Was your lecherous, lutish, animal mind + Drawn to me as one of your kind? + Your grin betrays your mirth. + + Well, me an' you, Mal'mute, stand chums; + We won't each other despise; + The camp may call us a couple o' bums + But we hold our own assize: + We stand for Arbitration straight-- + An' mebbe' some day, at St. Peter's Gate + We'll look in each other's eyes. + + Ah, you leprous devil! you taught me how + To fumigate my soul + From wanton ways and dicing days, + And lush of the flowing bowl: + I'm steeped in guilt right up to the hilt, + Worshipped in temples of Shame I've built, + And Pleasure's been my goal, + + But here with you in th' hinter-world + Where there's nothing pure but snow, + Some words long dumb t' my lips have come, + A prayer that I used to know:-- + "OUR--FATHER!"--I wonder will HE refute + A fellow that learns of a malamute + T' take th' kick an' blow? + + Oh, down here below we may go th' pace, + Loot, gut, palter, prey, maraud; + But here or There comes settling day, + For y' can't bamboozle God---- + He'll send us back, like you, mal'mute, + Mangy an' whining--black with hell-soot---- + Say, Bill, did y' see him nod? + +[Illustration: RED JACKET, BULLY BOY HE IS] + + + + +RED-JACKET + + + Where it's eighty below zero, there you'll find the Northland hero, + Red-Jacket; bully Boy he is--sure thing he fills the bill! + In that trackless waste of snow, where the Northern Lights hang low, + He is doing deeds of daring that would make your pulses thrill:-- + + AN' WE'LL DRINK T' YOU, RED-JACKET; + THE EQUATOR OF YOUR VEST + BUNCHES ALL THE PRIDE AN' GLORY + OF TH' WILD AN' WOOLLY WEST! + + Red-Jacket does no askin', but he's ready for th' taskin' + When they sling him out his orders, with a hunk o' pemmican; + An' he'll travel day an' night after Red-man or bad white, + An' he'll go through hell-an'-blazes, BUT HE'LL NEVER MISS HIS MAN! + + HE LAUGHS AT DEATH AN' DANGER, + FOR TH' CHIN-STRAP ON HIS JAW + IS TH' LINK THAT BINDS CREATION:-- + BRITISH FAIR-PLAY, AN' TH'--LAW! + + The spur hitched to his heel--at his hip th' gleam of steel,-- + With his belly-band strapped tighter his hunger to forget, + He may drop upon th' track BUT YOU BET HE WON'T TURN BACK-- + For it's duty, Duty, DUTY! That's Red-Jacket's am-u-let! + + AN' IT'S "HI! YOU SKULKIN' HUSKY"! + O'ER TH' WINTRY, WIND-SWEPT GROUND, + THE DOG HIS LONE COMPANION-- + AND THE SILENCE THAT IS SOUND! + + Oh, the Arctic wilds are weary, and the Arctic nights are dreary; + And Red-Jacket sometimes wonders why he's livin' th' wild life? + Then he eyes th' British Flag; says: "GOD BLESS YOU, YOU OLD RAG! + It's through courtin' YOU I've neither child nor wife"! + + THEN A SHAMED AN' SILENT TEAR + FALLS UPON THE ARCTIC SNOWS; + AN' THE ANGUISH OF HIS HEART, + GOD--AN' RED-JACKET, KNOWS! + + Now, you folks, don't get hard thinkin' when Red-Jacket starts a-drinkin', + An' he busts th' Ten Commandments into five-an'-twenty bits; + When he hears th' bugles sound, ain't he fu'st upon th' ground? + An' don't his "powders" cure 'em of the'r hell-damnation fits? + + SO WE'LL DRINK T' YOU, RED-JACKET! + GOD'S BLESSIN' ON Y'R HEAD; + YOU'RE TH' BRITISH CON-STI-TOO-SHUN + BOUND IN YELLA' STRIPES, AN' RED! + + + + +UP AGAINST IT + + + When y're up against it, don't get feelin' blue; + Somewher' in this world of ours ther's a place f'r you. + Y'r jes' a round peg in a squar', y' ain't th' proper fit; + Keep turnin', twistin' every way--an' rise a little bit. + + If we'd all we wanted in this whirlin' globe we're on, + W'y we'd all begin t' grouch--then begin t' yawn; + We'd get dead sick o' summer without a tech o' frost, + An' Ex-pe-ri-ence we got t' hev' regardless of th' cost. + + Oh, th' smell o' fightin' powder, that's th' perfume f'r th' nose; + Without th' thorn in hidin' who'd care t' pluck th' Rose? + An' th' tears that wet y'r pillo' at night when y' go t' bed, + They'll wash away y'r troubles--an' y'r sins, tho' ruby red. + + Boy, when y'r up against it, get y'r back agin' a fence + An' swing that good ol' we'pon we used t' call "horse sense": + Pitch off y'r coat--go at it jes' like a fightin' man; + Throw up y'r head--glad y' ain't dead-- + Then sluice y'r bench--an' pan! + + Say, when y'r up against it, don't get feelin' blue; + Ther's room t' spare, ther's plenty air; ain't that enough f'r you? + Every bed-rock wash-up ain't all gold t' th' pan, + But life CAN'T be a "failure" if y' play th' game a MAN! + + + + +HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME + +NO, TH' STORY AIN'T NEVER BIN TOLD AFORE, AS I'M TH' ON'Y MAN SEED TH' +GAME PLAYED ON TH' DANCE-HALL FLOOR. I WAS THER' WHEN THE FUN BEGAN. AN' +WHAT I SEE I TELL YOU STRAIGHT--TELL IT AS MAN TO MAN. + + + + +HOW SLIPPERY PLAYED THE GAME + + + "Lost ag'in!" yelled Slippery Jim, + "Never a mo'sel o' luck in m' life! + Yankee, you're on th' velvet agin!" + Says Yankee: "Jim, let's play f'r a wife! + There's Bonanza Pearl, she's sweet on you;-- + Fairer 'card' no gambler ever drew!" + + Slippery Jim staked high that night, + The game was poker,--rake-in keeps---- + Yankee Pete hilarious, ready t' fight---- + Rakin' th' gold-dust up in heaps. + Jim's last poke throw'd on th' table, so; + "It's my last ounce, boys! Well, let 'er go!" + + He had staked the dance-hall--staked the bar-- + Then, reckless, staked the "Wonder" mine, + Known on Bonanza near an' far + As the lucky strike of Eighty-nine. + Jim had played it all--an' lost! The sweat + Come when he gasps: "It's my last--bet!" + + "You've got Pearl left," grins Yankee Pete, + "Don't funk now, Jim: make her th' stake." + With a howl of hate Jim was on his feet---- + But a voice rings out: "THAT BET WE'LL TAKE!" + And Bonanza Pearl steps up t' me, + "You'll see this game played square!" says she. + + Says Yank. "I stake my all 'gainst th' Girl." + (Then I see th' flame le'p in his eyes) + "An' if I win you, Bonanza Pearl, + Your soul an' body no man denies + B'longs t' me!" He stacked his gold, + As a groan from Jim his agony told. + + Now, Jim was a MAN. He funked no game;-- + Says he: "I'll stake blood, bone an' life, + But I'll put no woman to th' shame + Of bein' played 'a chip' in tin-horn strife!" + But Bonanza, she steps up t' him + An' she says: "Y' COULDN'T LOSE ME, JIM!" + + "Come," says Bonanza, "Turn up th' pack"; + She skinned the bunch with a laughin' eye; + I gets close up ahind Jim's back + Ready t' let th' bullets fly. + Th' two men playin' a round 'r so, + An' the luck agin' Slippery seem'd t' go. + + "Straight flush o' di'monds--Ace at th' head;" + In a whirlwind play Yank takes the pot. + Slippery's eyes was now blood-red---- + His lips crack'd dry--his breath comin' hot; + The last deal ended the game, I saw + 'Twas Yankee Pete's first play--an' draw. + + Jim's hand? cripes! 'Twas a reg'lar prize; + Luck had turned--he had aces t' burn! + But he sot there starin' with bloodshot eyes, + An' what I saw then gev' ME quite a turn---- + F'r th' divil's own luck was at his heel, + He'd an EXTRA CARD--'twas a clear MISDEAL! + + I let my hand t' th' trigger go---- + Jim's throat gev' a sickish kind o' laugh; + An' he says: "I'm dry as h--ll, so, + W'ot d'ye say to a shandy-gaff? + An'," says Jim, "I'll hev' a bite t' eat; + Pearl, fetch me a sangwich o' bread an' meat"! + + I felt like shootin' that gol-durn Jim, + Losin' th' game with a stake like that; + Wanted t' up an' lambaste him + Chawin' of meat like a hungry cat: + When, all at onct, sort o' swallerin' hard, + I PERCEIVES JIM EATIN' THAT EXTRA CARD! + + "Locoed!" yelled Yankee, quittin' th' game, + Handin' over th' stakes. But Slippery Jim + Hunchin' up of his powerful frame + Giv' a kind of a grin o' hate at him. + "D----n y'r gold!" he says, "Slippery Jim to-night + Will begin t' live like a man born white!" + + Now, perhaps you'd say the game warn't square---- + An' some might call it a bunko trick; + But if you loved a ga'l an' she stood there, + Wouldn't y' swap souls with old Nick + Rather'n let her go t' Yankee Pete + An' play her game on Bonanza street? + +NO, TH' STORY AIN'T NEVER BIN TOLD AFORE. I SAW IT FINISHED--SAW IT +BEGAN. SAW IT PLAY'D OUT ON TH' DANCE-HALL FLOOR. IT'S BETWIXT US, MAN +T' MAN! + + + + +HEROES + + + If ye run up ag'in Carnegie, I'd kind o' thankful be + If he gets a-talkin' of heroes, you'd ring in Sandy McPhee. + + Now, Mac don't want no medals--he ain't th' braggin' set; + But what he done back in eighty-one, he's livin' t' tell; you bet! + + We was trekin' th' trail t' Forty-Mile; sleepin' in snow-b'ilt caves, + An' the great White Trail we hoofed it on was milestoned jest by graves. + + Mac shot on ahead with his dog--itchin' t' make his pile; + Carried his grub-stake on his back. Got there? I should smile! + + But th' blizzard struck him; th'r he was, him an' his dog alone---- + A week passed by--then his grub give out; but he never made no moan. + + His husky died an' he e't his guts; tho't his brain 'ud go---- + Then he 'member'd his wife an' kids at home. Who'd hoe their row? + + Both feet fruz cle'r int' th' bone! Says he "Fac's is fac's";-- + Gangrene sot in--black t' th' knees. Then he ups an' eyes his axe:-- + + "I ain't," says he, "no great M.D., but I kinder calcalate + To meet this here e-mergency as was sent b' a unkind Fate." + + So he humped hisself up ag'in a rock in a little bunch o' trees, + A couple o' hacks with that there axe, an' off went his laigs at + th' knees! + + And he stumped it int' Forty-Mile! What's that? It ain't true? + It's hard t' b'leeve, I kin onderstand, b' a white-livered skunk + like YOU! + + But, if old Skibo is huntin' a hero, ther's somethin' in my mind + Says that, if he don't see McPhee, HE MUST BE GOL-DURN'D BLIND! + + + + +LOWER-FLAT ANNALS + + + When we lived in Lower-Flat us folks know'd where we was at; + But them Eastern folks come, puttin' on great style: + Us Old-Timers, we all said we was better we was dead, + F'r th' way they talked an' acted, raised our bile. + + They interduced new dances--thing-a-me-bobs called--"Lance's"---- + Where they traipsed up an' down upon th' floor, + A-bowin' and a'scrapin' (lords an' ladies they was apin'), + Th' Red River Jig? 'Twa'n't never danced no more! + + Sniffed at bannock--sniffed at bacon; then, dried apples, they was taken; + An' that good old dish "plum-duff" went out th' door; + Then "part singin'" in th' church--"A Choir" up in a perch---- + And a "Tenner" frum th' city. Say, y' should a-heard HIM roar! + + Then the pretty little crea'cher, boardin' 'round, th' country Teacher; + (Her we fought about f'r dances in th' barn) + SHE went out o' date; a "perfesser" come t' prate + About ologies an' colleges; things childern COULDN'T larn. + + Then they started "makin' calls," ketched Pa in his over-alls; + But he met 'em with a "How'dy!" at th' door; + The place was in a clutter--Ma, she was churnin' butter, + An' Pa fetch'd 'em in th' kitchen, an' they didn't "call" no more. + + That was Mrs. Mumble-Mumps. Say, she DID put on humps; + Took her daughter Gwendolina t' furrin lan's, + An' they say paid out shin-plasters t' one o' them Old Masters + F'r t' make a bust of Gwendolina's hands! + + Gone was th' good old days, and gone th' good old ways + When an invitation meant th' fambly all; + When th' little an' th' big would crowd into th' rig, + An' th' fiddle livened up th' Chris'mus Ball. + + It was "Welkim, welkim, Boys!" Lots of laughin', lots of noise; + With the babies piled like cordwood on th' floor; + Boys an' girls all dancin'--old folks too got prancin'---- + An' th' supper? Say, we'd eat ontil we couldn't hold no more. + + But them Eastern folks fetched "Style"; changed all that in a while; + Printed tickets told th' folks they was "to-home"; + Served the supper frum "a buffey," an' they acted kind o' huffy + When our childern round the parler used t' roam. + + House was full of bricky-brack; china tea-pot with a crack,-- + An' they sort o' boasted of it; set it out t' common view; + Talked about the'r "Fambly Tree"--good land! why, they know'd that we + Had ninety acres of 'em--scrub-oak bluff--an' poplars too! + + Then Miss Mary Ellen Jones (her that come from Pile-o'-Bones) + Lived in nothin' but a mud-shack all her life, + She got puttin' on some airs, an' her nose jes' said, "Who cares?" + And th' District Member picked HER f'r a wife. + + She did cut a silly caper: had her envelopes an' paper + Painted with a little brand in blue sot up on top; + When th' Flat laugh'd, I'll be blest! she said, "It's Poppa's crest"! + Well! Providence, that year, hailed out their crop. + + But Mary Ellen's fall come when they gave th' weddin'-ball; + Invited all th' stylish folks--gave us th' glassy eye; + But says Pa, "Th' next election we'll bust th' damn connection, + F'r th' District Member goes out on th' fly!" + + He he'er'd that. He wanted votes. So them stylish printed notes + Come trailin' in t' us who'd been rejected; + But Mary Ellen said (underlined in ink bright red), + "PLEASE UNDERSTAND NO CHILDREN IS EXPECTED"! + + That joke went far an' wide, us folks laugh'd ontil we cried; + But Retribution it was on th' District Member's shins, + F'r that sassy little bride who behaved so very snide, + Inside a year perduced a pair of TWINS! + + Since that time we get on better. Mary Ellen wrote a letter + T' th' weekly paper, statin' "District Member liked our ways"; + Yes, Lower Flat's grow'd quite a place, runnin' other towns a race; + But ther' ain't th' fun we had them good old days! + + + + +THE TRAIL + + + It measures the boundless distance, + Led by wild ways that run + Hither and thither in chase of the Winds + That worship the Northern Sun: + The Trail! which, never ending, was never yet begun. + + In the dip of the far horizon + Trembles the Morning Star; + To the heights of the fathomless ether + Nor lock, nor bolt, nor bar; + The Trail! God's finger beckoning to the new Home afar. + + No sound in that void of Silence + Save call of bird to its mate, + Or cry of the lone coyote + At the bars of hunger's gate; + And the heart is drawn by the wond'rous dawn, or some mysterious Fate. + + The Trail hath a storied splendor: + Tepee and Indian Mound; + Where the glory of God is chanted + By no sacrilegious sound; + Where the dumb brute bays HIS praise through Nights profound! + + Here the haunts of men are bounden + By the links of Custom's chain; + There you find embosomed freedom + In the heart's exquisite pain, + And thereafter will be heard the cry, "O, give me the wilds again!" + + The Trail hath no languorous longing; + It leads to no Lotus land; + On its way dead Hopes come thronging + To take you by the hand; + He who treads the Trail undaunted, thereafter shall command! + + + + +THE KING OF THE KLONDIKE + + + We called him the King of the Klondike; but + He really was "Mac." + He walked int' Dawson in tatters an' rags, + His frozen feet tied in a pair of ol' bags, + An' perceeded t' go on a couple of jags; + Pack on his back. + + He worked empty-bellied f'r many a day, + Pore old Mac! + Stuck tight t' his diggin as if it was play; + With a good game of poker 'till daylight he'd stay---- + An' a gun he could han'le. I also might say + He would crack + + A fine joke. But he never was known + Wasn't Mac. + T' refuse man 'r dog a crust 'r a bone. + He kep' t' hisself; perferred livin' alone---- + An' ther' was a sort o' respectable tone + 'Bout his shack. + + He said of them "girls" that defied Law an' ban, + (Humpin' his back): + "Pore kids! fetched low b' some skunk of a man---- + Boys, give 'em a hand-up wheniver y' can;" + (On the'r 'count Soapy Smith out of Dawson he ran + With Black Jack!) + + He lived like a prince and he spent like a king, + Did old Mac. + Whatever he said 'r he did had th' ring + Of pure gold; but one day in th' spring + Struck a vein in th' rock that made us all sing, + "'Rah f'r Mac!" + + But th' fortin' he made was th' fortin' he spent + In a crack. + Paid all he owed t' th' very las' cent---- + Then, off on a h---- of a spree we all went---- + An' th' gold? why, he wasted it, gev' it an' lent + B' th' sack. + + Nex' mornin' he woke up as pore as a mouse, + Boozer Mac. + Another chap, who had th' heart of a louse, + Would a-blow'd off his head 'r burnt down th' house, + 'R int' th' river a-taken a souse, + Things goin' slack. + + But he stuck t' th' diggin' like hound t' th' trail, + Worn ol' Mac. + Jes' like an ol' farmer a-swingin' his flail, + Jes' like ol' Abe Linco'n a-splittin' his rail; + D'ye think a MAN like him c'd ever spell f-a-i-l, + 'R fall back? + + No, Sir! He worked till he struck a new vein, + Brave ol' Mac! + This time he held tight th' "millionaire" rein; + Swore as he'd never be foolish again; + Then he got drunk. I tell it with pain,-- + Scooted back + + East. An' I read in them Papers one day, + Klondike Mac + Had gone t' them "diggin's" anunder th' clay; + An' he was a pauper ag'in! Talk of Play---- + "Life's jes' a stage!" as Spokshare mought say; + That's a fac'! + + Most of 'em Kings as I've heer'd on went bust, + Jes' like Mac. + None of 'em carries the'r crowns int' dust;-- + They sport 'roun' a while, but die they all must;-- + An' I don't know as one of th' king-bunch I'd trust, + Lookin' back, + + Like th' King of th' Klon! Him we knew + As ol' Mac. + Rulers like him y'll find ther's d----n few; + Ther's lots of 'em sportin' a Crown ain't true blue. + But Mac? he was royal--a King through an' through, + An' no "Jack"! + + Up No'th they'll 'member him an' things he done + Way back. + We won't give his Crown t' no Son-of-a-gun; + Ther's no entail on Kings t'other side of th' sun, + An' pre-ce-dence ther' will go, ten t' one, + T' King Mac! + + + + +GHOSTS + + + Deep lies the snow on the white, white plain, + And frosted the fretwork on window-pane. + + The Storm King has laid his icy clasp + On th' lock o' th' Year: 'tis an iron hasp. + + The camp fire gleams, and its ruddy glow + Throws shadows quaint on the drifting snow; + + My heart leaps up, for I see a form + That makes the blood in my veins run warm: + + A woman is standing beside my bed, + And these are the words, I swear, she said:-- + + "YOU MAY WANDER AFAR; BUT, GO WHERE YOU WILL, + THE GHOSTS OF THE PAST WILL FOLLOW YOU STILL!" + + Another comes--a girl-face, worn, + And of every good resolution shorn,-- + + She utters no word; but her eyes of blue + Are burning, piercing me through and through! + + Yet another comes and takes Her place---- + I close my eyes lest I see HER face---- + + For the flush of youth on the girlish brow + Is lost in the wanton woman now-- + + And I was to blame! God, let me forget! + And I wipe away the beads of sweat + + That lie on my brow like blood-red rain---- + And I try to pray--but words are vain;-- + + For I know that the ghosts of my sins are here + To mock me at this, the end o' th' Year! + + + + +AN ANGEL + + + Th' angils ain't all up in Heaven. + Not by a long shot. Say, + Ther's angils a-livin' an' breathin' + Right here in th' camp to-day. + An' th' crown of one, I kin tell ye + Is on'y a tangle of hair, + But the halo that lingers around it + Is brighter than any up There. + One of her laigs goes a-limpin', + Her langwige ain't grammar of books, + An' she ain't airned th' title "A Angil" + Along of her beauty of looks; + 'Nless y' saw her as I did---- + 'Nless y' saw her, like me, + Le'p int' hell-flame f'r t' rescue + Th' baby of drunken Magee. + + Magee in th' cellar was hootchin'; + Th' gal was a-sloppin' at chores, + Washin' bottles an' kegs f'r th' bar-man, + Slingin' cocktails ahind th' baize-doors. + Of a suddent a wild cry of "F-i-r-e," come + With a lick o' th' flame, left an' right; + The boozers they scooted f'r safety + An' th' baby was left in th' fright. + One wild cry above th' fierce cracklin'---- + A yell of despair in the din: + "My BABY! O, GOD, SEND AN ANGEL!" + He did. And the Angel went in + While us men stood a-shakin' an' shame-faced; + The manhood in us not quite dead---- + We was drunk--dazed with horror an' whisky + 'R we'd foller'd th' gal where she led + Into that hell-gate of red flame---- + Int' th' whirl of th' fire; + And we all held our bre'th, knowin' well it was death + Come a-nigher an' nigher. + + But no! What we all saw a-comin' + Was th' Angil of Life:--at her breast + That damn kid of Magee's snug an' snorin', + As if in th' cradle at rest. + But th' gal? Her face out of resemblance + T' anythin' human, you'd say, + She come staggerin', gaspin' an' blinded---- + (Us men turned our faces away); + Then, "Lame Mary!" we busted a-shoutin', + Goin' mad f'r a minit with joy; + Magee, he was dancin' a hornpipe + An' his Missis was huggin' th' Boy. + But the gal as I christen'd "A Angil" + We was shoutin' her name somethin' wild---- + Swings 'roun' on her game foot, + Says: "Shet up, y' galoot, + An' don't be f'r wakin' th' child!" + + You bet she was game, was th' Angil:---- + Tho' she wasn't f'r playin' no harps, + Sittin' on a damp cloud a-slingin' th' crowd, + A-thumpin' th' flats an' th' sharps; + + SHE WAS STRAIGHT ON HER JOB, was th' angil; + Wantin' nothin' down here but her share; + An' my biler 'ud bust if I thought any "Trust" + Side-tracked my Angil up--There! + + + + +BILLY BIRD'S CELEBRATION + + + Billy Bird was know'd as a bar-room bum; + Be'n a trader out on th' plains; + Be'n a timber rafter, a fourth-ward grafter, + Hadn't no conshunce, hadn't no brains; + But was well perserv'd in Rum. + + He hailed frum Mi-sou-ri 'r Michi-gan; + Was cook in a lumber camp; + Run a Wild West show, then turn'd hobo, + Was an all-roun' fu'st class tramp;-- + 'N y' couldn't call him a "man." + + He'd b'en kicked an' cussed like a mongrel pup, + An' a cock-fight was his creed; + An' eye out o' joint was another bad point, + But with th' one left he see'd + Far enough t' hit th' cup! + + He'd th' wanderin' itch in his lazy heels + (With th' luck that comes t' sich); + F'r one day, dead drunk, that mis'ble skunk + Struck a vein that made him rich. + Y' sh'd hear Billy Bird's squeals:-- + + "I'm richer'n Creesus!" (this he howled); + "I've th' biggest strike aroun'; + I'm a reg'lar gent!" (Here his bre'th was spent + An' he tumbles upon th' groun'); + B' his luck Billy Bird got fouled. + + Clumb up on a kag t' make a speech. + Says he: "I'm th' Turrible Turk! + I'm a millionaire, an' I'll curl th' hair + Of th' man says I need work! + Me? I'm a rainbow out of reach! + + "I'm off t' Noo York t' get int' th' swirl; + Tip them waiters ten-dollar bills; + I'm a millionaire! Don't I wear th' air + That goes with th' pace that kills? + An' I'm goin' t' pick my Girl! + + "I'll buy her di'mon's t' blaze her front, + An' th' best champagne we'll spill; + An' I'll murder th' man as says what he can + See I ain't no gent! Me, Bill! + An' I tell y' that's MY stunt! + + "I'll buy a floor in th' big ho-tel; + I'll dazzle th' chamber-maids; + Fifth Avenoo style in my auto-mo-bile + I'll speed her up with my jades; + I'll show 'em a Yukon swell! + + "I'll dine on snakes fried in burnin' oil, + An' dance till th' cows come home; + As an aftermath take a champagne bath + An' shampoo with a curry-comb; + All done up accordin' t' Hoyle. + + "Then I'll hike t' bed with a great, big, head,-- + Yellin': 'CALL WHEN THE CLOCK HITS FOUR!' + An' I'll wait with a grin till th' 'call' comes in, + An' Brass Buttons knocks at th' door, + An' he thinks I'm sleepin' dead! + + "Brass buttons 'tap, tap, tap' on th' door:-- + 'Millionaire, it is four A. M.!' + An' I'll bust that door with a Yukon roar: + Howlin: 'Say! d'ye know WHO I AM?' + An' I'll rouse 'em on every floor! + + "W'en th' house comes runnin' up I'll yell:-- + 'WOW! I'm a millionaire! + I DON'T HEV' T' GET UP, y' blankety Pup!' + An' the'r eyes stickin' out 'll stare, + While I send 'em plumb t' h----ll!" + + * * * * * + + P. S.--BILLY BIRD, MILLIONAIRE, REACHED WINNIPEG, + WHERE PEROXIDE BLONDES PULLED BILLY BIRD'S LEG. + YOU'LL FIND HIM TO-DAY IN A YUKON S'LOON + SLUSHIN' BEER TO TH' SAME OLD PLAYED-OUT TUNE:-- + "O! THEM GURLS THEY PULLED MY LAIG!" + + + + +INVITATION + + + I bring you a prairie greeting + Crested with sunlight sheen, + A picture of mountains rising + To snow-capped heights of green; + A call from the happy home-land + Where human hearts beat warm, + Where western corn-fields beckon + And shelter from life's storm. + + London, thy heart of riches + Hath the pulse-beat of unrest, + Where the many know no shelter, + Where the babe weeps at the breast + All bared to the winter shiver, + Where the hearth-fire, cold and dead, + Is darkened by the shadow + And Shapes of the underfed. + + Oh, the hopeless, heavy-burdened + Bearers of woe and pain,-- + Mere human stones in the highway + Of London's greed and gain. + There weeps the child whom sadness + And want have made their own; + There weeps the old, whom gladness + Is a stranger, and unknown. + + Oh, come to the land of Plenty + Where the gates swing open, wide; + Where all mankind stand equal---- + Where toil is a boast--a pride: + Where the silken palm clasps the horny hand + When the long day's work is done, + Where new life is born in the growing corn + In the land of the Setting Sun. + +NOTE.--Written in January, 1907, after seeing 700 men and women fed by +Charity on the Thames embankment as "Big Ben" struck ONE A. M. + + + + +JIM + +[Illustration: WHEN I MET WITH JIM ALONG THE DAWSON TRAIL] + + + + +JIM + + + 'Twas th' days of th' stampede--I was of th' hobo breed---- + When I met with Jim along th' Dawson trail; + F'r Bonanza I was strikin'; an' Jim? well, he was hikin' + Along th' road t' Anywhere--Jerusalam or jail. + + Seemed t' me how all th' people had got soured in his steeple, + But for wimmin most of all he'd bitter thoughts; + But we got on quite congenial, him a gen'leman--me menial, + And I got t' kind of likin' Jim----in spots! + + But he wouldn't stick t' minin'. He was always drunk an' whinin'; + An' th' boys was glad the day he quit th' camp; + Next I see him with th' crowd down at Dawson, an' I 'lowed + I never see a bigger, low-down scamp. + + Was he single? Was he marri'd? I dunno', but sure he carried + A little bit of locket on his breast, + And onct I see him open it--but that was in a dopin' fit---- + An' I laugh'd t' see Jim's mouth ag'in it pressed! + + But a fella' will act loony when he's full an' feelin' spoony, + Howsumever, Jim an' me went differ'nt ways; + Me an' th' boys with pans a-washin' cricks on old Bonanza, + An' when I met with Jim ag'in 'twas after many days. + + Bad hootch an' rotten food fetched th' scurvy quick an' good, + An' tho' I'd made my millions it didn't help me out; + I was side-tracked by th' fever, in th' hands of God's Receiver, + An' th' sexton he most had me b' th' snout! + + But them dandy little Sisters, them as cooked us with the'r blisters, + Made us swaller swill we hated "'cos th' Doctor said 'twas good"; + One I liked called "Sister Mary"--she was tiny as a Fairy-- + 'Twas a sin to hide her beauty anunder a black hood. + + Her face, tho' never smilin', had a look that was beguilin'; + Her blue eyes they would wander far away, + Jes' as if her heart was crawlin' to some Voice as was a-callin': + "MARY, LITTLE MARY!" night an' day. + + This was my fool-brain a-ravin'; I couldn't be behavin' + For th' fever to my guts was eatin' in; + But her hand upon th' pillo' was like foam upon th' billo', + When she spoke t' us of One who pardon'd sin. + + Lord, how th' fever got 'em! Lord, how th' Doctors fought 'em! + How them Sisters stood th' racket night an' day: + Talk of Angils? Up in heaven don't believe as you'd find Seven + Could beat them a-makin' plasters, or beat 'em on the Pray! + + Well, one mornin' when I waken I see th' next bed taken + By a feller, as was ravin' like a loon; + Sich a face! All hair an' blotches (th' kind th' fever scotches)---- + An' I says, says I: "His Nibs'll ketch you soon!" + + If they'd fine-tooth-combed creation f'r my personal elation + To rake in a friend an' leave him lyin' there, + Why, they couldn't a-done better with a Dawson lawyer's letter, + F'r'twas JIM beneath th' blotches an' th' hair! + + He was ravin', he was mutterin'; he was swearin', he was stutterin'; + Sister Mary trippin' round him like a little drift o' snow, + An' she hovered as a dove might with flutterin' wings of white light, + So softly that you'd wonder did she come or did she go? + + One night, I wasn't sleepin'--Sister Mary night watch keepin', + Jim, weak as a babby, lyin' there upon th' bed, + Says: "Sister,--you remind me--of a--Girl--I left behind me"---- + She gev' a little shiver, sayin': "HSH! THAT--GIRL IS--DEAD!" + + Then I he'erd old Jim a-gaspin'--her han's his han's was claspin', + Callin' "MARY, Oh, God, MARY!" eyes a-bulgin' in his head; + She was lookin' down at him, but she on'y whisper'd "J--im!" + But her face was like the face of some one dead. + + The'r han's was locked a minute--ther' wasn't no wrong in it---- + They spoke no words, but eyes looked into eyes---- + Then, without a word of talkin' she went, like one sleep-walkin', + An' I he'erd Jim groanin' tur'ble 'twixt his sighs. + + But nex' mornin' little Sister hikes along with a big blister, + Jest as dinky an' as smilin' as before; + But Jim? he lay there blinkin', I guess HE was a-thinkin' + How them little fingers trimbled takin' down his fever score. + + Doc. said old Jim was dyin'. That night I he'erd him sighin', + An' he up an' says: "Say, Pard, when I'm--at rest---- + Will you see this--little locket--goes with me--in the pocket + Of the heart that's lyin' broken--in my breast?" + + And if you're no doubtin' Thomas you'll believe I kep' that promise; + And the Face inside the locket, HUMAN EYE SHALL NEVER SEE; + P'raps it was, or wasn't Sister, her we called "Saint Mustard Blister," + When she pumped th' pills an' quinine int' pore old Jim an' me! + + + + +TALE OF THE CHE-CHA-KO + + + Che-cha-ko arrived from London Town + Wearing a sort of superior frown; + Registered, "Bellingham-Bolingbroke-Browyne" + (Hyphenating himself in the middle). + He carried of "boxes" just twenty-four, + Voted the country "A beastly boah"; + Laughed at the "shops," which he roundly swore + "Weren't worth a Ta-ra-diddle!" + + He purchased of farm lands some sections six, + Said: "With those common fawmahs I shan't mix!" + Then he started in with his La-de-dah tricks + And built him a "Countwy Seat." + Now, a "country seat" in this western land + Is top rail of a fence, or a pile of sand, + But Che-cha-ko's daily, diurnal demand + Was, "The best people I must meet." + + They met him half way, for they cleaned him out, + Drank his "extra dry" every ball and rout; + His poor working-man neighbour he called "a lout," + And laughed at the "countwy daunce." + His amazement was great to learn we "digged wells"; + Said, "We don't do it around Bow Bells"; + And, describing the life of the London swells, + Sighed: "Pore devils! you haven't a chaunce!" + + He played "Gentleman Fawmah" a year or two, + His cash was all spent (his friends went too) + And then he wanted to "borrow a few + Pounds" from his own hired man. + But the rough fellow said, "My London Cock, + When you learn to work, quit your bally talk, + You'll float your Ship-of-State off th' rock!" + (And he winked, did the hired man.) + + He considered the matter, did B. B. Browyne, + Quit every reference to "Deah London Town," + And his neighbour, "the Lout," why, he came right down + And did what we all expected: + Lent B. B. seed-grain for his season's crop;-- + Said: "Hang on, m' Boy, y'll come out on top." + He did. The Che-cha-ko never cried "stop" + Till for parliament he was elected! + + So down at Ottawa now he sits + Where he spits and smokes, and smokes and spits; + In government circles he splendidly fits, + And he's known as "Bully Boy Brown"! + For he was a man that took his chance---- + He got right down to his Song-and-Dance---- + Let out "London Pride" with his workman's lance, + Tried the smile instead of the frown. + + For the "Browyne" who would win out in the west + Is the Brown with common sense that's blest; + Leaves "Grandpa" at home with the Family crest, + Puts hand to the plow; and then---- + Follows the furrow as straight as a die, + Stout heart, steady hand, with a watchful eye; + He'll come to his own, and I'll tell you why:---- + The west is calling for MEN! + + + + +ST. BONIFACE FIRE BRIGADE + + + W'en you come wes' from de oder place + An' you want sometings for see; + Jus' come an' see St. Boniface + An' I show you sometings, me:-- + Dar's de Mission Church dat W'ittier sing---- + "Turrets twain," wher' de peoples prayed; + But dar's sometings we got better still---- + Da's St. Boniface Fire Brigade! + + Da's a g-rea-t Brigade;--has mans tree, four---- + Married mans wit be-eg fam-i-lee; + Champeau, Dorien, petite Lafleur, + An' Jean Perriault (da's ME). + Us mans we work like h--ll all day + Wit de saw, de hammer an' de spade, + But by gar, w'en de fire-bell she goes "ring," + Da's de t'am we don't was 'fraid. + + You hear dat ting 'bout d' beeg oil-house; + Tree hundre' bar'ls cotch de fire? + De smoke, mon Dieu! wit de flame go hup + To de top of de be-eg church-spire;-- + Lafleur's femme, she take de fit hon de floor---- + Ma femme, she scre-ee-ch, "Saint Marie!" + Hevery one yell--dat place look like he--ll, + Ontil Dorien, Champeau, an' ME---- + + We fill hup de tank in de Red Rivaire---- + Sacre! how de mans per--s--pire; + De peoples go cra--ss--y; Winnipeg despaire; + An' de bells dey ring, "F-i-r-e!--F-i-r-e." + W'at you t'ink happens? You nevaire don't guess---- + Notings like dat happens sence;-- + De horse runs away--de hose it go burs'---- + But we save de dog-poun' fence! + + You hear w'at 'appens once in de place? + W'en d' King's son he come Wes', + All d' womans dress hup, wash d' baby face; + An' d' mans put hon he's bes'. + Winni-peg bow down t' George d' Prince;-- + Put d' soldier-mans hon parade; + But de Prince, he sick of d' whole dam' show, + Hask: "WHER' ST. BONIFACE FIRE BRIGADE?" + + Y--as, an' w'en d' heartquake shake Frisco, + "Hend of d' worl'!" some sa-aid; + I send telegraff (cos' me tree dollaire), + "You like have my Fire Brigade?" + Hon d' las' Election, in d' Town-Hall + Laurier sp'ik; He sa--aid:-- + "Gentilhomme! if--you--want--put--dat--bad--Tory--hout, + Get St. Boniface Fire BRIGADE!" + + + + +"WINDY" + + + Lady Marmaduke Montague-Marlinford-Dunne + Came out to the Yukon in search of her son; + Heir to vast estates and to lands long entailed, + Handed down by great grandpapa's fist (which was mailed). + The young man had mushed in by the lone Chilcoot Pass + And was known to the boys as "That titled young Ass." + + For the stuff he wrote home took Belgravian breath: + "Dear Monty with savages!"--"mushing!"--"to death"! + They were shocked at the mention "pay-dirt"; and "the pan," + They fully explained, was "held by Monty's man!" + At St. James, The Carlton, The Ritz, it was told + How "Monty owns mountains and canyons of--Gold!" + + Came a lapse in the years and the letters. Despair + Seized the hearts in Belgravia--no word from the heir; + For the lure of the Northland--the life of the camp, + Had Monty the Beau transformed into a--tramp + Who had drifted, like jetsam, the breakers among, + And had almost forgotten his own mother-tongue. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration: PRAY, SIR, HAVE YOU SEEN MR. MARMADUKE] + + In the year ninety-eight arrived per Dawson stage + In December, a lady, a maid, and a page; + One clearly of rank. With the air of a queen + She stepped up to the desk, asking: "Pray, have you seen + Mr. Marmaduke Montague-Marlinford-Dunne?" + Adding proudly,--"The gentleman, Sir, is my son." + + The clerk at the desk stared and stammered, then said:-- + "No gent be that name in this shack has his bed; + But mebbe' th' Boys"--Here he calls to a bunch, + "Say, has any o' youse seed a kid with a hunch + That sounds like--Ma'am, wot was th' name o' y'r son?" + She faltered, "Sir! Montague-Marlinford-Dunne!" + + Nobody knew him--worse, nobody cared-- + But the bar-keep speaks up (while his quid he prepared), + "Say, w'ot was th' kid like?"--one stared at the other---- + "Warn't he a pardner of Billy Bird's brother? + An' had he a bench-claim know'd as 'Bloody Jim'? + 'Cos if he had ther's a warn't out f'r HIM!" + + "I'll describe him, good sirs," said the lady in tears: + "He left home just of age, namely twenty-one-years. + His hair, sunny gold, is inclined to up-curl---- + His complexion is peach-like--he's fair as a girl. + He has large, soulful eyes, they are beaming and kind,-- + A soft, bird-like voice--and an artistic mind. + + "Military in bearing--broad-shouldered and tall; + Speaks languages seven--a 'linguist,' you'd call. + Paints, sings, rides to hounds; he dresses with care; + A de-lightful manner, with most restful air:-- + Oh! prithee, good gentlemen, find me my son, + Whom all London once knew as 'THE DASHING BEAU-DUNNE!'" + + The lady was weeping in 'kerchief of lace + And she saw not the smile on the rough miner's face,-- + Who said: "Ma'am, y' won't find y'r angel up here,-- + Them pertickler brands--with 'wings'--disappear! + But here's 'Windy' comin'--he knows, th' ol' tramp, + Every Jack on th' trail, every Jill in th' camp!" + + "Bing-bang!" The door opens and "Windy" appears, + A be-whiskered, a pimple-pocked tough to his ears: + His jeans all in tatters, his muck-a-lucks worn; + His parka was dirty, and mud-splashed and torn. + His greeting: "WOW! HAND OUT A HOOTCH! DURN MY GIZZARD + IF I WARN'T COTCHED IN A HUNKER CRICK BLIZZARD!" + + The lady turns pale. Then the bar-keep behind + Hollers: "Windy, ol' cock! can YOU call t' y'r mind + A chump 'round this camp----Ma'am, wot was th' same + Double-decker y' called b' th' telescope name?"---- + But the lady, eyes staring, was shrieking, "MY SON!" + Lo! "Windy" be-whiskered was "DASHING BEAU-DUNNE!" + + + + +MY SONG + + + I could not sing unless my song + Had in its symphony one broken string; + I could not say the thoughts that in me rise + Unless my heart had been a broken thing. + Why is it that the voice of Song so yields + Mute music till the heart hath bled? + Why should we find most fair and far-off fields + By thorny by-paths led? + + But if this little weakling song of mine + Might carry cheer to one, lone, grieving soul, + Most gladly would I offer Hope's bright wine + And, smiling, drink the lees left in the bowl: + For I have in the darkness found some light,-- + Some sunshine seen in shadowed evening hours, + And I have found throughout the lonely night + Some perfumed breathings from wild garden bowers. + + And I were ingrate not to send it on, + Such echo of what music in me lies, + For it may bring to some o'er darkened dawn + The brightening glow that comes with morning skies. + So, go you, little broken Song, + And carry to some heart in bitter pain + Only my lute's light laughter. 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