Rhymes Of A Rolling Stone - Prelude

    I sing no idle songs of dalliance days,
    No dreams Elysian inspire my rhyming;
    I have no Celia to enchant my lays,
    No pipes of Pan have set my heart to chiming.
    I am no wordsmith dripping gems divine
    Into the golden chalice of a sonnet;
    If love songs witch you, close this book of mine,
        Waste no time on it.

    Yet bring I to my work an eager joy,
    A lusty love of life and all things human;
    Still in me leaps the wonder of the boy,
    A pride in man, a deathless faith in woman.
    Still red blood calls, still rings the valiant fray;
    Adventure beacons through the summer gloaming:
    Oh long and long and long will be the day
        Ere I come homing!

    This earth is ours to love: lute, brush and pen,
    They are but tongues to tell of life sincerely;
    The thaumaturgic Day, the might of men,
    O God of Scribes, grant us to grave them clearly!
    Grant heart that homes in heart, then all is well.
    Honey is honey-sweet, howe'er the hiving.
    Each to his work, his wage at evening bell
        The strength of striving.

Robert William Service

Robert William Service was a British-Canadian poet and writer, often referred to as 'the Bard of the Yukon.' He is best known for his poems about the Canadian North, particularly the Yukon Territory. Service's works include 'The Shooting of Dan McGrew' and 'The Cremation of Sam McGee,' which have contributed significantly to Canadian literature. His vivid and robust storytelling style, often dramatic and humorous, captivated audiences and made him a prominent literary figure of his time.

Robert William Service

The Rhyme Of The Remittance Man

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

The Wood-Cutter

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

His Boys

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

The Rover

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

English

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A Rolling Stone

    There's sunshine in the heart of me,
    My blood sings in the breeze;
    The mountains are a part of me,
    I'm fellow to the trees.
    My golden youth I'm squandering,
    Sun-libertine am I;
    A-wandering, a-wandering,
    Until the day I die.

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

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

Robert William Service

Prelude: Ballads Of A Bohemian

Alas! upon some starry height,
The Gods of Excellence to please,
This hand of mine will never smite
The Harp of High Serenities.
Mere minstrel of the street am I,
To whom a careless coin you fling;
But who, beneath the bitter sky,
Blue-lipped, yet insolent of eye,
Can shrill a song of Spring;
A song of merry mansard days,
The cheery chimney-tops among;
Of rolics and of roundelays
When we were young . . . when we were young;
A song of love and lilac nights,
Of wit, of wisdom and of wine;
Of Folly whirling on the Heights,
Of hunger and of hope divine;
Of Blanche, Suzette and Celestine,
And all that gay and tender band
Who shared with us the fat, the lean,
The hazard of Illusion-land;
When scores of Philistines we slew
As mightily wi...

Robert William Service

To the Man of the High North

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

I was the thrall of Beauty that rejoices
From peak snow-diademed to regal star;
Yet to mine aerie ever pierced the voices,
The pregnant voices of the Things That Are.

The Here, the Now, the vast Forlorn around us;
The gold-delirium, the ferine strife;
The lusts that lure us on, the hates that hound us;
Our red rags in the patch-work quilt of Life.

The nameless men who nameless rivers travel,
And in strange valleys greet strange deaths alone;
The grim, intrepid ones who would unravel
The mysteries that shroud the Polar Zone.

These will I sing, and if one of you linger<...

Robert William Service

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 chance...

Robert William Service

Foreword: Rhymes of a Red Cross Man

    I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes
    In weary, woeful, waiting times;
    In doleful hours of battle-din,
    Ere yet they brought the wounded in;
    Through vigils of the fateful night,
    In lousy barns by candle-light;
    In dug-outs, sagging and aflood,
    On stretchers stiff and bleared with blood;
    By ragged grove, by ruined road,
    By hearths accurst where Love abode;
    By broken altars, blackened shrines
    I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes.

    I've solaced me with scraps of song
    The desolated ways along:
    Through sickly fields all shrapnel-sown,
    And meadows reaped by death alone;
    By blazing cross and splintered spire,
    By headless Virgin in the mire;
    By gardens gashed amid their bloom,
   ...

Robert William Service

The Sewing-Girl

"And now, blow out your candle, lad, and get to bed. See, the dawn is in the sky. Open your window and let its freshness rouge your cheek.
You've earned your rest. Sleep."

Aye, but before I do so, let me read again the last of my Ballads.




The Sewing-Girl



The humble garret where I dwell
Is in that Quarter called the Latin;
It isn't spacious - truth to tell,
There's hardly room to swing a cat in.
But what of that! It's there I fight
For food and fame, my Muse inviting,
And all the day and half the night
You'll find me writing, writing, writing.

Now, it was in the month of May
As, wrestling with a rhyme rheumatic,
I chanced to look across the way,
And lo! within a neighbor attic,
A hand drew back the wi...

Robert William Service