The Sceptic

    My Father Christmas passed away
    When I was barely seven.
    At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
    I lost my hope of heaven.

    Yet not in either lies the curse:
    The hell of it's because
    I don't know which loss hurt the worse -
    My God or Santa Claus.

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 Rover

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

Golden Days

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

The Rhyme Of The Remittance Man

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

The Philanderer

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

English

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The Trapper's Christmas Eve

    It's mighty lonesome-like and drear.
    Above the Wild the moon rides high,
    And shows up sharp and needle-clear
    The emptiness of earth and sky;
    No happy homes with love a-glow;
    No Santa Claus to make believe:
    Just snow and snow, and then more snow;
    It's Christmas Eve, it's Christmas Eve.

    And here am I where all things end,
    And Undesirables are hurled;
    A poor old man without a friend,
    Forgot and dead to all the world;
    Clean out of sight and out of mind . . .
    Well, maybe it is better so;
    We all in life our level find,
    And mine, I guess, is pretty low.

    Yet as I sit with pipe alight
    Beside the cabin-fire, it's queer
    This mind of mine must take to-night
    The backw...

Robert William Service

The Wife

"Tell Annie I'll be home in time
To help her with her Christmas-tree."
That's what he wrote, and hark! the chime
Of Christmas bells, and where is he?
And how the house is dark and sad,
And Annie's sobbing on my knee!

The page beside the candle-flame
With cruel type was overfilled;
I read and read until a name
Leapt at me and my heart was stilled:
My eye crept up the column - up
Unto its hateful heading: Killed.

And there was Annie on the stair:
"And will he not be long?" she said.
Her eyes were bright and in her hair
She'd twined a bit of riband red;
And every step was daddy's sure,
Till tired out she went to bed.

And there alone I sat so still,
With staring eyes that did not see;
The room was desolate and chill,

Robert William Service

The Wood-Cutter

The sky is like an envelope,
    One of those blue official things;
And, sealing it, to mock our hope,
    The moon, a silver wafer, clings.
What shall we find when death gives leave
To read - our sentence or reprieve?

I'm holding it down on God's scrap-pile, up on the fag-end of earth;
O'er me a menace of mountains, a river that grits at my feet;
Face to face with my soul-self, weighing my life at its worth;
Wondering what I was made for, here in my last retreat.

Last! Ah, yes, it's the finish. Have ever you heard a man cry?
(Sobs that rake him and rend him, right from the base of the chest.)
That's how I've cried, oh, so often; and now that my tears are dry,
I sit in the desolate quiet and wait for the infinite Rest.

Rest! Well, it's restful a...

Robert William Service

The Telegraph Operator

I will not wash my face;
I will not brush my hair;
I "pig" around the place -
There's nobody to care.
Nothing but rock and tree;
Nothing but wood and stone,
Oh, God, it's hell to be
Alone, alone, alone!

Snow-peaks and deep-gashed draws
Corral me in a ring.
I feel as if I was
The only living thing
On all this blighted earth;
And so I frowst and shrink,
And crouching by my hearth
I hear the thoughts I think.

I think of all I miss -
The boys I used to know;
The girls I used to kiss;
The coin I used to blow:
The bars I used to haunt;
The racket and the row;
The beers I didn't want
(I wish I had 'em now).

Day after day the same,
Only a little worse;
No one to grouch or blame -
Oh, for a loving...

Robert William Service

Son

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

Ah yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but oh how my eyes were dim!
With the sun in his heart he went away, but he took the sun with him.
For look! How the leaves are falling now, and the winter won't be long. . . .
Oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and the lips of love and of song!

How we used to sit at the day's sweet end, we two by the firelight's gleam,
And we'd drift to the Valley of Let's Pretend, on the beautiful river of Dream.
Oh dear little heart! All wealth untold would I gladly, gladly pay
Coul...

Robert William Service

Young Fellow My Lad

"Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad,
On this glittering morn of May?"
"I'm going to join the Colours, Dad;
They're looking for men, they say."
"But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad;
You aren't obliged to go."
"I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad,
And ever so strong, you know."

    . . . . .

"So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad,
And you're looking so fit and bright."
"I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad,
But I feel that I'm doing right."
"God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad,
You're all of my life, you know."
"Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad,
And I'm awfully proud to go."

    . . . . .

"Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad?
I watch for the post each day;
And I miss you so, an...

Robert William Service