- The clover was in blossom, an' the year was at the June,
- When Flap-jack Billy hit the town, likewise O'Flynn's saloon.
- The frost was on the fodder an' the wind was growin' keen,
- When Billy got to seein' snakes in Sullivan's shebeen.
- Then in meandered Deep-hole Dan, once comrade of the cup:
- "Oh Billy, for the love of Mike, why don't ye sober up?
- I've got the gorgus recipay, 'tis smooth an' slick as silk --
- Jest quit yer strangle-holt on hooch, an' irrigate with milk.
- Lackteeal flooid is the lubrication you require;
- Yer nervus frame-up's like a bunch of snarled piano wire.
- You want to get it coated up with addypose tishoo,
- So's it will work elastic-like, an' milk's the dope for you."
- Well, Billy was complyable, an' in a month it's strange,
- That cow-juice seemed to oppyrate a most amazin' change.
- "Call up the water-wagon, Dan, an' book my seat," sez he.
- "'Tis mighty queer," sez Deep-hole Dan, "'twas just the same with me."
- They shanghaied little Tim O'Shane, they cached him safe away,
- An' though he objurgated some, they "cured" him night an' day;
- An' pretty soon there came the change amazin' to explain:
- "I'll never take another drink," sez Timothy O'Shane.
- They tried it out on Spike Muldoon, that toper of renown;
- They put it over Grouch McGraw, the terror of the town.
- They roped in "tanks" from far and near, an' every test was sure,
- An' like a flame there ran the fame of Deep-hole's Cow-juice Cure.
- "It's mighty queer," sez Deep-hole Dan, "I'm puzzled through and through;
- It's only milk from Riley's ranch, no other milk will do."
- An' it jest happened on that night with no predictive plan,
- He left some milk from Riley's ranch a-settin' in a pan;
- An' picture his amazement when he poured that milk next day --
- There in the bottom of the pan a dozen "colours" lay.
- "Well, what d'ye know 'bout that," sez Dan; "Gosh ding my dasted eyes,
- We've been an' had the Gold Cure, Bill, an' none of us was wise.
- The milk's free-millin' that's a cinch; there's colours everywhere.
- Now, let us figger this thing out -- how does the dust git there?
- 'Gold from the grass-roots down', they say -- why, Bill! we've got it cold --
- Them cows what nibbles up the grass, jest nibbles up the gold.
- We're blasted, bloomin' millionaires; dissemble an' lie low:
- We'll follow them gold-bearin' cows, an' prospect where they go."
- An' so it came to pass, fer weeks them miners might be found
- A-sneakin' round on Riley's ranch, an' snipin' at the ground;
- Till even Riley stops an' stares, an' presently allows:
- "Them boys appear to take a mighty interest in cows."
- An' night an' day they shadowed each auriferous bovine,
- An' panned the grass-roots on their trail, yet nivver gold they seen.
- An' all that season, secret-like, they worked an' nothin' found;
- An' there was colours in the milk, but none was in the ground.
- An' mighty desperate was they, an' down upon their luck,
- When sudden, inspirationlike, the source of it they struck.
- An' where d'ye think they traced it to? it grieves my heart to tell --
- In the black sand at the bottom of that wicked milkman's well.
- Light up your pipe again, old chum, and sit awhile with me;
- I've got to watch the bannock bake -- how restful is the air!
- You'd little think that we were somewhere north of Sixty-three,
- Though where I don't exactly know, and don't precisely care.
- The man-size mountains palisade us round on every side;
- The river is a-flop with fish, and ripples silver-clear;
- The midnight sunshine brims yon cleft -- we think it's the Divide;
- We'll get there in a month, maybe, or maybe in a year.
- It doesn't matter, does it, pal? We're of that breed of men
- With whom the world of wine and cards and women disagree;
- Your trouble was a roofless game of poker now and then,
- And "raising up my elbow", that's what got away with me.
- We're merely "Undesirables", artistic more or less;
- My horny hands are Chopin-wise; you quote your Browning well;
- And yet we're fooling round for gold in this damned wilderness:
- The joke is, if we found it, we would both go straight to hell.
- Well, maybe we won't find it -- and at least we've got the "life".
- We're both as brown as berries, and could wrestle with a bear:
- (That bannock's raising nicely, pal; just jab it with your knife.)
- Fine specimens of manhood they would reckon us out there.
- It's the tracking and the packing and the poling in the sun;
- It's the sleeping in the open, it's the rugged, unfaked food;
- It's the snow-shoe and the paddle, and the campfire and the gun,
- And when I think of what I was, I know that it is good.
- Just think of how we've poled all day up this strange little stream;
- Since life began no eye of man has seen this place before;
- How fearless all the wild things are! the banks with goose-grass gleam,
- And there's a bronzy musk-rat sitting sniffing at his door.
- A mother duck with brood of ten comes squattering along;
- The tawny, white-winged ptarmigan are flying all about;
- And in that swirly, golden pool, a restless, gleaming throng,
- The trout are waiting till we condescend to take them out.
- Ah, yes, it's good! I'll bet that there's no doctor like the Wild:
- (Just turn that bannock over there; it's getting nicely brown.)
- I might be in my grave by now, forgotten and reviled,
- Or rotting like a sickly cur in some far, foreign town.
- I might be that vile thing I was, -- it all seems like a dream;
- I owed a man a grudge one time that only life could pay;
- And yet it's half-forgotten now -- how petty these things seem!
- (But that's "another story", pal; I'll tell it you some day.)
- How strange two "irresponsibles" should chum away up here!
- But round the Arctic Circle friends are few and far between.
- We've shared the same camp-fire and tent for nigh on seven year,
- And never had a word that wasn't cheering and serene.
- We've halved the toil and split the spoil, and borne each other's packs;
- By all the Wild's freemasonry we're brothers, tried and true;
- We've swept on danger side by side, and fought it back to back,
- And you would die for me, old pal, and I would die for you.
- Now there was that time I got lost in Rory Bory Land,
- (How quick the blizzards sweep on one across that Polar sea!)
- You formed a rescue crew of One, and saw a frozen hand
- That stuck out of a drift of snow -- and, partner, it was Me.
- But I got even, did I not, that day the paddle broke?
- White water on the Coppermine -- a rock -- a split canoe --
- Two fellows struggling in the foam (one couldn't swim a stroke):
- A half-drowned man I dragged ashore . . . and partner, it was You.
- * * * * *
- In Rory Borealis Land the winter's long and black.
- The silence seems a solid thing, shot through with wolfish woe;
- And rowelled by the eager stars the skies vault vastly back,
- And man seems but a little mite on that weird-lit plateau.
- No thing to do but smoke and yarn of wild and misspent lives,
- Beside the camp-fire there we sat -- what tales you told to me
- Of love and hate, and chance and fate, and temporary wives!
- In Rory Borealis Land, beside the Arctic Sea.
- One yarn you told me in those days I can remember still;
- It seemed as if I visioned it, so sharp you sketched it in;
- Bellona was the name, I think; a coast town in Brazil,
- Where nobody did anything but serenade and sin.
- I saw it all -- the jewelled sea, the golden scythe of sand,
- The stately pillars of the palms, the feathery bamboo,
- The red-roofed houses and the swart, sun-dominated land,
- The people ever children, and the heavens ever blue.
- You told me of that girl of yours, that blossom of old Spain,
- All glamour, grace and witchery, all passion, verve and glow.
- How maddening she must have been! You made me see her plain,
- There by our little camp-fire, in the silence and the snow.
- You loved her and she loved you. She'd a husband, too, I think,
- A doctor chap, you told me, whom she treated like a dog,
- A white man living on the beach, a hopeless slave to drink --
- (Just turn that bannock over there, that's propped against the log.)
- That story seemed to strike me, pal -- it happens every day:
- You had to go away awhile, then somehow it befell
- The doctor chap discovered, gave her up, and disappeared;
- You came back, tired of her in time . . . there's nothing more to tell.
- Hist! see those willows silvering where swamp and river meet!
- Just reach me up my rifle quick; that's Mister Moose, I know --
- There now, I've got him dead to rights . . . but hell! we've lots to eat
- I don't believe in taking life -- we'll let the beggar go.
- Heigh ho! I'm tired; the bannock's cooked; it's time we both turned in.
- The morning mist is coral-kissed, the morning sky is gold.
- The camp-fire's a confessional -- what funny yarns we spin!
- It sort of made me think a bit, that story that you told.
- The fig-leaf belt and Rory Bory are such odd extremes,
- Yet after all how very small this old world seems to be . . .
- Yes, that was quite a yarn, old pal, and yet to me it seems
- You missed the point: the point is that the "doctor chap" . . . was Me. . . .
The Lost Master
- "And when I come to die," he said,
- "Ye shall not lay me out in state,
- Nor leave your laurels at my head,
- Nor cause your men of speech orate;
- No monument your gift shall be,
- No column in the Hall of Fame;
- But just this line ye grave for me:
- 'He played the game.'"
- So when his glorious task was done,
- It was not of his fame we thought;
- It was not of his battles won,
- But of the pride with which he fought;
- But of his zest, his ringing laugh,
- His trenchant scorn of praise or blame:
- And so we graved his epitaph,
- "He played the game."
- And so we, too, in humbler ways
- Went forth to fight the fight anew,
- And heeding neither blame nor praise,
- We held the course he set us true.
- And we, too, find the fighting sweet;
- And we, too, fight for fighting's sake;
- And though we go down in defeat,
- And though our stormy hearts may break,
- We will not do our Master shame:
- We'll play the game, please God,
- We'll play the game.
- Come out, O Little Moccasins, and frolic on the snow!
- Come out, O tiny beaded feet, and twinkle in the light!
- I'll play the old Red River reel, you used to love it so:
- Awake, O Little Moccasins, and dance for me to-night!
- Your hair was all a gleamy gold, your eyes a corn-flower blue;
- Your cheeks were pink as tinted shells, you stepped light as a fawn;
- Your mouth was like a coral bud, with seed pearls peeping through;
- As gladdening as Spring you were, as radiant as dawn.
- Come out, O Little Moccasins! I'll play so soft and low,
- The songs you loved, the old heart-songs that in my mem'ry ring;
- O child, I want to hear you now beside the campfire glow!
- With all your heart a-throbbing in the simple words you sing.
- For there was only you and I, and you were all to me;
- And round us were the barren lands, but little did we fear;
- Of all God's happy, happy folks the happiest were we. . . .
- (Oh, call her, poor old fiddle mine, and maybe she will hear!)
- Your mother was a half-breed Cree, but you were white all through;
- And I, your father was -- but well, that's neither here nor there;
- I only know, my little Queen, that all my world was you,
- And now that world can end to-night, and I will never care.
- For there's a tiny wooden cross that pricks up through the snow:
- (Poor Little Moccasins! you're tired, and so you lie at rest.)
- And there's a grey-haired, weary man beside the campfire glow:
- (O fiddle mine! the tears to-night are drumming on your breast.)
- The Wanderlust has lured me to the seven lonely seas,
- Has dumped me on the tailing-piles of dearth;
- The Wanderlust has haled me from the morris chairs of ease,
- Has hurled me to the ends of all the earth.
- How bitterly I've cursed it, oh, the Painted Desert knows,
- The wraithlike heights that hug the pallid plain,
- The all-but-fluid silence, -- yet the longing grows and grows,
- And I've got to glut the Wanderlust again.
- Soldier, sailor, in what a plight I've been!
- Tinker, tailor, oh what a sight I've seen!
- And I'm hitting the trail in the morning, boys,
- And you won't see my heels for dust;
- For it's "all day" with you
- When you answer the cue
- Of the Wan-der-lust.
- The Wanderlust has got me . . . by the belly-aching fire,
- By the fever and the freezing and the pain;
- By the darkness that just drowns you, by the wail of home desire,
- I've tried to break the spell of it -- in vain.
- Life might have been a feast for me, now there are only crumbs;
- In rags and tatters, beggar-wise I sit;
- Yet there's no rest or peace for me, imperious it drums,
- The Wanderlust, and I must follow it.
- Highway, by-way, many a mile I've done;
- Rare way, fair way, many a height I've won;
- But I'm pulling my freight in the morning, boys,
- And it's over the hills or bust;
- For there's never a cure
- When you list to the lure
- Of the Wan-der-lust.
- The Wanderlust has taught me . . . it has whispered to my heart
- Things all you stay-at-homes will never know.
- The white man and the savage are but three short days apart,
- Three days of cursing, crawling, doubt and woe.
- Then it's down to chewing muclucs, to the water you can EAT,
- To fish you bolt with nose held in your hand.
- When you get right down to cases, it's King's Grub that rules the races,
- And the Wanderlust will help you understand.
- Haunting, taunting, that is the spell of it;
- Mocking, baulking, that is the hell of it;
- But I'll shoulder my pack in the morning, boys,
- And I'm going because I must;
- For it's so-long to all
- When you answer the call
- Of the Wan-der-lust.
- The Wanderlust has blest me . . . in a ragged blanket curled,
- I've watched the gulf of Heaven foam with stars;
- I've walked with eyes wide open to the wonder of the world,
- I've seen God's flood of glory burst its bars.
- I've seen the gold a-blinding in the riffles of the sky,
- Till I fancied me a bloated plutocrat;
- But I'm freedom's happy bond-slave, and I will be till I die,
- And I've got to thank the Wanderlust for that.
- Wild heart, child heart, all of the world your home.
- Glad heart, mad heart, what can you do but roam?
- Oh, I'll beat it once more in the morning, boys,
- With a pinch of tea and a crust;
- For you cannot deny
- When you hark to the cry
- Of the Wan-der-lust.
- The Wanderlust will claim me at the finish for its own.
- I'll turn my back on men and face the Pole.
- Beyond the Arctic outposts I will venture all alone;
- Some Never-never Land will be my goal.
- Thank God! there's none will miss me, for I've been a bird of flight;
- And in my moccasins I'll take my call;
- For the Wanderlust has ruled me,
- And the Wanderlust has schooled me,
- And I'm ready for the darkest trail of all.
- Grim land, dim land, oh, how the vastness calls!
- Far land, star land, oh, how the stillness falls!
- For you never can tell if it's heaven or hell,
- And I'm taking the trail on trust;
- But I haven't a doubt
- That my soul will leap out
- On its Wan-der-lust.
- 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 backward trail of fifty year.
- The school-house and the Christmas tree;
- The children with their cheeks a-glow;
- Two bright blue eyes that smile on me . . .
- Just half a century ago.
- Again (it's maybe forty years),
- With faith and trust almost divine,
- These same blue eyes, abrim with tears,
- Through depths of love look into mine.
- A parting, tender, soft and low,
- With arms that cling and lips that cleave . . .
- Ah me! it's all so long ago,
- Yet seems so sweet this Christmas Eve.
- Just thirty years ago, again . . .
- We say a bitter, last good-bye;
- Our lips are white with wrath and pain;
- Our little children cling and cry.
- Whose was the fault? it matters not,
- For man and woman both deceive;
- It's buried now and all forgot,
- Forgiven, too, this Christmas Eve.
- And she (God pity me) is dead;
- Our children men and women grown.
- I like to think that they are wed,
- With little children of their own,
- That crowd around their Christmas tree . . .
- I would not ever have them grieve,
- Or shed a single tear for me,
- To mar their joy this Christmas Eve.
- Stripped to the buff and gaunt and still
- Lies all the land in grim distress.
- Like lost soul wailing, long and shrill,
- A wolf-howl cleaves the emptiness.
- Then hushed as Death is everything.
- The moon rides haggard and forlorn . . .
- "O hark the herald angels sing!"
- God bless all men -- it's Christmas morn.
- Be honest, kindly, simple, true;
- Seek good in all, scorn but pretence;
- Whatever sorrow come to you,
- Believe in Life's Beneficence!
- The World's all right; serene I sit,
- And cease to puzzle over it.
- There's much that's mighty strange, no doubt;
- But Nature knows what she's about;
- And in a million years or so
- We'll know more than to-day we know.
- Old Evolution's under way --
- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
- Could things be other than they are?
- All's in its place, from mote to star.
- The thistledown that flits and flies
- Could drift no hair-breadth otherwise.
- What is, must be; with rhythmic laws
- All Nature chimes, Effect and Cause.
- The sand-grain and the sun obey --
- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
- Just try to get the Cosmic touch,
- The sense that "you" don't matter much.
- A million stars are in the sky;
- A million planets plunge and die;
- A million million men are sped;
- A million million wait ahead.
- Each plays his part and has his day --
- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
- Just try to get the Chemic view:
- A million million lives made "you".
- In lives a million you will be
- Immortal down Eternity;
- Immortal on this earth to range,
- With never death, but ever change.
- You always were, and will be aye --
- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
- Be glad! And do not blindly grope
- For Truth that lies beyond our scope:
- A sober plot informeth all
- Of Life's uproarious carnival.
- Your day is such a little one,
- A gnat that lives from sun to sun;
- Yet gnat and you have parts to play --
- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
- And though it's written from the start,
- Just act your best your little part.
- Just be as happy as you can,
- And serve your kind, and die -- a man.
- Just live the good that in you lies,
- And seek no guerdon of the skies;
- Just make your Heaven here, to-day --
- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
- Remember! in Creation's swing
- The Race and not the man's the thing.
- There's battle, murder, sudden death,
- And pestilence, with poisoned breath.
- Yet quick forgotten are such woes;
- On, on the stream of Being flows.
- Truth, Beauty, Love uphold their sway --
- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
- The World's all right; serene I sit,
- And joy that I am part of it;
- And put my trust in Nature's plan,
- And try to aid her all I can;
- Content to pass, if in my place
- I've served the uplift of the Race.
- Truth! Beauty! Love! O Radiant Day --
- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
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