Lyr Add: Poems by Robert W. Service

Subject: Lyr Add: Going Home
From: Monologue John
Date: 27 Mar 23 - 03:36 PM

Going Home by Robert William Service

I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty -- ain't I glad to 'ave the chance!
I'm loaded up wiv fightin', and I've 'ad my fill o' France;
I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and dance,
For I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.
I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I'm gay?
I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a year o' pay;
A harm that's mashed to jelly in the nicest sort o' way,
For it takes me 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.
'Ow everlastin' keen I was on gettin' to the front!
I'd ginger for a dozen, and I 'elped to bear the brunt;
But Cheese and Crust! I'm crazy, now I've done me little stunt,
To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin'.
I've looked upon the wine that's white, and on the wine that's red;
I've looked on cider flowin', till it fairly turned me 'ead;
But oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is done and said,
A pint o' Bass in Blighty in the mawnin'.
I'm goin' back to Blighty, which I left to strafe the 'Un;
I've fought in bloody battles, and I've 'ad a 'eap of fun;
But now me flipper's busted, and I think me dooty's done,
And I'll kiss me gel in Blighty in the mawnin'.
Oh, there be furrin' lands to see, and some of 'em be fine;
And there be furrin' gels to kiss, and scented furrin' wine;
But there's no land like England, and no other gel like mine:
Thank Gawd for dear old Blighty in the mawnin'.

Subject: ADD: My Mate (Robert W. Service)
From: Monologue John
Date: 03 Sep 24 - 04:18 AM

MY MATE
(Robert w. Service)

I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots,
    And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im.
(Look out there, lad! That sniper — 'e's a dysey when 'e shoots;
    'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.)
Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead,
    To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud;
And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red,
    Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot — but it's blood.

And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals.
    'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me;
And sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals,
    And even there we 'ad no disagree.
For when 'e copped Mariar Jones, the one I liked the best,
    I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid;
I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elped 'im make 'is nest,
    I even stood god-farther to the kid.

So when the war broke out, sez 'e: "Well, wot abaht it, Joe?"
    "Well, wot abaht it, lad?" sez I to 'im.
'Is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad to go,
    ('E always was 'igh-sperrited was Jim).
Well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most of it's been 'ell,
    But we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved our bread.
We'd all the luck at Wipers, and we shaved through Noove Chapelle,
    And . . . that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 'ead.

Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn't me was took?
    I've only got meself, 'e stands for three.
I'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'andsome as a dook;
    'E always was a better man than me.
'E was goin' 'ome next Toosday; 'e was 'appy as a lark,
    And 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid;
And 'e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark,
    When . . . that bleedin' bullet got 'im on the lid.

'E was killed so awful sudden that 'e 'adn't time to die.
    'E sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud.
Them corpsy-lookin' star-shells kept a-streamin' in the sky,
    And there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud.
And there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 'is 'ead,
    And I'm sick, and blamed if I can understand:
The pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, and zip! like that — 'e's dead,
    Wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and.

There's some as fights for freedom and there's some as fights for fun,
    But me, my lad, I fights for bleedin' 'ate.
You can blame the war and blast it, but I 'opes it won't be done
    Till I gets the bloomin' blood-price for me mate.
It'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for Jim;
    Then if I'm spared I think I'll 'ave a bid,
Wiv 'er that was Mariar Jones to take the place of 'im,
    To sorter be a farther to 'is kid.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Poems by Robert Sevice
From: Monologue John
Date: 03 Sep 24 - 04:20 AM

'The Ballad Of Soulful Sam' by Robert Service

You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin' line,
Of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where the bullets whine;
Out there where the bombs are bustin',
and the cannons like 'ell-doors slam --
Just order another drink, boys, and I'll tell you of Soulful Sam.

Oh, Sam, he was never 'ilarious, though I've 'ad some mates as was wus;
He 'adn't C. B. on his programme, he never was known to cuss.
For a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he 'adn't a friendly word;
But when it came down to Scriptures, say! Wasn't he just a bird!

He always 'ad tracts in his pocket, the which he would haste to present,
And though the fellers would use them in ways that they never was meant,
I used to read 'em religious, and frequent I've been impressed
By some of them bundles of 'oly dope he carried around in his vest.

For I -- and oh, 'ow I shudder at the 'orror the word conveys!
'Ave been -- let me whisper it 'oarsely -- a gambler 'alf of me days;
A gambler, you 'ear -- a gambler. It makes me wishful to weep,
And yet 'ow it's true, my brethren! -- I'd rather gamble than sleep.

I've gambled the 'ole world over, from Monte Carlo to Maine;
From Dawson City to Dover, from San Francisco to Spain.
Cards! They 'ave been me ruin. They've taken me pride and me pelf,
And when I'd no one to play with -- why, I'd go and I'd play by meself.

And Sam 'e would sit and watch me, as I shuffled a greasy deck,
And 'e'd say: "You're bound to Perdition,"
And I'd answer: "Git off me neck!"
And that's 'ow we came to get friendly, though built on a different plan,
Me wot's a desprite gambler, 'im sich a good young man.

But on to me tale. Just imagine . . . Darkness! The battle-front!
The furious 'Uns attackin'! Us ones a-bearin' the brunt!
Me crouchin' be'ind a sandbag, tryin' 'ard to keep calm,
When I 'ears someone singin' a 'ymn toon; be'old! it is Soulful Sam.

Yes; right in the crash of the combat, in the fury of flash and flame,
'E was shootin' and singin' serenely as if 'e enjoyed the same.
And there in the 'eat of the battle, as the 'ordes of demons attacked,
He dipped down into 'is tunic, and 'e 'anded me out a tract.

Then a star-shell flared, and I read it: Oh, Flee From the Wrath to Come!
Nice cheerful subject, I tell yer, when you're 'earin' the bullets 'um.
And before I 'ad time to thank 'im, just one of them bits of lead
Comes slingin' along in a 'urry, and it 'its my partner. . . . Dead?

No, siree! not by a long sight! For it plugged 'im 'ard on the chest,
Just where 'e'd tracts for a army corps stowed away in 'is vest.
On its mission of death that bullet 'ustled along, and it caved
A 'ole in them tracts to 'is 'ide, boys -- but the life o' me pal was saved.

And there as 'e showed me in triumph, and 'orror was chokin' me breath,
On came another bullet on its 'orrible mission of death;
On through the night it cavorted, seekin' its 'aven of rest,
And it zipped through a crack in the sandbags, and it wolloped me bang on the breast.

Was I killed, do you ask? Oh no, boys. Why am I sittin' 'ere
Gazin' with mournful vision at a mug long empty of beer?
With a throat as dry as a -- oh, thanky! I don't much mind if I do.
Beer with a dash of 'ollands, that's my particular brew.

Yes, that was a terrible moment. It 'ammered me 'ard o'er the 'eart;
It bowled me down like a nine-pin, and I looked for the gore to start;
And I saw in the flash of a moment, in that thunder of hate and strife,
Me wretched past like a pitchur -- the sins of a gambler's life.

For I 'ad no tracts to save me, to thwart that mad missile's doom;
I 'ad no pious pamphlets to 'elp me to cheat the tomb;
I 'ad no 'oly leaflets to baffle a bullet's aim;
I'd only -- a deck of cards, boys, but . . . it seemed to do just the same.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Poems by Robert Sevice
From: Doug Chadwick
Date: 03 Sep 24 - 11:20 AM

According to Wikipedia, Robert Service was a Scottish-Canadian poet but his birthplace is given as Preston, Lancashire.

This poem uses is from his 'Bar-room Ballads' and is described as A LANCASHIRE BALLAD.

Bessie's Boil by Robert Service

Says I to my Missis: "Ba goom, lass! you've something I see, on your mind."
Says she: "You are right, Sam, I've something. It 'appens it's on me be'ind.
A Boil as 'ud make Job jealous. It 'urts me no end when I sit."
Says I: "Go to 'ospittel, Missis. They might 'ave to coot it a bit."
Says she: "I just 'ate to be showin' the part of me person it's at."
Says I: "Don't be fussy; them doctors see sights more 'orrid than that."

So Misses goes off togged up tasty, and there at the 'ospittel door
They tells 'er to see the 'ouse Doctor, 'oose office is Room Thirty-four.
So she 'unts up and down till she finds it, and knocks and a voice says: "Come in,"
And there is a 'andsome young feller, in white from 'is 'eels to 'is chin.
"I've got a big boil," says my Missis. "It 'urts me for fair when I sit,
And Sam (that's me 'usband) 'as asked me to ask you to coot it a bit."
Then blushin' she plucks up her courage, and bravely she shows 'im the place,
And 'e gives it a proper inspection, wi' a 'eap o' surprise on 'is face.
Then 'e says wi' an accent o' Scotland: "Whit ye hae is a bile, Ah can feel,
But ye'd better consult the heid Dockter; they caw him Professor O'Niel.
He's special for biles and carbuncles. Ye'll find him in Room Sixty-three.
No charge, Ma'am. It's been a rare pleasure. Jist tell him ye're comin' from me."

So Misses she thanks 'im politely, and 'unts up and down as before,
Till she comes to a big 'andsome room with "Professor O'Neil" on the door.
Then once more she plucks up her courage, and knocks, and a voice says: "All right."
So she enters, and sees a fat feller wi' whiskers, all togged up in white.
"I've got a big boil," says my Missis, "and if ye will kindly permit,
I'd like for to 'ave you inspect it; it 'urts me like all when I sit."
So blushin' as red as a beet-root she 'astens to show 'im the spot,
And 'e says wi' a look o' amazement: "Sure, Ma'am, it must hurt ye a lot."
Then 'e puts on 'is specs to regard it, and finally says wi' a frown:
"I'll bet it's as sore as the divvle, especially whin ye sit down.
I think it's a case for the Surgeon; ye'd better consult Doctor Hoyle.
I've no hisitation in sayin' yer boil is a hill of a boil."

So Misses she thanks 'im for sayin' her boil is a hill of a boil,
And 'unts all around till she comes on a door that is marked: "Doctor Hoyle."
But by now she 'as fair got the wind up, and trembles in every limb;
But she thinks: "After all, 'e's a Doctor. Ah moosn't be bashful wi' 'im."
She's made o' good stuff is the Missis, so she knocks and a voice says: "Oos there?"
"It's me," says ma Bessie, an' enters a room which is spacious and bare.
And a wise-lookin' old feller greets 'er, and 'e too is togged up in white.
"It's the room where they coot ye," thinks Bessie; and shakes like a jelly wi' fright.
"Ah got a big boil," begins Missis, "and if ye are sure you don't mind,
I'd like ye to see it a moment. It 'urts me, because it's be'ind."
So thinkin' she'd best get it over, she 'astens to show 'im the place,
And 'e stares at 'er kindo surprised like, an' gets very red in the face.
But 'e looks at it most conscientious, from every angle of view,
Then 'e says wi' a shrug o' 'is shoulders: "Pore Lydy, I'm sorry for you.
It wants to be cut, but you should 'ave a medical bloke to do that.
Sye, why don't yer go to the 'orsespittel, where all the Doctors is at?
Ye see, Ma'am, this part o' the buildin' is closed on account o' repairs;
Us fellers is only the pynters, a-pyntin' the 'alls and the stairs."


DC

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Poems by Robert W. Service
From: GUEST,henryp
Date: 04 Sep 24 - 10:30 AM

A plaque in Christian Road, Preston - not far from the station - records;

Robert William Service 1874-1958
Poet of the Yukon and socialist
was born in a house near this site.

His father, also Robert Service, was a banker from Kilwinning, Scotland, who had been transferred to England.
He moved to Scotland at the age of five, living with his grandfather and three aunts
until his parents moved to Glasgow four years later and the family reunited.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Poems by Robert W. Service
From: Monologue John
Date: 09 Sep 24 - 02:41 PM

The Parson's Son by Robert W. Service

  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 were all 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.