All Poems

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Man Child

© Robert William Service

Then suddenly I see him rise,
Tall, stalwart and serene . . .
Lo! There he stands before my eyes,
The man he might have been.

Florrie

© Robert William Service

Because I was a wonton wild
And welcomed many a lover,
Who is the father of my child
I wish I could discover.

Pavement Poet

© Robert William Service

God's truth! these be the bitter times.
In vain I sing my sheaf of rhymes,
And hold my battered hat for dimes.

Bird Sanctuary

© Robert William Service

Between the cliff-rise and the beach
A slip of emerald I own;
With fig and olive, almond, peach,
cherry and plum-tree overgrown;

Yet may it not be, crime and war
But effort misdirected are?
And if there's good in war and crime,
There may be in my bits of rhyme,
My songs from out the slaughter mill:
So take or leave them as you will.

Externalism

© Robert William Service

The Greatest Writer of to-day
(With Maupassant I almost set him)
Said to me in a weary way,
The last occasion that I met him:

Barb-Wire Bill

© Robert William Service

Oh God! all's lost . . . from Julie Claire there came a wail of pain,
And then -- the rope grew sudden taut, and quivered at the strain;
It slacked and slipped, it whined and gripped, and oh, I held my breath!
And there we hung and there we swung right in the jaws of death.

The Whistle Of Sandy McGraw

© Robert William Service

And so you may talk o' your Steinways and Strads,
Your wonderful organs and brasses sae braw;
But oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads,
Yon wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw.

My Favourite Fan

© Robert William Service

Being a writer I receive
Sweet screeds from folk of every land;
Some are so weird you'd scarce believe,
And some quite hard to understand:
But as a conscientious man
I type my thanks to all I can.

My Chapel

© Robert William Service

In idle dream with pipe in hand
I looked across the Square,
And saw the little chapel stand
In eloquent despair.

The Robbers

© Robert William Service

Alas! I see that thrushes three
Are ravishing my old fig tree,
In whose green shade I smoked my pipe
And waited for the fruit to ripe;

Elementalist

© Robert William Service

Could Fate ordain a lot for me
Beyond all human ills,
I think that I would choose to be
A shephard of the hills;

Old Ed

© Robert William Service

Our cowman, old Ed, hadn't much in his head,
And lots of folks though him a witling;
But he wasn't a fool, for he always kept cool,
And his sole recreation was whittling.

No Sourdough

© Robert William Service

To be a bony feed Sourdough
You must, by Yukon Law,
Have killed a moose,
And robbed a sluice,
AND BUNKED UP WITH A SQUAW. . . .

The Missal Makers

To visit the Escurial
We took a motor bus,
And there a guide mercurial
Took charge of us.

Alias Bill

We bore him to his boneyard lot
One afternoon at three;
The clergyman was on the spot
To earn his modest fee.

Little Puddleton

Let others sing of Empire and of pomp beyond the sea,
A song of Little Puddleton is good enough for me,
A song of kindly living, and of coming home to tea.

Finnigan's Finish

They thought I'd be a champion;
They boasted loud of me.
A dozen victories I'd won,
The Press was proud of me.

Red-Tiled Roof

Poets may praise a wattle thatch
Doubtfully waterproof;
Let me uplift my lowly latch
Beneath a rose-tiled roof.

May Miracle

On this festive first of May,
Wending wistfully my way
Three sad sights I saw today.