Music poems
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Accordion
© Robert William Service
Yes, I'll hank you, and I'll spank you,
And I'll everlasting yank you
To the cinder-swinging satellites of Hell.
The Ballad Of Touch-The-Button Nell
© Robert William Service
They gave a dance in Lousetown, and the Tenderloin was there,
The girls were fresh and frolicsome, and nearly all were fair.
They flaunted on their back the spoil of half-a-dozen towns;
And some they blazed in gems of price, and some wore Paris gowns.
The voting was divided as to who might be the belle;
But all opined, the winsomest was Touch-the-Button Nell.
Poor Peter
© Robert William Service
Blind Peter Piper used to play
All up and down the city;
I'd often meet him on my way,
And throw a coin for pity.
Making Good
© Robert William Service
No man can be a failure if he thinks he's a success;
he may not own his roof-tree overhead,
He may be on his uppers and have hocked his evening dress -
(Financially speaking - in the red)
White Christmas
© Robert William Service
My folks think I'm a serving maid
Each time I visit home;
They do not dream I ply a trade
As old as Greece or Rome;
New Year's Eve
© Robert William Service
It's cruel cold on the water-front, silent and dark and drear;
Only the black tide weltering, only the hissing snow;
And I, alone, like a storm-tossed wreck, on this night of the glad New Year,
Shuffling along in the icy wind, ghastly and gaunt and slow.
The Volunteer
© Robert William Service
Sez I: My Country calls? Well, let it call.
I grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks.
Go, let 'em plaster every blighted wall,
'Ere's ONE they don't stampede into the ranks.
The Home-Coming
© Robert William Service
My boy's come back; he's here at last;
He came home on a special train.
My longing and my ache are past,
My only son is back again.
My Garden
© Robert William Service
The world is sadly sick, they say,
And plagued by woe and pain.
But look! How looms my garden gay,
With blooms in golden reign!
The Shooting Of Dan McGrew
© Robert William Service
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.
Mud
© Robert William Service
Mud is Beauty in the making,
Mud is melody awaking;
Laughter, leafy whisperings,
Butterflies with rainbow wings;
Your Poem
© Robert William Service
My poem may be yours indeed
In melody and tone,
If in its rhythm you can read
A music of your own;
When and Why
© Rabindranath Tagore
When I bring you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there
is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are
painted in tints-when I give coloured toys to you, my child.
When I sing to make you dance, I truly know why there is music
The Unheeded Pageant
© Rabindranath Tagore
Ah, who was it coloured that little frock, my child, and covered
your sweet limbs with that little red tunic?
You have come out in the morning to play in the courtyard,
tottering and tumbling as you run.
The Gardener XIV: I Was Walking by the Road
© Rabindranath Tagore
I was walking by the road, I do not
know why, when the noonday was past
and bamboo branches rustled in the
wind.
The Gardener LXVIII: None Lives For Ever, Brother
© Rabindranath Tagore
None lives for ever, brother, and
nothing lasts for long. Keep that in
mind and rejoice.
Our life is not the one old burden,
The End
© Rabindranath Tagore
It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.
When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out
your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, "Baby is not
here!"-mother, I am going.
Ocean of Forms
© Rabindranath Tagore
Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss
where swells up the music of toneless strings
I shall take this harp of my life.
My Song
© Rabindranath Tagore
This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like
the fond arms of love.
This song of mine will touch your forehead like a kiss of
blessing.
Lover's Gifts XXII: I Shall Gladly Suffer
© Rabindranath Tagore
I shall gladly suffer the pride of culture to die out in my house,
if only in some happy future I am born a herd-boy in the Brinda
forest.
The herd-boy who grazes his cattle sitting under the banyan
