And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows — O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May”.
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared — such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”; … then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm —
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
ROBERT W. SERVICE
SONG Here’s to the maid of bashful fifteen;
Here’s to the widow of fifty;
Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean,
And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty.
Chorus:
Let the toast pass,—
Drink to the lass,
I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.
Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize;
Now to the, maid who has none, sir:
Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here’s to the nymph with but one, sir.
Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow;
Now to her that’s brown as a berry:
Here’s to the wife with her face full of woe.
And now to the damsel that’s merry.
For let ’em be clumsy, or let ’em be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,
And let us e’en toast them together.
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN
SORROWS OF WERTHER Werther had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,
And for all the wealth of Indies
Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
METHUSELAH Methuselah ate what he found on his plate,
And never, as people do now,
Did he note the amount of the calory count:
He ate it because it was chow.
He wasn’t disturbed as at dinner he sat,
Devouring a roast or a pie,
To think it was lacking in granular fat
Or a couple of vitamins shy.
He cheerfully chewed each species of food,
Unmindful of troubles or fears
Lest his health might be hurt
By some fancy dessert;
And he lived over nine hundred years.
ANONYMOUS
DAYS OF BIRTH Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works for its living,
And a child that’s born on the Sabbath day
Is fair and wise and good and gay.
ANONYMOUS
A MAXIM REVISED Ladies, to this advice give heed;—
In controlling men:
If at first you don’t succeed,
Why, cry, cry again.
ANONYMOUS
Old Favorite Story Poems
DERELICT “Fifteen men on the Dead Man’s Chest—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done for the rest—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!”
The mate was fixed by the bos’n’s pike,
The bos’n brained with a marlinspike,
And Cookey’s throat was marked belike
It had been gripped
By fingers ten;
And there they lay,
All good dead men,
Like break-o’-day in a boozing-ken—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Fifteen men of a whole ship’s list—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Dead and bedamned and the rest gone whist!—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
The skipper lay with his nob in gore
Where the scullion’s ax his cheek had shore—
And the scullion he was stabbed times four.
And there they lay,
And the soggy skies
Dripped all day long
In upstaring eyes—
At murk sunset and at foul sunrise—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Fifteen men of ’em stiff and stark—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Ten of the crew had the Murder mark—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
’Twas a cutlass swipe, or an ounce of lead,
Or a yawing hole in a battered head—
And the scuppers glut with a rotting red.
&nbs
p; And there they lay—
Aye, damn my eyes!—
All lookouts clapped
On paradise—
All souls bound just contrariwise—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Fifteen men of ’em good and true—-
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Every man jack could ha’ sailed with Old Pew—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
There was chest on chest full of Spanish gold.
With a ton of plate in the middle hold,
And the cabins riot of stuff untold,
And they lay there,
That had took the plum,
With sightless glare
And their eyes struck dumb,
While we shared all by the rule of thumb—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
More was seen through the sternlight screen—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Chartings ondoubt where a woman had been!—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
A flimsy shift on a bunker cot,
With a thin dirk slot through the bosom spot
And the lace stiff-dry in a purplish blot.
Or was she wench…
Or some shuddering maid… ?
That dared the knife—
And that took the blade!
By God! She was stuff for a plucky jade—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Fifteen men on the Dead Man’s Chest—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done for the rest—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
We wrapped ’em all in a mains’l tight,
With twice ten turns of a hawser’s bight,
And we heaved ’em over and out of sight—
With a yo-heave-ho!
And a fare-you-well!
And a sullen plunge
In the sullen swell,
Ten fathoms deep on the road to hell!
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
YOUNG E. ALLISON
THE MISTLETOE BOUGH The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
The holly branch shone on the old oak wall;
And the baron’s retainers were blithe and gay,
And keeping their Christmas holiday.
The baron beheld with a father’s pride.
His beautiful child, young Lovell’s bride;
While she with her bright eyes seemed to be
The star of the goodly company.
“I’m weary of dancing now,” she cried;
“Here, tarry a moment—I’ll hide, I’ll hide!
And, Lovell, be sure thou’rt first to trace
The clew to my secret lurking place.”
Away she ran—and her friends began
Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;
And young Lovell cried, “O, where dost thou hide?
I’m lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.”
They sought her that night, and they sought her next day,.
And they sought her in vain while a week passed away;
In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought wildly—but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;
And when Lovell appeared the children cried,
“See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride.”
At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,
Was found in the castle—they raised the lid,
And a skeleton form lay moldering there
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair!
O, sad was her fate!—in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.
It closed with a spring!—and, dreadful doom,
The bride lay clasped in her living tomb!
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY
CLEOPATRA DYING Sinks the sun below the desert,
Golden glows the sluggish Nile;
Purple flame crowns Spring and Temple,
Lights up every ancient pile
Where the old gods now are sleeping;
Isis and Osiris great,
Guard me, help me, give me courage
Like a Queen to meet my fate.
“I am dying, Egypt, dying,”
Let the Caesar’s army come—
I will cheat him of his glory,
Though beyond the Styx I roam;
Shall he drag this beauty with him—
While the crowd his triumph sings?
No, no, never! I will show him
What lies in the blood of Kings.
Though he hold the golden scepter,
Rule the Pharaoh’s sunny land,
Where old Nilus rolls resistless
Through the sweeps of silvery sand—
He shall never say I met him
Fawning, abject, like a slave—
I will foil him, though to do it
I must cross the Stygian wave.
Oh, my hero, sleeping, sleeping—
Shall I meet you on the shore
Of Plutonian shadows? Shall we
In death meet and love once more?
See, I follow in your footsteps—
Scorn the Caesar in his might;
For your love I will leap boldly
Into realms of death and night.
Down below the desert sinking,
Fades Apollo’s brilliant car;
And from out the distant azure
Breaks the bright gleam of a star.
Venus, Queen of Love and Beauty,
Welcomes me to death’s embrace,
Dying, free, proud, and triumphant,
The last sovereign of my race.
Dying, dying! I am coming,
Oh, my hero, to your arms;
You will welcome me, I know it—
Guard me from all rude alarms.
Hark! I hear the legions coming,
Hear the cries of triumph swell,
But, proud Caesar, dead I scorn you—
Egypt, Antony, farewell.
THOMAS STEPHENS COLLIER
THE FACE UPON THE FLOOR ’Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there.
Which well-nigh filled Joe’s barroom on the corner of the square,
And as songs and witty stories came through the open door
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.
“Where did it come from?” someone said: “The wind has blown it in.”
“What does it want?” another cried. “Some whisky, ram or gin?
“Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach’s equal to the work—
I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s as filthy as a Turk.”
This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;
In fact, he smiled as though he thought he’d struck the proper place.
“Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a
crowd— To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.
“Give me a drink—that’s what I want—I’m out of funds, you know;
When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow.
What? You laugh as though you thought this pocket never held
a sou; I once was fixed as well, my boys, as anyone of you.
“There, thanks; that’s braced me nicely; God bless you one and all;
Next time I pass this good saloon, I’ll make another call.
Give you a song? No, I can’t do that, my singing days are past;
My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out, and my lungs are going fast
“Say! Give me another whisky, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do—
I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.
That I was ever a decent man not one of you would think;
But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another dr
ink.
“Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame—
Such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame;
Five fingers—there, that’s the scheme—and corking whisky, too.
Well, here’s luck, boys; and, landlord, my best regards to you.
“You’ve treated me pretty kindly, and I’d like to tell you how
I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health,
And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.
“I was a painter—not one that daubed on bricks and wood
But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good.
I worked hard at my canvas and was bidding fair to rise,
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.
“I made a picture, perhaps you’ve seen, ’tis called the ‘Chase of Fame,’
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name.
And then I met a woman—now comes the funny part—
With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.
“Why don’t you laugh ? ’Tis funny that the vagabond you see
Could ever love a woman and expect her love for me;
But ’twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven.
“Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you’d give,
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;
With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?
If so, ’twas she, for there never was another half so fair.
“I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,
Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way,
And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprise,
Said that she’d like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.
“It didn’t take long to know him, and before the month had flown
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