Robert W Service

Robert W Service

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Robert William Service (January 16, 1874 – September 11, 1958) was a British-Canadian poet and writer, often called "the Bard of the Yukon".
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On The Wire

O God, take the sun from the sky
It's burning me, scorching me up
God, can't You hear my cry
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A Busy Man

This crowded life of God's good
No man has relished more than I;
I've been so goldarned busy livingI've never had the time to die
So busy fishing, hunting, roving,
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The Ballad Of The Ice-Worm Cocktail

To Dawson Town came Percy Brown from London on the Thames
A pane of glass was in his eye, and stockings on his stems
Upon the shoulder of his coat a leather pad he wore,
To rest his deadly rifle when it wasn't seeking gore;
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The Cremation of Sam McGee

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;
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The Three Bares

Ma tried to wash her garden slacks but couldn't get 'em
And so she thought she'd soak 'em in a bucket o' benzine
It worked all right
She wrung 'em out then wondered what she'd
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I watched one day a parrot grey - 'twas in a barber shop
" he cried, until I sighed: "You feathered devil, stop
"Then balefully he looked at me, and slid along his perch,
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Canine Conversation

If dogs could speak,
O Mademoiselle,
What funny stories they could tell
For instance, take your little "peke,"How awkward if the dear could speak
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My Mate

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 t...
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Your Poem

My poem may be yours
In melody and tone,
If in its rhythm you can readA music of your own;
If in its pale woof you can
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The Men That Dont Fit In

There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will
They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest;
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The Quest

I sought Him on the purple seas,
I sought Him on the peaks aflame;
Amid the gloom of giant
And canyons lone I called His name;
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The Spell of the Yukon

I wanted the gold, and I sought it,
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave
Was it famine or scurvy — I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave
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Each New Year's Eve I used to
On my misdoings of the past,
And vowed: "This year I'll be so good -Well, haply better than the last
"My record of reforms I
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My Ancestors

A barefoot boy I went to school To save a cobbler's fee,
For though the porridge pot was full A frugal folk were we;
We baked our bannocks, spun our wool, And counted each bawbee
We reft our living from the soil, And I was shieling ...
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Eighty Not Out

In the gay, gleamy morn I adore to go walking,
And oh what sweet people I meet on my way
I hail them with joy for I love to be talking,
Although I have nothing important to say
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A Lyric Day

I deem that there are lyric
So ripe with radiance and cheer,
So rich with gratitude and
That they enrapture all the year
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