Robert W. Service. Robert W. Service

was an apache from Montmartre;

      On my left there was a millionaire from Pittsburgh, U.S.A.

      (Poor fellow! They collected him in bits the other day.)

      But I’m sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago,

      And they calls me Old Methoosalah, and blagues me all the day.

      I’m their exhibition sniper, and they work me like a Dago,

      And laugh to see me plug a Boche a half a mile away.

      Oh I hold the highest record in the regiment, they say.

      And at night they gather round me, and I tell them of my roaming

      In the Country of the Crepuscule beside the Frozen Sea,

      Where the musk-ox runs unchallenged, and the cariboo goes homing;

      And they sit like little children, just as quiet as can be:

      Men of every crime and colour, how they harken unto me!

      And I tell them of the Furland, of the tumpline and the paddle,

      Of secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore;

      And I tell them of the ranges, of the pack-strap and the saddle,

      And they fill their pipes in silence, and their eyes beseech for more;

      While above the star-shells fizzle and the high explosives roar.

      And I tell of lakes fish-haunted, where the big bull moose are calling,

      And forests still as sepulchres with never trail or track;

      And valleys packed with purple gloom, and mountain peaks appalling,

      And I tell of my cabin on the shore at Fond du Lac;

      And I find myself a-thinking: Sure I wish that I was back.

      So I brag of bear and beaver while the batteries are roaring,

      And the fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe;

      And I yarn of fur and feather when the marmites are a-soaring,

      And they listen to my stories, seven poilus in a row,

      Seven lean and lousy poilus with their cigarettes aglow.

      And I tell them when it’s over how I’ll hike for Athabaska;

      And those seven greasy poilus they are crazy to go too.

      And I’ll give the wife the “pickle-tub” I promised, and I’ll ask her

      The price of mink and marten, and the run of cariboo,

      And I’ll get my traps in order, and I’ll start to work anew.

      For I’ve had my fill of fighting, and I’ve seen a nation scattered,

      And an army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore,

      And a city all a-smoulder, and … as if it really mattered,

      For the lake is yonder dreaming, and my cabin’s on the shore;

      And the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife is singing gladly,

      And I’ll rest in Athabaska, and I’ll leave it nevermore.

      Pilgrims

      For, oh, when the war will be over

      We’ll go and we’ll look for our dead;

      We’ll go when the bee’s on the clover,

      And the plume of the poppy is red:

      We’ll go when the year’s at its gayest,

      When meadows are laughing with flow’rs;

      And there where the crosses are greyest,

      We’ll seek for the cross that is ours.

      For they cry to us: Friends, we are lonely,

      A-weary the night and the day;

      But come in the blossom-time only,

      Come when our graves will be gay:

      When daffodils all are a-blowing,

      And larks are a-thrilling the skies,

      Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing,

      And the joy of the Spring in your eyes.

      But never, oh, never come sighing,

      For ours was the Splendid Release;

      And oh, but ’twas joy in the dying

      To know we were winning you Peace!

      So come when the valleys are sheening,

      And fledged with the promise of grain;

      And here where our graves will be greening,

      Just smile and be happy again.

      And so, when the war will be over,

      We’ll seek for the Wonderful One;

      And maiden will look for her lover,

      And mother will look for her son;

      And there will be end to our grieving,

      And gladness will gleam over loss,

      As — glory beyond all believing!

      We point … to a name on a cross.

      The Stretcher-Bearer

      My stretcher is one scarlet stain,

      And as I tries to scrape it clean,

      I tell you wot — I’m sick with pain

      For all I’ve ’eard, for all I’ve seen;

      Around me is the ’ellish night,

      And as the war’s red rim I trace,

      I wonder if in ’Eaven’s height,

      Our God don’t turn away ’Is face.

      I don’t care ’oose the Crime may be;

      I ’olds no brief for kin or clan;

      I ’ymns no ’ate: I only see

      As man destroys his brother man;

      I waves no flag: I only know,

      As ’ere beside the dead I wait,

      A million ’earts is weighed with woe,

      A million ’omes is desolate.

      In drippin’ darkness, far and near,

      All night I’ve sought them woeful ones.

      Dawn shudders up and still I ’ear

      The crimson chorus of the guns.

      Look! like a ball of blood the sun

      ’Angs o’er the scene of wrath and wrong.…

      “Quick! Stretcher-bearers on the run!”

      O Prince of Peace! ’Ow long, ’ow long?

      The Song of the Pacifist

      What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead?

      Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed?

      By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?

      If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe;

      Is the pomp and power of a glitt’ring hour, and a truce for an age or so:

      By the clay cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!

      If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword