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Ottawa Folk Festival Robert Service Collection

<h2> The Low-Down White </h2> This is the pay-day up at the mines, when the bearded brutes come down; There's money to burn in the streets to-night, so I've sent my klooch to town, With a haggard face and a ribband of red entwined in her hair of brown. And I know at the dawn she'll come reeling home with the bottles, one, two, three — One for herself, to drown her shame, and two big bottles for me, To make me forget the thing I am and the man I used to be. To make me forget the brand of the dog, as I crouch in this hideous place; To make me forget once I kindled the light of love in a lady's face, Where even the squalid Siwash now holds me a black disgrace. Oh, I have guarded my secret well! And who would dream as I speak In a tribal tongue like a rogue unhung, 'mid the ranch-house filth and reek, I could roll to bed with a Latin phrase and rise with a verse of Greek? Yet I was a senior prizeman once, and the pride of a college eight; Called to the bar — my friends were true! but they could not keep me straight; Then came the divorce, and I went abroad and "died" on the River Plate. But I'm not dead yet; though with half a lung there isn't time to spare, And I hope that the year will see me out, and, thank God, no one will care — Save maybe the little slim Siwash girl with the rose of shame in her hair. She will come with the dawn, and the dawn is near; I can see its evil glow, Like a corpse-light seen through a frosty pane in a night of want and woe; And yonder she comes by the bleak bull-pines, swift staggering through the snow. <h2> The Little Old Log Cabin </h2> When a man gits on his uppers in a hard-pan sort of town, An' he ain't got nothin' comin' an' he can't afford ter eat, An' he's in a fix for lodgin' an' he wanders up an' down, An' you'd fancy he'd been boozin', he's so locoed 'bout the feet; When he's feelin' sneakin' sorry an' his belt is hangin' slack, An' his face is peaked an' gray-like an' his heart gits down an' whines, Then he's apt ter git a-thinkin' an' a-wishin' he was back In the little ol' log cabin in the shadder of the pines. When he's on the blazin' desert an' his canteen's sprung a leak, An' he's all alone an' crazy an' he's crawlin' like a snail, An' his tongue's so black an' swollen that it hurts him fer to speak, An' he gouges down fer water an' the raven's on his trail; When he's done with care and cursin' an' he feels more like to cry, An' he sees ol' Death a-grinnin' an' he thinks upon his crimes, Then he's like ter hev' a vision, as he settles down ter die, Of the little ol' log cabin an' the roses an' the vines. Oh, the little ol' log cabin, it's a solemn shinin' mark, When a feller gits ter sinnin' an' a-goin' ter the wall, An' folks don't understand him an' he's gropin' in the dark, An' he's sick of bein' cursed at an' he's longin' fer his call! When the sun of life's a-sinkin' you can see it 'way above, On the hill from out the shadder in a glory 'gin the sky, An' your mother's voice is callin', an' her arms are stretched in love, An' somehow you're glad you're goin', an' you ain't a-scared to die; When you'll be like a kid again an' nestle to her breast, An' never leave its shelter, an' forget, an' love, an' rest. <h2> The Younger Son </h2> If you leave the gloom of London and you seek a glowing land, Where all except the flag is strange and new, There's a bronzed and stalwart fellow who will grip you by the hand, And greet you with a welcome warm and true; For he's your younger brother, the one you sent away Because there wasn't room for him at home; And now he's quite contented, and he's glad he didn't stay, And he's building Britain's greatness o'er the foam. When the giant herd is moving at the rising of the sun, And the prairie is lit with rose and gold, And the camp is all abustle, and the busy day's begun, He leaps into the saddle sure and bold. Through the round of heat and hurry, through the racket and the rout, He rattles at a pace that nothing mars; And when the night-winds whisper and camp-fires flicker out, He is sleeping like a child beneath the stars. When the wattle-blooms are drooping in the sombre she-oak glade, And the breathless land is lying in a swoon, He leaves his work a moment, leaning lightly on his spade, And he hears the bell-bird chime the Austral noon. The parrakeets are silent in the gum-tree by the creek; The ferny grove is sunshine-steeped and still; But the dew will gem the myrtle in the twilight ere he seek His little lonely cabin on the hill. Around the purple, vine-clad slope the argent river dreams; The roses almost hide the house from view; A snow-peak of the Winterberg in crimson splendor gleams; The shadow deepens down on the karroo. He seeks the lily-scented dusk beneath the orange tree; His pipe in silence glows and fades and glows; And then two little maids come out and climb upon his knee, And one is like the lily, one the rose. He sees his white sheep dapple o'er the green New Zealand plain, And where Vancouver's shaggy ramparts frown, When the sunlight threads the pine-gloom he is fighting might and main To clinch the rivets of an Empire down. You will find him toiling, toiling, in the south or in the west, A child of nature, fearless, frank, and free; And the warmest heart that beats for you is beating in his breast, And he sends you loyal greeting o'er the sea. You've a brother in the army, you've another in the Church; One of you is a diplomatic swell; You've had the pick of everything and left him in the lurch, And yet I think he's doing very well. I'm sure his life is happy, and he doesn't envy yours; I know he loves the land his pluck has won; And I fancy in the years unborn, while England's fame endures, She will come to bless with pride — The Younger Son. <h2> The March of the Dead </h2> The cruel war was over — oh, the triumph was so sweet! We watched the troops returning, through our tears; There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street, And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers. And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between; The bells were pealing madly to the sky; And everyone was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen, And the glory of an age was passing by. And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear; The bells were silent, not an echo stirred. The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer; We waited, and we never spoke a word. The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack There came a voice that checked the heart with dread: "Tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black; They are coming — it's the Army of the Dead." They were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow; They were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride; With faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe, And clotted holes the khaki couldn't hide. Oh, the clammy brow of anguish! the livid, foam-flecked lips! The reeling ranks of ruin swept along! The limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger tips! And oh, the dreary rhythm of their song! "They left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn't stop On this, our England's crowning festal day; We're the men of Magersfontein, we're the men of Spion Kop, Colenso — we're the men who had to pay. We're the men who paid the blood-price. Shall the grave be all our gain? You owe us. Long and heavy is the score. Then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain, And cheer us as ye never cheered before." The folks were white and stricken, and each tongue seemed weighted with lead; Each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice; And every eye was staring at the horror of the dead, The pity of the men who paid the price. They were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace; Through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam; They were coming in their thousands — oh, would they never cease! I closed my eyes, and then — it was a dream. There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street; The town was mad; a man was like a boy. A thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet; A thousand bells were thundering the joy. There was music, mirth and sunshine; but some eyes shone with regret; And while we stun with cheers our homing braves, O God, in Thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget The graves they left behind, the bitter graves. <h2> "Fighting Mac" </h2> A Life Tragedy A pistol shot rings round and round the world; In pitiful defeat a warrior lies. A last defiance to dark Death is hurled, A last wild challenge shocks the sunlit skies. Alone he falls, with wide, wan, woeful eyes: Eyes that could smile at death — could not face shame. Alone, alone he paced his narrow room, In the bright sunshine of that Paris day; Saw in his thought the awful hand of doom; Saw in his dream his glory pass away; Tried in his heart, his weary heart, to pray: "O God! who made me, give me strength to face The spectre of this bitter, black disgrace." <hr /> The burn brawls darkly down the shaggy glen; The bee-kissed heather blooms around the door; He sees himself a barefoot boy again, Bending o'er page of legendary lore. He hears the pibroch, grips the red claymore, Runs with the Fiery Cross, a clansman true, Sworn kinsman of Rob Roy and Roderick Dhu. Eating his heart out with a wild desire, One day, behind his counter trim and neat, He hears a sound that sets his brain afire — The Highlanders are marching down the street. Oh, how the pipes shrill out, the mad drums beat! "On to the gates of Hell, my Gordons gay!" He flings his hated yardstick away. He sees the sullen pass, high-crowned with snow, Where Afghans cower with eyes of gleaming hate. He hurls himself against the hidden foe. They try to rally — ah, too late, too late! Again, defenseless, with fierce eyes that wait For death, he stands, like baited bull at bay, And flouts the Boers, that mad Majuba day. He sees again the murderous Soudan, Blood-slaked and rapine-swept. He seems to stand Upon the gory plain of Omdurman. Then Magersfontein, and supreme command Over his Highlanders. To shake his hand A King is proud, and princes call him friend. And glory crowns his life — and now the end, The awful end. His eyes are dark with doom; He hears the shrapnel shrieking overhead; He sees the ravaged ranks, the flame-stabbed gloom. Oh, to have fallen! — the battle-field his bed, With Wauchope and his glorious brother-dead. Why was he saved for this, for this? And now He raises the revolver to his brow. <hr /> In many a Highland home, framed with rude art, You'll find his portrait, rough-hewn, stern and square; It's graven in the Fuyam fellah's heart; The Ghurka reads it at his evening prayer; The raw lands know it, where the fierce suns glare; The Dervish fears it. Honor to his name Who holds aloft the shield of England's fame. Mourn for our hero, men of Northern race! We do not know his sin; we only know His sword was keen. He laughed death in the face, And struck, for Empire's sake, a giant blow. His arm was strong. Ah! well they learnt, the foe The echo of his deeds is ringing yet — Will ring for aye. All else... let us forget. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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