The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses

        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.
   Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
   Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
   He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
   Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".

   On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
   Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
   If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
   It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

   And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
   And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
   He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
   And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

   Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
     then he says with a sort of moan:
   "It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
     till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
   Yet 'tain't being dead — it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
   So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

   A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
   And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
   He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
   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.

   I haled me a woman from the street,
    Shameless, but, oh, so fair!
   I bade her sit in the model's seat
    And I painted her sitting there.

   I hid all trace of her heart unclean;
    I painted a babe at her breast;
   I painted her as she might have been
    If the Worst had been the Best.

   She laughed at my picture and went away.
    Then came, with a knowing nod,
   A connoisseur, and I heard him say;
    "'Tis Mary, the Mother of God."

   So I painted a halo round her hair,
    And I sold her and took my fee,
   And she hangs in the church of Saint Hillaire,
    Where you and all may see.

   I know a garden where the lilies gleam,
    And one who lingers in the sunshine there;
    She is than white-stoled lily far more fair,
   And oh, her eyes are heaven-lit with dream!

   I know a garret, cold and dark and drear,
    And one who toils and toils with tireless pen,
    Until his brave, sad eyes grow weary — then
   He seeks the stars, pale, silent as a seer.

   And ah, it's strange; for, desolate and dim,
    Between these two there rolls an ocean wide;
    Yet he is in the garden by her side
   And she is in the garret there with him.

   It's fine to have a blow-out in a fancy restaurant,
   With terrapin and canvas-back and all the wine you want;
   To enjoy the flowers and music, watch the pretty women pass,
   Smoke a choice cigar, and sip the wealthy water in your glass.
   It's bully in a high-toned joint to eat and drink your fill,
   But it's quite another matter when you
                                           Pay the bill.

   It's great to go out every night on fun or pleasure bent;
   To wear your glad rags always and to never save a cent;
   To drift along regardless, have a good time every trip;
   To hit the high spots sometimes, and to let your chances slip;
   To know you're acting foolish, yet to go on fooling still,
   Till Nature calls a show-down, and you
                                           Pay the bill.

   Time has got a little bill — get wise while yet you may,
   For the debit side's increasing in a most alarming way;
   The things you had no right to do, the things you should have done,
   They're all put down; it's up to you to pay for every one.
   So eat, drink and be merry, have a good time if you will,
   But God help you when the time comes, and you
                                           Foot the bill.

   One said:  Thy life is thine to make or mar,
   To flicker feebly, or to soar, a star;
    It lies with thee — the choice is thine, is thine,
   To hit the ties or drive thy auto-car.

   I answered Her:  The choice is mine — ah, no!
   We all were made or marred long, long ago.
    The parts are written; hear the super wail:
   "Who is stage-managing this cosmic show?"

   Blind fools of fate and slaves of circumstance,
   Life is a fiddler, and we all must dance.
    From gloom where mocks that will-o'-wisp, Free-will
   I heard a voice cry:  "Say, give us a chance."

   Chance!  Oh, there is no chance!  The scene is set.
   Up with the curtain!  Man, the marionette,
    Resumes his part.  The gods will work the wires.
   They've got it all down fine, you bet, you bet!

   It's all decreed — the mighty earthquake crash,
   The countless constellations' wheel and flash;
    The rise and fall of empires, war's red tide;
   The composition of your dinner hash.

   There's no haphazard in this world of ours.
   Cause and effect are grim, relentless powers.
    They rule the world.  (A king was shot last night;
   Last night I held the joker and both bowers.)

   From out the mesh of fate our heads we thrust.
   We can't do what we would, but what we must.
    Heredity has got us in a cinch —
   (Consoling thought when you've been on a "bust".)

   Hark to the song where spheral voices blend:
   "There's no beginning, never will be end."
    It makes us nutty; hang the astral chimes!
   The tables spread; come, let us dine, my friend.

   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;
   Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
    And they don't know how to rest.

   If they just went straight they might go far;
    They are strong and brave and true;
   But they're always tired of the things that are,
    And they want the strange and new.
   They say:  "Could I find my proper groove,
    What a deep mark I would make!"
   So they chop and change, and each fresh move
    Is only a fresh mistake.

   And each forgets, as he strips and runs
    With a brilliant, fitful pace,
   It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
    Who win in the lifelong race.
   And each forgets that his youth has fled,
    Forgets that his prime is past,
   Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
    In the glare of the truth at last.

   He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
    He has just done things by half.
   Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
    And now is the time to laugh.
   Ha, ha!  He is one of the Legion Lost;
    He was never meant to win;
   He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
    He's a man who won't fit in.

   O'er the dark pines she sees the silver moon,
    And in the west, all tremulous, a star;
   And soothing sweet she hears the mellow tune
    Of cow-bells jangled in the fields afar.

   Quite listless, for her daily stent is done,
    She stands, sad exile, at her rose-wreathed door,
   And sends her love eternal with the sun
    That goes to gild the land she'll see no more.

   The grave, gaunt pines imprison her sad gaze,
    All still the sky and darkling drearily;
   She feels the chilly breath of dear, dead days
    Come sifting through the alders eerily.

   Oh, how the roses riot in their bloom!
    The curtains stir as with an ancient pain;
   Her old piano gleams from out the gloom
    And waits and waits her tender touch in vain.

   But now her hands like moonlight brush the keys
    With velvet grace — melodious delight;
   And now a sad refrain from over seas
    Goes sobbing on the bosom of the night;

   And now she sings.  (O! singer in the gloom,
    Voicing a sorrow we can ne'er express,
   Here in the Farness where we few have room
    Unshamed to show our love and tenderness,

   Our hearts will echo, till they beat no more,
    That song of sadness and of motherland;
   And, stretched in deathless love to England's shore,
    Some day she'll hearken and she'll understand.)

   A prima-donna in the shining past,
    But now a mother growing old and gray,
   She thinks of how she held a people fast
    In thrall, and gleaned the triumphs of a day.

   She sees a sea of faces like a dream;
    She sees herself a queen of song once more;
   She sees lips part in rapture, eyes agleam;
    She sings as never once she sang before.

   She sings a wild, sweet song that throbs with pain,
    The added pain of life that transcends art —
   A song of home, a deep, celestial strain,
    The glorious swan-song of a dying heart.

   A lame tramp comes along the railway track,
    A grizzled dog whose day is nearly done;
   He passes, pauses, then comes slowly back
    And listens there — an audience of one.

   She sings — her golden voice is passion-fraught,
    As when she charmed a thousand eager ears;
   He listens trembling, and she knows it not,
    And down his hollow cheeks roll bitter tears.

   She ceases and is still, as if to pray;
    There is no sound, the stars are all alight —
   Only a wretch who stumbles on his way,
    Only a vagrant sobbing in the night.

   There's a four-pronged buck a-swinging in the shadow of my cabin,
    And it roamed the velvet valley till to-day;
   But I tracked it by the river, and I trailed it in the cover,
    And I killed it on the mountain miles away.
   Now I've had my lazy supper, and the level sun is gleaming
    On the water where the silver salmon play;
   And I light my little corn-cob, and I linger, softly dreaming,
    In the twilight, of a land that's far away.

   Far away, so faint and far, is flaming London, fevered Paris,
    That I fancy I have gained another star;
   Far away the din and hurry, far away the sin and worry,
    Far away — God knows they cannot be too far.
   Gilded galley-slaves of Mammon — how my purse-proud brothers taunt me!
    I might have been as well-to-do as they
   Had I clutched like them my chances,
     learned their wisdom, crushed my fancies,
    Starved my soul and gone to business every day.

   Well, the cherry bends with blossom and the vivid grass is springing,
    And the star-like lily nestles in the green;
   And the frogs their joys are singing, and my heart in tune is ringing,
    And it doesn't matter what I might have been.
   While above the scented pine-gloom, piling heights of golden glory,
    The sun-god paints his canvas in the west,
   I can couch me deep in clover, I can listen to the story
    Of the lazy, lapping water — it is best.

   While the trout leaps in the river, and the blue grouse thrills the cover,
    And the frozen snow betrays the panther's track,
   And the robin greets the dayspring with the rapture of a lover,
    I am happy, and I'll nevermore go back.
   For I know I'd just be longing for the little old log cabin,
    With the morning-glory clinging to the door,
   Till I loathed the city places, cursed the care on all the faces,
    Turned my back on lazar London evermore.

   So send me far from Lombard Street, and write me down a failure;
    Put a little in my purse and leave me free.
   Say:  "He turned from Fortune's offering to follow up a pale lure,
    He is one of us no longer — let him be."
   I am one of you no longer; by the trails my feet have broken,
    The dizzy peaks I've scaled, the camp-fire's glow;
   By the lonely seas I've sailed in — yea, the final word is spoken,
    I am signed and sealed to nature.  Be it so.

   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.

   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.

   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.

   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.

   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."

   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.

   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.

   An angel was tired of heaven, as he lounged in the golden street;
   His halo was tilted sideways, and his harp lay mute at his feet;
   So the Master stooped in His pity, and gave him a pass to go,
   For the space of a moon, to the earth-world, to mix with the men below.

   He doffed his celestial garments, scarce waiting to lay them straight;
   He bade good by to Peter, who stood by the golden gate;
   The sexless singers of heaven chanted a fond farewell,
   And the imps looked up as they pattered on the red-hot flags of hell.

   Never was seen such an angel — eyes of heavenly blue,
   Features that shamed Apollo, hair of a golden hue;
   The women simply adored him; his lips were like Cupid's bow;
   But he never ventured to use them — and so they voted him slow.

   Till at last there came One Woman, a marvel of loveliness,
   And she whispered to him:  "Do you love me?"
     And he answered that woman, "Yes."
   And she said:  "Put your arms around me, and kiss me, and hold me — so —"
   But fiercely he drew back, saying:  "This thing is wrong, and I know."

   Then sweetly she mocked his scruples, and softly she him beguiled:
   "You, who are verily man among men, speak with the tongue of a child.
   We have outlived the old standards; we have burst, like an over-tight thong,
   The ancient, outworn, Puritanic traditions of Right and Wrong."

   Then the Master feared for His angel, and called him again to His side,
   For oh, the woman was wondrous, and oh, the angel was tried!
   And deep in his hell sang the Devil, and this was the strain of his song:
   "The ancient, outworn, Puritanic traditions of Right and Wrong."

   We couldn't sit and study for the law;
    The stagnation of a bank we couldn't stand;
   For our riot blood was surging, and we didn't need much urging
    To excitements and excesses that are banned.
   So we took to wine and drink and other things,
    And the devil in us struggled to be free;
   Till our friends rose up in wrath, and they pointed out the path,
    And they paid our debts and packed us o'er the sea.

   Oh, they shook us off and shipped us o'er the foam,
   To the larger lands that lure a man to roam;
    And we took the chance they gave
    Of a far and foreign grave,
   And we bade good-by for evermore to home.

   And some of us are climbing on the peak,
    And some of us are camping on the plain;
   By pine and palm you'll find us, with never claim to bind us,
    By track and trail you'll meet us once again.

   We are the fated serfs to freedom — sky and sea;
    We have failed where slummy cities overflow;
   But the stranger ways of earth know our pride and know our worth,
    And we go into the dark as fighters go.

   Yes, we go into the night as brave men go,
   Though our faces they be often streaked with woe;
    Yet we're hard as cats to kill,
    And our hearts are reckless still,
   And we've danced with death a dozen times or so.

   And you'll find us in Alaska after gold,
    And you'll find us herding cattle in the South.
   We like strong drink and fun, and, when the race is run,
    We often die with curses in our mouth.
   We are wild as colts unbroke, but never mean.
    Of our sins we've shoulders broad to bear the blame;
   But we'll never stay in town and we'll never settle down,
    And we'll never have an object or an aim.

   No, there's that in us that time can never tame;
   And life will always seem a careless game;
    And they'd better far forget —
    Those who say they love us yet —
   Forget, blot out with bitterness our name.

   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.

   They're playing a tune in McGuffy's saloon,
     and it's cheery and bright in there
    (God! but I'm weak — since the bitter dawn, and never a bite of food);
   I'll just go over and slip inside — I mustn't give way to despair —
    Perhaps I can bum a little booze if the boys are feeling good.

   They'll jeer at me, and they'll sneer at me,
     and they'll call me a whiskey soak;
    ("Have a drink?  Well, thankee kindly, sir, I don't mind if I do.")
   A drivelling, dirty, gin-joint fiend, the butt of the bar-room joke;
    Sunk and sodden and hopeless — "Another?  Well, here's to you!"

   McGuffy is showing a bunch of the boys how Bob Fitzsimmons hit;
    The barman is talking of Tammany Hall, and why the ward boss got fired.
   I'll just sneak into a corner and they'll let me alone a bit;
    The room is reeling round and round...
      O God! but I'm tired, I'm tired....

   Roses she wore on her breast that night.  Oh, but their scent was sweet!
    Alone we sat on the balcony, and the fan-palms arched above;
   The witching strain of a waltz by Strauss came up to our cool retreat,
    And I prisoned her little hand in mine, and I whispered my plea of love.

   Then sudden the laughter died on her lips, and lowly she bent her head;
    And oh, there came in the deep, dark eyes a look that was heaven to see;
   And the moments went, and I waited there, and never a word was said,
    And she plucked from her bosom a rose of red and shyly gave it to me.

   Then the music swelled to a crash of joy, and the lights blazed up like day,
    And I held her fast to my throbbing heart, and I kissed her bonny brow.
   "She is mine, she is mine for evermore!" the violins seemed to say,
    And the bells were ringing the New Year in — O God! I can hear them now.

   Don't you remember that long, last waltz, with its sobbing, sad refrain?
    Don't you remember that last good-by, and the dear eyes dim with tears?
   Don't you remember that golden dream, with never a hint of pain,
    Of lives that would blend like an angel-song
      in the bliss of the coming years?

   Oh, what have I lost!  What have I lost!  Ethel, forgive, forgive!
    The red, red rose is faded now, and it's fifty years ago.
   'Twere better to die a thousand deaths than live each day as I live!
    I have sinned, I have sunk to the lowest depths —
      but oh, I have suffered so!

   Hark!  Oh, hark!  I can hear the bells!...  Look! I can see her there,
    Fair as a dream... but it fades... And now —
      I can hear the dreadful hum
   Of the crowded court... See! the Judge looks down...
     NOT GUILTY, my Lord, I swear...
    The bells — I can hear the bells again!...  Ethel, I come, I come!...

   "Rouse up, old man, it's twelve o'clock.  You can't sleep here, you know.
    Say! ain't you got no sentiment?  Lift up your muddled head;
   Have a drink to the glad New Year, a drop before you go —
    You darned old dirty hobo... My God!  Here, boys!  He's DEAD!"

   Say!  You've struck a heap of trouble —
    Bust in business, lost your wife;
   No one cares a cent about you,
    You don't care a cent for life;
   Hard luck has of hope bereft you,
    Health is failing, wish you'd die —
   Why, you've still the sunshine left you
    And the big, blue sky.

   Sky so blue it makes you wonder
    If it's heaven shining through;
   Earth so smiling 'way out yonder,
    Sun so bright it dazzles you;
   Birds a-singing, flowers a-flinging
    All their fragrance on the breeze;
   Dancing shadows, green, still meadows —
    Don't you mope, you've still got these.

   These, and none can take them from you;
    These, and none can weigh their worth.
   What! you're tired and broke and beaten? —
    Why, you're rich — you've got the earth!
   Yes, if you're a tramp in tatters,
    While the blue sky bends above
   You've got nearly all that matters —
    You've got God, and God is love.

        There was a woman, and she was wise; woefully wise was she;
        She was old, so old, yet her years all told were but a score and three;
        And she knew by heart, from finish to start, the Book of Iniquity.

   There is no hope for such as I on earth, nor yet in Heaven;
   Unloved I live, unloved I die, unpitied, unforgiven;
   A loathed jade, I ply my trade, unhallowed and unshriven.

   I paint my cheeks, for they are white, and cheeks of chalk men hate;
   Mine eyes with wine I make them shine, that man may seek and sate;
   With overhead a lamp of red I sit me down and wait

   Until they come, the nightly scum, with drunken eyes aflame;
   Your sweethearts, sons, ye scornful ones — 'tis I who know their shame.
   The gods, ye see, are brutes to me — and so I play my game.

   For life is not the thing we thought, and not the thing we plan;
   And Woman in a bitter world must do the best she can —
   Must yield the stroke, and bear the yoke, and serve the will of man;

   Must serve his need and ever feed the flame of his desire,
   Though be she loved for love alone, or be she loved for hire;
   For every man since life began is tainted with the mire.

   And though you know he love you so and set you on love's throne;
   Yet let your eyes but mock his sighs, and let your heart be stone,
   Lest you be left (as I was left) attainted and alone.

   From love's close kiss to hell's abyss is one sheer flight, I trow,
   And wedding ring and bridal bell are will-o'-wisps of woe,
   And 'tis not wise to love too well, and this all women know.

   Wherefore, the wolf-pack having gorged upon the lamb, their prey,
   With siren smile and serpent guile I make the wolf-pack pay —
   With velvet paws and flensing claws, a tigress roused to slay.

   One who in youth sought truest truth and found a devil's lies;
   A symbol of the sin of man, a human sacrifice.
   Yet shall I blame on man the shame?  Could it be otherwise?

   Was I not born to walk in scorn where others walk in pride?
   The Maker marred, and, evil-starred, I drift upon His tide;
   And He alone shall judge His own, so I His judgment bide.

        Fate has written a tragedy; its name is "The Human Heart".
        The Theatre is the House of Life, Woman the mummer's part;
        The Devil enters the prompter's box and the play is ready to start.

   'Twas a year ago and the moon was bright
    (Oh, I remember so well, so well);
   I walked with my love in a sea of light,
    And the voice of my sweet was a silver bell.
       And sudden the moon grew strangely dull,
        And sudden my love had taken wing;
       I looked on the face of a grinning skull,
        I strained to my heart a ghastly thing.

   'Twas but fantasy, for my love lay still
    In my arms, with her tender eyes aglow,
   And she wondered why my lips were chill,
    Why I was silent and kissed her so.
       A year has gone and the moon is bright,
        A gibbous moon, like a ghost of woe;
       I sit by a new-made grave to-night,
        And my heart is broken — it's strange, you know.

   Can you recall, dear comrade, when we tramped God's land together,
    And we sang the old, old Earth-song, for our youth was very sweet;
   When we drank and fought and lusted, as we mocked at tie and tether,
    Along the road to Anywhere, the wide world at our feet —

   Along the road to Anywhere, when each day had its story;
    When time was yet our vassal, and life's jest was still unstale;
   When peace unfathomed filled our hearts as, bathed in amber glory,
    Along the road to Anywhere we watched the sunsets pale?

   Alas! the road to Anywhere is pitfalled with disaster;
    There's hunger, want, and weariness, yet O we loved it so!
   As on we tramped exultantly, and no man was our master,
    And no man guessed what dreams were ours, as, swinging heel and toe,
   We tramped the road to Anywhere, the magic road to Anywhere,
    The tragic road to Anywhere, such dear, dim years ago.