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قراءة كتاب Derby Day in the Yukon, and Other Poems of the "Northland"
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
Derby Day in the Yukon, and Other Poems of the "Northland"
الصفحة رقم: 3
me:—
You proved the master—I proved the hack,
For, plainly I could see
You'd been sent back to earth to work out y'r sin,
And y' came straight t' me, a larrikin;
An' why did you come to me?
What were you There? Unregenerate thief,
A derelict from your birth?
Were you a church-going pharisee,
That Belial of this earth?
Was your lecherous, lutish, animal mind
Drawn to me as one of your kind?
Your grin betrays your mirth.
A derelict from your birth?
Were you a church-going pharisee,
That Belial of this earth?
Was your lecherous, lutish, animal mind
Drawn to me as one of your kind?
Your grin betrays your mirth.
Well, me an' you, Mal'mute, stand chums;
We won't each other despise;
The camp may call us a couple o' bums
But we hold our own assize:
We stand for Arbitration straight—
An' mebbe' some day, at St. Peter's Gate
We'll look in each other's eyes.
We won't each other despise;
The camp may call us a couple o' bums
But we hold our own assize:
We stand for Arbitration straight—
An' mebbe' some day, at St. Peter's Gate
We'll look in each other's eyes.
Ah, you leprous devil! you taught me how
To fumigate my soul
From wanton ways and dicing days,
And lush of the flowing bowl:
I'm steeped in guilt right up to the hilt,
Worshipped in temples of Shame I've built,
And Pleasure's been my goal,
To fumigate my soul
From wanton ways and dicing days,
And lush of the flowing bowl:
I'm steeped in guilt right up to the hilt,
Worshipped in temples of Shame I've built,
And Pleasure's been my goal,
But here with you in th' hinter-world
Where there's nothing pure but snow,
Some words long dumb t' my lips have come,
A prayer that I used to know:—
"Our—Father!"—I wonder will HE refute
A fellow that learns of a malamute
T' take th' kick an' blow?
Where there's nothing pure but snow,
Some words long dumb t' my lips have come,
A prayer that I used to know:—
"Our—Father!"—I wonder will HE refute
A fellow that learns of a malamute
T' take th' kick an' blow?
Oh, down here below we may go th' pace,
Loot, gut, palter, prey, maraud;
But here or There comes settling day,
For y' can't bamboozle God——
He'll send us back, like you, mal'mute,
Mangy an' whining—black with hell-soot——
Say, Bill, did y' see him nod?
Loot, gut, palter, prey, maraud;
But here or There comes settling day,
For y' can't bamboozle God——
He'll send us back, like you, mal'mute,
Mangy an' whining—black with hell-soot——
Say, Bill, did y' see him nod?
RED JACKET, BULLY BOY HE ISRED-JACKET
Where it's eighty below zero, there you'll find the Northland hero,
Red-Jacket; bully Boy he is—sure thing he fills the bill!
In that trackless waste of snow, where the Northern Lights hang low,
He is doing deeds of daring that would make your pulses thrill:—
Red-Jacket; bully Boy he is—sure thing he fills the bill!
In that trackless waste of snow, where the Northern Lights hang low,
He is doing deeds of daring that would make your pulses thrill:—
An' we'll drink t' You, Red-Jacket;
The equator of your vest
Bunches all the pride an' glory
Of th' wild an' woolly West!
The equator of your vest
Bunches all the pride an' glory
Of th' wild an' woolly West!
Red-Jacket does no askin', but he's ready for th' taskin'
When they sling him out his orders, with a hunk o' pemmican;
An' he'll travel day an' night after Red-man or bad white,
An' he'll go through hell-an'-blazes, but he'll never miss his man!
When they sling him out his orders, with a hunk o' pemmican;
An' he'll travel day an' night after Red-man or bad white,
An' he'll go through hell-an'-blazes, but he'll never miss his man!
He laughs at death an' danger,
For th' chin-strap on his jaw
Is th' link that binds Creation:—
British fair-play, an' th'—LAW!
For th' chin-strap on his jaw
Is th' link that binds Creation:—
British fair-play, an' th'—LAW!
The spur hitched to his heel—at his hip th' gleam of steel,—
With his belly-band strapped tighter his hunger to forget,
He may drop upon th' track but you bet he won't turn back—
For it's duty, Duty, DUTY! That's Red-Jacket's am-u-let!
With his belly-band strapped tighter his hunger to forget,
He may drop upon th' track but you bet he won't turn back—
For it's duty, Duty, DUTY! That's Red-Jacket's am-u-let!
An' it's "Hi! you skulkin' husky"!
O'er th' wintry, wind-swept ground,
The dog his lone companion—
And the Silence that is Sound!
O'er th' wintry, wind-swept ground,
The dog his lone companion—
And the Silence that is Sound!
Oh, the Arctic wilds are weary, and the Arctic nights are dreary;
And Red-Jacket sometimes wonders why he's livin' th' wild life?
Then he eyes th' British Flag; says: "God bless YOU, you old Rag!
It's through courtin' you I've neither child nor wife"!
And Red-Jacket sometimes wonders why he's livin' th' wild life?
Then he eyes th' British Flag; says: "God bless YOU, you old Rag!
It's through courtin' you I've neither child nor wife"!
Then a shamed an' silent tear
Falls upon the Arctic snows;
An' the anguish of his heart,
God—an' Red-Jacket, knows!
Falls upon the Arctic snows;
An' the anguish of his heart,
God—an' Red-Jacket, knows!
Now, you folks, don't get hard thinkin' when Red-Jacket starts a-drinkin',
An' he busts th' Ten Commandments into five-an'-twenty bits;
When he hears th' bugles sound, ain't he fu'st upon th' ground?
An' don't his "powders" cure 'em of the'r hell-damnation fits?
An' he busts th' Ten Commandments into five-an'-twenty bits;
When he hears th' bugles sound, ain't he fu'st upon th' ground?
An' don't his "powders" cure 'em of the'r hell-damnation fits?
So we'll drink t' YOU, Red-Jacket!
God's blessin' on y'r head;
You're th' British Con-sti-too-shun
Bound in yella' stripes, an' Red!
God's blessin' on y'r head;
You're th' British Con-sti-too-shun
Bound in yella' stripes, an' Red!
UP AGAINST IT
When y're up against it, don't get feelin' blue;
Somewher' in this world of ours ther's a place f'r you.
Y'r jes' a round peg in a squar', y' ain't th' proper fit;
Keep turnin', twistin' every way—an' rise a little bit.
Somewher' in this world of ours ther's a place f'r you.
Y'r jes' a round peg in a squar', y' ain't th' proper fit;
Keep turnin', twistin' every way—an' rise a little bit.
If we'd all we wanted in this whirlin' globe we're on,
W'y we'd all begin t' grouch—then begin t' yawn;
We'd get dead sick o' summer without a tech o' frost,
An' Ex-pe-ri-ence we got t' hev' regardless of th'
W'y we'd all begin t' grouch—then begin t' yawn;
We'd get dead sick o' summer without a tech o' frost,
An' Ex-pe-ri-ence we got t' hev' regardless of th'