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Because of my cross, I find this life a misery
Like every cast in this dramatic adventure
I am the nigger.
Singer of songs,
Softer than fluff of cotton…
To A Contemporary Bunkshooter
You come along… tearing your shirt… yelling about Jesus.
Where do you get that stuff?
What do you know about Jesus?
Jesus had a way of talking soft and outside of a few
I did the dragon's will until you came
Because I had fancied love a casual
Improvisation, or a settled game
That followed if I let the kerchief fall:
William Butler Yeats
When the boys come out from Lac Labiche in the lure of the early Spring,
To take the pay of the “Hudson's Bay”, as their fathers did before,
They are all a-glee for the jamboree, and they make the Landing ring
With a whoop and a whirl, and a “Grab your girl”, and a rip and a skip and a roar.
Clancy Of The Mounted Police
In the little Crimson Manual it's written plain and clear
That who would wear the scarlet coat shall say good-bye to fear;
Shall be a guardian of the right, a sleuth-hound of the trail-
In the little Crimson Manual there's no such word as “fail”-
Ten little brown chicks scattered and scuffled,
Under the blue-berries hiding in fear;
Mother-grouse cackling, feathers all ruffled,
Dashed to defend them as we drew near.
Could Fate ordain a lot for me
Beyond all human ills,
I think that I would choose to be
A shephard of the hills;
I'm goin' ‘ome to Blighty-ain't I glad to ‘ave the chance!
I'm loaded up wiv fightin', and I've ‘ad my fill o' France;
I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and dance,
For I'm goin' ‘ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.
While for me gapes the greedy grave
It don't make sense
That I should have a crazy crave
To paint our fence.
Julot The Apache
You've heard of Julot the apache, and Gigolette, his mome. . . .
Montmartre was their hunting-ground, but Belville was their home.
A little chap just like a boy, with smudgy black mustache,-
Yet there was nothing juvenile in Julot the apache.
Kings Must Die
Alphonso Rex who died in Rome
Was quite a fistful as a kid;
For when I visited his home,
That gorgeous palace in Madrid,
In London City I evade
For charming Burlington Arcade-
For thee in youth I met a maid
By name of Mazie,
Through eyelet holes I watched the crowd
Rain of confetti fling;
Their joy is lush, their laughter loud,
For Carnival is King.
Oh how I love the laughing sea,
Sun lances splintering;
Or with a virile harmony
In salty caves to sing;
Tea On The Lawn
It was foretold by sybils three
that in an air crash he would die.
“I'll fool their prophesy,” said he;
“You won't get me to go on high.
The Ballad Of The Northern Lights
One of the Down and Out-that's me. Stare at me well, ay, stare!
Stare and shrink-say! you wouldn't think that I was a millionaire.
Look at my face, it's crimped and gouged-one of them death-mask things;
Don't seem the sort of man, do I, as might be the pal of kings?
The Boola-boola Maid
In the wilds of Madagascar, Dwelt a Boola-boola maid;
For her hand young men would ask her, But she always was afraid.
Oh that Boola-boola maid She was living in the shade Of a spreading Yum-yum tree;
And-when the day was done At the setting of the sun, She would make this melodee:
The Little Old Log Cabin
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;
The Man From Athabaska
Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas nothing but the thrumming
Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree;
And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming
Of the mustering of legions, and 'twas calling unto me;
The Pencil Seller
A pencil, sir; a penny-won't you buy?
I'm cold and wet and tired, a sorry plight;
Don't turn your back, sir; take one just to try;
I haven't made a single sale to-night.
I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight,
A-purpose to revisit the old claim.
I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate,
And the lads who once were with me in the game.
The Red Retreat
Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers
(I've ‘ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin' feet);
Tramp, tramp, the dim road-we didn't ‘ave no pipers,
And bellies that was ‘oller was the drums we ‘ad to beat.
The Trail Of Ninety-eight
Gold! We leapt from our benches. Gold! We sprang from our stools.
Gold! We wheeled in the furrow, fired with the faith of fools.
Fearless, unfound, unfitted, far from the night and the cold,
Heard we the clarion summons, followed the master-lure-Gold!
Walking, walking, oh, the joy of walking!
Swinging down the tawny lanes with head held high;
You Can’t Can Love
I don't know how the fishes feel, but I can't help thinking it odd,
That a gay young flapper of a female eel should fall in love with a cod.
Yet-that's exactly what she did and it only goes to prove,
That' what evr you do you can't put the lid on that crazy feeling Love.
The days will rally, wreathing
Their crazy tarantelle;
And you must go on breathing,
But I'll be safe in hell.
When I was young and bold and strong,
Oh, right was right, and wrong was wrong!
My plume on high, my flag unfurled,
I rode away to right the world.
Repression Of War Experience
Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth;
What silly beggars they are to blunder in
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame-
No, no, not that,-it's bad to think of war,
Vesalius In Zante
Set wide the window. Let me drink the day.
I loved light ever, light in eye and brain-
No tapers mirrored in long palace floors,
Nor dedicated depths of silent aisles,
Beneath the flat and paper sky
The sun, a demon's eye,
Glowed through the air, that mask of glass;
All wand'ring sounds that pass
Dame Edith Sitwell