Robert W. Service

Robert W. Service

1874–1958 · lived 84 years -- --

Robert W. Service was a poet and writer celebrated for his vivid and often humorous verses depicting life in the Yukon during the Klondike Gold Rush. His work captured the spirit of adventure, hardship, and camaraderie of the era, making him immensely popular. He is best known for narrative poems that tell compelling stories with a strong rhythm and memorable characters.

n. 1874-01-16, Preston · m. 1958-09-11, Lancieux

79,476 Views

Your Poem

Your Poem

My poem may be yours indeed

In melody and tone,

If in its rhythm you can read

A music of your own;

If in its pale woof you can weave

Your lovelier design,

'Twill make my lyric, I believe,
More yours than mine.

I'm but a prompter at the best;

Crude cues are all I give.

In simple stanzas I suggest


'Tis you who make them live.

My bit of rhyme is but a frame,

And if my lines you quote,

I think, although they bear my name,
'Tis you who wrote.

Yours is the beauty that you see

In any words I sing;

The magic and the melody

'Tis you, dear friend, who bring.

Yea, by the glory and the gleam,

The loveliness that lures

Your thought to starry heights of dream,
The poem's yours.
Read full poem
Bio

Identification and basic context

Robert William Service was born in Preston, Lancashire, England, and later became a Canadian citizen. He is most famous for his Yukon ballads, written during his time in the Canadian North. His writings often focused on the rugged and adventurous life experienced by prospectors and settlers.

Childhood and education

Service's early life was marked by a middle-class upbringing. He received a sound education, but his adventurous spirit led him to seek opportunities abroad rather than settling into a conventional life in England. He eventually traveled to Canada, working various jobs before finding his niche as a poet.

Literary trajectory

Service's literary career took off with the publication of "Songs of a Sourdough" (also known as "The Spell of the Yukon") in 1907, which achieved immediate success. His poetry chronicled the experiences and characters of the Yukon Gold Rush, becoming incredibly popular among both readers and critics. He continued to write prolifically throughout his life, producing novels and plays in addition to his famous ballads.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Service's major works include "Songs of a Sourdough," "The Ballads of a Cheechako," and "Rhymes of a Rolling Stone." His poetry is characterized by its strong narrative quality, accessible language, and rhythmic meter, often employing rhyme schemes that enhance the storytelling. Dominant themes include adventure, hardship, love, loss, and the harsh beauty of the northern landscape. His style is often described as ballad-like, with a direct and engaging tone that appeals to a broad audience. He successfully captured the spirit and vernacular of the people he wrote about, creating memorable characters and situations.

Cultural and historical context

Service's work is deeply rooted in the historical context of the Klondike Gold Rush and the early 20th century. His poems reflect the era's spirit of adventure, the challenges faced by pioneers, and the unique subculture that developed in the Yukon. He belonged to no specific formal literary movement but his popular appeal placed him within the broader tradition of narrative poetry that resonated with the public during his time.

Personal life

Service led a life of considerable adventure. After working in the Yukon, he served as a war correspondent during World War I and lived in various locations, including France and Monaco. His personal experiences often informed the settings and characters in his poetry and prose, imbuing them with authenticity and a sense of lived experience. He married Germaine Cornulier and had a daughter.

Recognition and reception

Robert W. Service achieved immense popularity during his lifetime, earning the nickname "The Bard of the Yukon." His books sold millions of copies, and his poems were widely recited and known. While sometimes criticized by literary elites for being too sentimental or simplistic, his work maintained a strong connection with ordinary readers and continues to be celebrated for its storytelling and evocative portrayal of the North.

Influences and legacy

Service's work was influenced by popular ballad traditions and the real-life stories of the people he encountered. He, in turn, influenced countless readers and writers with his ability to capture the spirit of adventure and the human condition in challenging environments. His poems remain a significant cultural touchstone for understanding the Yukon Gold Rush era and continue to be read and enjoyed worldwide.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Critics often analyze Service's work for its portrayal of romanticized adventure versus the harsh realities of frontier life. His poems can be interpreted as both celebrating and critiquing the pursuit of fortune, as well as exploring themes of loneliness, companionship, and the resilience of the human spirit against nature's unforgiving backdrop.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite his fame as a poet of the North, Service spent relatively little time in the Yukon compared to the duration of his life. His ability to capture the atmosphere and spirit of the region was a testament to his observational skills and imaginative writing. He was also known for his adventurous lifestyle outside of his writing career.

Death and memory

Robert W. Service passed away in 1958. His memory is kept alive through his enduringly popular poems, which continue to be published, recited, and celebrated, ensuring his place as a beloved chronicler of the Yukon's golden age.

Poems

416

Vanity

Vanity


My tangoing seemed to delight her;
With me it was love at first sight.
I mentioned That I was a writer:
She asked me: "What is it you write?"
"Oh, only best-sellers," I told her.
Their titles? . . . She shook her blonde head;
The atmosphere seemed to grow colder:
Not one of my books had she read.


Oh, she was a beauty ensnaring,
And I was an author of note;
But little I saw she'd be caring
If never a novel I wrote.
Alas for the caprice of Cupid!
Alack for the phantom of Fame!
I thought her just homely and stupid:
She didn't know even my name.


I saw her a score of years after;
She gushed as I took off my hat;
But inwardly loud was my laughter,
For she was enormously fat.
Thank heaven I'd not made that error;
I saw Love drive off in a hearse;
But I too retreated in terror . . .
She started to quote me my verse.
209

Two Husbands

Two Husbands

Unpenitent, I grieve to state,
Two good men stood by heaven's gate,
Saint Peter coming to await.
The stopped the Keeper of the Keys,
Saying: "What suppliants are these,
Who wait me not on bended knees?


"To get my heavenly Okay
A man should have been used to pray,
Or suffered in some grievous way."


"Oh I have suffered," cried the first.
"Of wives I had the wicked worst,
Who made my life a plague accurst.


"Such martyrdom no tongue can tell;
In mercy's name it is not well
To doom me to another hell."


Saint Peter said: "I comprehend;
But tribulations have their end.
The gate is open, - go my friend."


Then said the second: "What of me?
More I deserve to pass than he,
For I've been wedded twice, you see."


Saint Peter looked at him a while,
And then he answered with a smile:
"Your application I will file.


"Yet twice in double yoke you've driven . . .
Though sinners with our Saints we leaven,
We don't take IMBECILES in heaven."
286

Two Words

Two Words

'God' is composed of letters three,
But if you put an 'l'
Before the last it seems to me
A synonym for Hell.
For all of envy, greed and hate
The human heart can hold
Respond unto the devil's bait
Of Gold.

When God created Gold to be
For our adorning fit,
I little think he dreamed that we
Would come to worship it.
But when you ruefully have scanned
The chronicles of Time,
You'll find that lucre lends a hand
To Crime.

So if you are a millionaire,
To be of Heaven sure,
Give every penny you can spare
Unto the sick and poor.
From Gold strike out the evil 'ell,'
And so with letters odd
You can with peace of spirit spell
Just GOD.
221

Trixie

Trixie


Dogs have a sense beyond our ken -
At least my little Trixie had:
Tail-wagging when I laughed, and when
I sighed, eyes luminously sad.
And if I planned to go away,
She'd know, oh, days and days before:
Aye, dogs I think are sometimes fey,
They seem to sense our fate in store.


Now take the case of old Tome Low;
With flowers each week he'd call on me.
Dear Trixie used to love him so,
With joyous jump upon his knee.
Yet when he wandered in one day,
Her hair grew sudden stark with dread;
She growled, she howled, she ran away . . .
Well, ten hours later Tom was dead.


Aye, dogs hear sounds we cannot hear,
And dogs see sights we cannot see;
And that is why I took the fear
That one day she would glare at me
As if a Shape cowered on my bead,
And with each hair on end she'd creep
Beneath the couch and whine with dread . . .
And so I've had her put to sleep.


Now Trixie's gone, the only one
Who loved me in my lonely life,
And here I wait, my race nigh run,
My ill too grievous for the knife.
My hand of ice she'll never lick,
My heedless mask she'll never see:
No heartbreak - just a needle prick. . . .
Oh, Doctor, do the same for me!
235

Two Children

Two Children

Give me your hand, oh little one!
Like children be we two;
Yet I am old, my day is done
That barely breaks for you.
A baby-basket hard you hold,
With in it cherries four:
You cherish them as men do gold,
And count them o'er.

And then you stumble in your walk;
The cherries scattered lie.
You pick them up with foolish talk
And foolish glad am I,
When you wipe one quite clean of dust
And give it unto me;
So in the baby-basket just
Are three.

All this is simple, I confess,
A moment piled with peace;
Yet loving men have died for less,
And will till time shall cease. . . .
A silken hand in crinkled one-O
Little Innocence!
O blessed moment in the son
E'er I go hence!
185

Tri-Colour

Tri-Colour


Poppies, you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat;

Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood.
It's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat;
It dabbles the ferns and the clover; it brims in an angry flood;

It leaps to the startled heavens; it smothers the sun; it cries
With scarlet voices of triumph from blossom and bough and blade.
See the bright horror of it! It's roaring out of the skies,
And the whole red world is a-welter. . . . Oh God! I'm afraid! I'm afraid!

Cornflowers, you say, just cornflowers, gemming the golden grain;
Ah no! You can't deceive me. Can't I believe my eyes?
Look! It's the dead, my comrades, stark on the dreadful plain,
All in their dark-blue blouses, staring up at the skies.
Comrades of canteen laughter, dumb in the yellow wheat.
See how they sprawl and huddle! See how their brows are white!
Goaded on to the shambles, there in death and defeat. . . .
Father of Pity, hide them! Hasten, O God, Thy night!

Lillies (the light is waning), only lilies you say,
Nestling and softly shining there where the spear-grass waves.
No, my friend, I know better; brighter I see than day:
It's the poor little wooden crosses over their quiet graves.
Oh, how they're gleaming, gleaming! See! Each cross has a crown.
Yes, it's true I am dying; little will be the loss. . . .
Darkness . . . but look! In Heaven a light, and it's shining down. . . .
God's accolade! Lift me up, friends. I'm going to win -- my Cross.
210

Treat 'Em Rough

Treat 'Em Rough

First time I dared propose,
A callow lad was I;
I donned my Sunday clothes,
I wore my Old School Tie.
Awaiting me Louise
Was dolled to beat the band,
So going on my knees
I begged her hand.

Oh yes, she gave me her hand,-A
box upon the ear;
I could not understand,
I blinked away a tear.
Then scornfully she said:
'Next time you kneel before
A maid, young man don't spread
Your hankey on the floor.'

So next time I proposed,
Thinks I, I'll treat 'em rough.
Her name was Lily Rose,
I gave her he-man stuff.
I yanked her on my knee,
And as her ear I bit,
To my amazement she
Seemed to like it.

The old cave-men knew best;
Grab girlies by the hair,
And though they may protest
Drag them into your lair.
So young men seeking mates,
Take my tip, if rejected:
A modern maid just hates
To be respected.
215

Tranquilism

Tranquilism


I call myself a Tranquilist;
With deep detachment I exist,

From friction free;
While others court the gilded throng
And worship Women, Wine and Song,

I scorn the three.
For I have reached the sober age
When I prefer to turn a page

Beside the fire,
And from the busy mart of men
To meditative book and pen

With grace retire.

If you are craving peace of mind,
In Tranquilism you will find

Philosophy;
Serenely fold your hands and wait
Be cloistered calm whatever fate

The Gods decree.
And though the world with rage be rent,
Hold it remote and claim content

With quiet heart;
You can't do much to better it,
But your good-will may help a bit,

Ere you depart.

So let us who are old and sere
To din of battle shut the ear,

And trumpet vain;
And though in no monastic mood
Accept the balm of solitude

And grace regain.
Let us be Tranquilists and try
In placid places to apply

Life's wisdom won;
In Nature's bounty we may bless
The Gods and wait with thankfulness

Our setting sun.
214

Tourist

Tourist


'Twas in a village in Lorraine
Whose name I quite forget,
I found I needfully was fain
To buy a serviette.
I sought a shop wherein they sell
Such articles as these,
And told a smiling mademoiselle;
'I want a towel, please.'

'Of kinds,' said she, 'I've only two,'
And took the bundles down;
And one was coloured azure blue,
And one was khaki brown.
With doubt I scratched my hoary head;
The quality was right;
The size too, yet I gravely said:
'Too bad you haven't white.'

That pretty maid had sunny hair,
Her gaze was free from guile,
And while I hesitated there
She watched me with a smile.
Then as I went to take the blue
She said 'Non' meaning no.
'Ze khaki ones are best, M'sieu:
Ze dirts zey do not show.'
266

Toilet Seats

Toilet Seats

While I am emulating Keats
My brother fabrics toilet seats,
The which, they say, are works of art,
Aesthetic features of the mart;
So exquisitely are they made
With plastic of a pastel shade,
Of topaz, ivory or rose,
Inviting to serene repose.


Rajahs I'm told have seats of gold,-(
They must, I fear, be very cold).
But Tom's have thermostatic heat,
With sympathy your grace to greet.
Like silver they are neon lit,
Making a halo as you sit:
Then lo! they play with dulset tone
A melody by Mendelssohn.


Oh were I lyrical as Yeats
I would not sing of toilet seats,
But rather serenade a star,--
Yet I must take things as they are.
For even kings must coyly own
Them as essential as a throne:
So as I tug the Muse's teats
I envy Tom his toilet seats.
231

Quotes

10

Videos

50

Comments (0)

Share
Log in to post a comment.

No comments yet. Be the first to comment.